Imágenes de página

to the village to see whether he could procure à borse, or any other beast of burden, to enable him to pursue his journey. But what was his surprise, not to find a single individual alive!

It appears, that a band of robbers had entered the village during the night, killed its inhabitants, and plundered their houses. As soon as Akiba had sufficiently recovered from the amazement, into which this wonderful occurrence had thrown him, he lifted up his voice, and exclaimed, “Thou great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, now I know, by experience, that poor mortal men are short-sighted and blind; often considering as evils, what was intended for their preservation ! But thou, alone, art just, and kind, and merciful.

“ Had not the hard-hearted people driven me, by their inhospitality, from the village, I should assuredly have shared their fate. Had not the wind extinguished my lamp, the robbers would have been drawn to the spot, and have murdered me. I perceive, also, that it was thy mercy which deprived me of my companions, that they might not, by their noise, give notice to the banditti where I was. Praised, then, be thy name forever and ever!”



The post-boy drove with fierce career,

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned, When suddenly I seemed to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways

I heard the sound, and more and more :
It seemed to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it, as before.

At length, I to the boy called out:

He stopped his horses at the word ;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

Nor ought else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast

The horses scampered through the rain ; And soon I heard, upon the blast,

The voice, and bade* him halt again. Said I, alighting on the ground,

“What can it be, this piteous moan ?” And there a little girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise alone.

“My cloak !" the word was last and first,

And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst;

And down from off the chaise she leapt. “What ails you, child ?” She sobbed, “Look here !"

I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke :

Her help she lent, and, with good heed, Together we released the cloak,

A wretched, wretched rag, indeed! « And whither are you going, child,

To-night, along these lonesome ways ?“ To Durham," answered she, half wild :

“ Then come with me into the chaise."

She sat like one past all relief;

Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief

Could never, never, have an end.

[ocr errors]

My child, in Durham do


dwell >>> She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell:

I'm fatherless and motherless.

"And I to Durham, sir, belong.

And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak.

* Pron. bad.

The chaise drove on; our journey's end

Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she'd lost her only friend,

She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post :

Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host,

To buy a new cloak for the old. “And let it be of duffil gray,

As warm a cloak as man can sell !" Proud creature was she, the next day,

The little orphan, Alice Fell.


To the Æolian Harp.-EUROPEAN MAGAZINE.

HARP of the Zephyr, whose least breath, o'er

Thy tender string moving, is felt by thee; Harp of the whirlwind, whose fearfullest roar

Can arouse thee to nought but harmony :

The leaf that curls upon youth's warm hand,

Hath not a more sensitive soul than thou ; Yet the spirit that's in thee, unharmed, can withstand

The blast that shivers the stout oak bough.

When thankless flowers in silence bend,

Thou hailest the freshness of heaven with song;
When forests the air with their howlings rend,

Thou soothest the storm as it raves along.
Yes: thine is the magic of Friendship’s bower,-

That holiest temple of all below :
Thou hast accents of bliss for the calmest hour,

But a heavenlier note for the season of wo.

Harp of the breeze, whether gentle or strong,
When shall I feel thy enchantment again ?

Hark! hark !-even the swell of my own wild song

Hath awakened a mild, responsive strain.

It is not an echo: 'tis far too sweet

To be born of a lay so rude as mine : But, oh! when terror and softness meet,

How pure are the hues of the wreath they twine!

Thus the breath of my rapture hath swept thy chords,

And filled them with music, alas! not its own, Whose melody tells but how much my words,

Though admiring, have wronged that celestial tone. I hear it-I hear it-now fitfully swelling,

Like a chorus of seraphim earthward hying; And now, -as in search of a loftier dwelling,

The voices away, one by one, are dying. Heaven's own harp! save angel fingers,

None should dare open thy mystic treasures. Farewell ! for each note on mine ear still lingers,

And mine may not mingle with thy blest measures.


Burial of Sir John Moore.*-ANONYMOUS.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,

And the lantern, dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud; we bound him ; But he lay, like a warriour taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

* Who fell in the battle of Corunna, in Spain, 1808.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe would be rioting over his head,

And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;
And we heard, by the distant random gun,

That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But left him alone with his glory.


War contrary to the Courses of Nature, and the Spirit of the


Oh! how shall man his crime extenuate !
What sees he in this brave o'erarching sphere,
The rich domain of nature, that will hold
A moment's friendship with his cheerless way!
He looks upon the wide and glowing earth,
And hears the hum of bees, and sees its bloom
Rolling in all its luxury for him.
He sees the trees wave in the peaceful sky,
And dally with the breezes as they pass.
He sees the golden harvest stoop for him,
And feels a quietness on all the hills.
He looks upon the seasons, as they come
In beautiful succession, from the heavens,
With bud and blossoming, and fruits, and snows.

« AnteriorContinuar »