Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Round Andes' heights, where winter from his throne On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream, Her subject mountains and dishonoured vales; Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea Montgomery. A SERENE WINTER'S NIGHT. How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower A metaphor of peace,-all form a scene Shelley. GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE. A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young, Amidst her tears the funeral chant a mournful mother sung. Ianthis! dost thou sleep?-Thou sleep'st!--but this is not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed on my breast! I lulled thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son! As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done! -How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now? And that I' die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow? 'I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes borne, When to thy couch I came and said, - Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!' Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow decay, And I, the withered stem, remain—I would that grief might slay! 'Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die! That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red. -Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born and my dead? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won -Speak thou, and I will hear my child, Ianthis! my sweet son!' A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young, A fair-haired bride the funeral chant amidst her weeping sung. Ianthis! lookest thou not on me ?-Can love indeed When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head? That I had bound a breast-plate on, and battled at thy side— But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing like a mountain-spring and couldst thou thus depart ? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath? -Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death !' |