« AnteriorContinuar »
CAIN ADDRESSED BY HIS WIFE.
Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, How like to me-how like to thee, when gentle, For then we are all alike; is't not so, Cain ? Mother, and sire, and son, our features are Reflected in each other, as they are In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father ; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain ! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain ! As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but His heart will, and thine own too. ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE
OF WALES. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound ; (ground, Through storm and darkness yawns the rending The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
The present happiness and promised joy
Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be,
And desolate consort—vainly wert thou wed !
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ;
Her and her hoped for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes :-'twas but a meteor
beam'd. Woe unto us, not her, for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy, hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight (late,Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest Thy land which loved thee so that none could love
CHILDE HAROLD'S ADIEU TO ENGLAND.
Fades o'er the waters blue;
And shrieks the wild seamew.
We follow in his flight;
My native Land-Good night!
To give the Morrow birth ;
But not my mother Earth.
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale ?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind :
But thee_and One above. “My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.'— “ Enough, enough, my little lad !
Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry. 6 Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or shiver at the gale?”-
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make ?'
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay ;
Will laugh to flee away.
Of wife or paramour ?
We late saw streaming o'er.
Nor perils gathering near;
No thing that claims a tear.
Upon the wide, wide sea :
When none will sigh for me ?
Till fed by stranger hands ;
He'd tear me where he stands.
Athwart the foaming brine;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight,
My native land-Good night !"