« AnteriorContinuar »
For the Analectic Magasine.
ON SEEING A PICTURE OF NEWSTEAD PARK, BELONGING TO A SLAT LATE THE
PROPERTY OF THE Right HONOURABLE LORD BYRON.* 1813.
From scenes like these, that far and wide,
Degenerate Gordon! not like thee
* Since sold by his lordship.
Son of the Muse-celestial guide!
Alas! for thou hast sold yet more
Yet must the mind misgive thy lot,
** The pearl of the soul may be melted away."...Moore,
Be welcom'd by the well-known shade,
From courts and camps, in groves like those, Thy hero, Blenheim! found repose. To breathe the calm that such inspire, Would awful Chatham's self retire. And sacred ever be the shade, Where, matchless Burke ! thy form was laid, When, pond'ring all thy country's woes, The genius of Prescience rose, And spread such visions to thy sight, As check'd the spirit's hastening flight, And stopp'd of age the coming night ; Bidding, as erst in Ajalon, The mental sun not yet go down !
Beside that bright and tranquil stream How pleasant to recline and dream! Listening the while its gentle sound Not even fairy ear might wound, Nor passing Zephyr dare molest The sacred quiet of its breast, In gay translucency complete, Yet mild as bright-- emblem meet! The very heaven assign’d the just, That haunt of beatific trust, Where no defilement enters e'er, Seems scarce more fair, more calm, more clear. Byron! from this and could'st thou pass ? Perchance because its faithful glass To thy inquiring glance has shown Features, the contrast of its own. For other images might find Access to that distemper'd mind. The dark wave lashing 'gainst the shore, The wild cascade's eternal roar, What scorns, or what maintains control, Suits the stern habit of thy soul.
Where opes yon vista to disclose
Or where that hill's serener brow D'erlooks the bustling world below, Wait till that glorious orb arise, And ride along the nether skies. A warrior, awful to assail, With fiery lance and golden mail ; Who, while his own impassive form Derides of earth and heaven the storm, Has ireful shafts so swift, so sure, That mortal strength can ne'er endure ; When that, in vengeance like a God, O'er scorching realms he proudly trod, But oftener when he glads the view, Like as a God in bounty too. Pouring his flood of life and light, O’er teeming plains and mountains bright; Painting each flower with colours gay ; Darting the diamond's sparkling ray ; And making earth her stores unfold Of ruddy fruit and waving gold. The holiest heart was e'er bestow'd, Might hail him on his heavenly road, And pardon that the pagan knee Had bent in fond idolatry.
Sweet scene, farewell! Although these eyes
But thou whose meed it was to know
The following beautiful sonnet, by the late Dr. Leyden, is the germ of the most
poetical part of Graham's Sabbath.
HAIL to the placid, venerable morn
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill,
And echo answers softer from the hill;
While softer sings the linnet from the thorn,
Hail, light serene! hail, holy sabbath morn!
The gales that lately sighed along the grave
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose,
The sun a mild, but solemn, lustre throws;
The following lines, by a gentleman of New-York, appeared some time since in
a political paper of that city. We now transplant them to a more congenial soil.
ON REVISITING THE COTTAGE OF ROSA IN EARLY SPRING,
AFTER A LONG ABSENCE,
SEVEN summers have flown, and once more do I see
The fields and the groves I deserted so lorig;
Nor a bird yet enlivens the sky with his song.
For though spr has returned, yet the chilly wind blows,
And the violets and daisies still hide in the ground;
Here blooms and here blushes the seasons all round.
Thou pride of the plain, little queen of the grove,
Still fresh is thy foliage and sweet thy perfume,
As when thy first buds were beginning to bloom,
And though fate has decreed that he must not aspire
This blossom divine on his bosom to wear,
And make thee forever the theme of his prayer.
Blow gently, ye zephyrs, be genial, ye showers,
Bright and warm be the sky o'er thy dear native vale,
That guard thy fair frame from the merciless gale.
And when the short season of blooming shall end,
Which fate to the children of nature hath given,