Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub
[ocr errors]

Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye
So beauty lures the full-grown child
With hue as bright, and wing as wild,
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
Woe waits the Insect and the Maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, or man's caprice :
The lovely toy, so fiercely sought,
Has lost its charm by being caught ;
For every touch that wooed its stay
Has brushed its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly, or fall alone.
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah ! where shall either victim rest?
Can this, with faded pinion, soar
From rose to tulip as before ?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No:-gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy

shown
To every failing but their own!
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring Sister's shame!

LINES DESCRIPTIVE OF A CALM
SUCCEEDING A STORM.

T. MOORE.

How calm, how beautiful, comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone !
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity-

Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn :
When the gay blossoms, rudely torn,
And scattered at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating on the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm.
And every drop the thunder showers
Have left

upon

the
grass

and flowers,
Sparkles as 'twere that lightning gem,
Whose liquid flame is born of them.
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears ;
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch, and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs.
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all !
And even that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blessed,
Too newly to be quite at rest !

[blocks in formation]

HOHENLINDEN.

CAMPBELL.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven ;
Then rushed the steed to battle driven ;
And, louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
Tis morn ;-but scarce yon level sun,
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy !
The combat deepens !-On ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave;

And charge with all thy chivalry !
Few, few shall part, where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding sheet;
And
every

turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !

BOUQUET OF “SWEETS.”

BYRON.
'Tis sweet to hear
At midnight, on the blue and moonlit deep,

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep;

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 'Tis sweet to listen, as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf ; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come;

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,

Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth ;-

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ;
Sweet is revenge-especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady

Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
Who've made us youth' wait too—too long already

For an estate, or cash, or country seat,
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner, for their condemned post-obits.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end

To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend :

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels,
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the school-boy's spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.-

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love-it stands alone,

Like Adam's recollection of his fall ;
The tree of knowledge has been plucked-all's known,

And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filched for us from Heaven.

SONNET. TO THE MOON.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.
Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam,

Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think-fair planet of the night

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest :
The sufferers of the earth, perhaps, may go,

Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here !
O that I soon may reach thy world serene !
Poor weary pilgrim in this toiling scene.

DESCRIPTION OF THE LAST SEVEN DAYS OF MADOC'S VOYAGE TO AMERICA.

SOUTHEY.

I saw

The clouds hang thick and heavy o'er the deep;
And heavily, upon the long slow swell,
The vessel laboured on the labouring sea.
The reef-points rattled on the shivering sail,
At fits, the sudden gusts howled ominous,
Anon, with unremitting fury raged;
High rolled the mighty billows, and the blast
Swept from their sheeted sides the showery foam.
Vain, now, were all the seamen's homeward hopes
Vain all their skill !--we drove before the storm.
'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe ;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And, with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us ;-but, to hear
The roar of raging elements,
To know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail not; to look around, and only see
The mountain waves incumbent, with their weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark,
O God, this is indeed a dreadful thing!
And he who hath endured the horror, once,
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm

« AnteriorContinuar »