« AnteriorContinuar »
Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, or loll in the shade of
Where many a whisper is breathed, that never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands, regardless of conjugai rings;
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-and that's what they do at the Springs!
The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, and music is shrieking
Terpsichore governs the hour, and fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist-how closely and fondly it clings!
So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-and that's what they do at the Springs!
In short as it goes in the world-they eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They talk, and they walk, and they woo; they sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They read, and they ride, and they dance (with other remarkable things);
They pray, and they play, and they PAY-and that's what they do at the Springs!
VII. THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW (Translation.)—Mery.
AT midnight from his grave, the Drummer woke and rose;
Both they in farthest North, stiff in the ice that lay-
On airy coursers then, the Cavalry are seen;
Old squadrons erst renowned, gory and gashed, I ween.
Beneath the casques their blanchèd skulls smile grim; and proud their air,
As in their iron hands, their long sharp swords they bear.
A little hat he wears a coat quite plain has he-
Marshals and Generals round in circle formed appear;
'Tis thus, at midnight hour, the Grand Review, they say, Is, by dead Cæsar, held, in the Champs-Elysées.
VIII. -THE BETTER LAND.-Mrs. Hemans.
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
"Is it far away in some region old,
"Eye nath not seen it, my gentle boy!
IX. THE SHIPS OF ENGLAND.-
THE ships, the ships of England! how gallantly they sweep
The ships, the ships of England! What British heart is cold To the honour of his native isle, to the deathless deeds of old? From quenched Armada's vaunted power to glorious Trafalgar, From Philip to Napoleon-when set Britannia's star?
The ships, the ships of England! where'er the surges roar, Along the dark Atlantic-by the wild East Indian shoreWhere icebergs flash destruction down-or sultry breezes play,
The flag of England floats alone, and triumphs on her way. Where sweeps the wind, or swells the wave, our vessels glad the view;
The wondering savage marks their decks, and stays his swift canoe;
The Greenlander forsakes his sledge to watch each distant sail Pass, like a spirit of the deep, beneath the moonlight pale. Oh, wives! that love your cottage-homes-oh, maids! that love the green,
And youths! in whose firm fearless limbs a free-born grace is seen,
Give honour to the noble ships, that fame and freedom lend; And bid your songs of gratitude from hill and vale ascend.
What horrors of the midnight storm our reckless seamen know,
Where thunders rattle overhead, and billows plunge below; Where howls the long ferocious blast, like some funereal strain,
And fast and far the vessel drives along the dreaded main!
How oft the cannon of the foe hath struck their dauntless breast,
While ye smiled o'er the social fire, or found the balm of rest! How oft the shriek of drowning men the startled vulture caught,
When ye had closed your doors in peace, and home's sweet pleasures sought!
Then wake your songs of gratitude to those who brave the sea, And peril life-that ye may live, and still prove fair and free; Amidst your harvest-fields, oh, bid the earnest prayer prevail— "God guard the ships of England, o'er whatever sea they sail!"
X.-WE ARE SEVEN.-William Wordsworth.
A SIMPLE child, with notions dim; that lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,-what should it know of Death!
I met a little cottage girl, she was eight years old she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air, and she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, and, wondering, looked
"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother. And in the churchyard cottage, I dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea; Yet you are seven! I pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be ?"
Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we, Two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, then you are only five ?"
"Their graves are green, they may be seen," the little maid replied;
"Twelve steps or more from mother's door, and they are side by side:
My stockings there I often knit, my kerchief there I hem;
And often, after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair,
My brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "if they two are in heaven ?"
Quick was the little maid's reply: "Oh, master, we are seven!" "But they are dead-these two are dead, their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay! we are seven."
XI. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.-Robert Southey.
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin roll something large and round,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by;
I find them in the garden, for there's many here about;
"Were slain in that great victory."