And tediously long was the darkness of night,
And slowly the morning unfolded its light;
The sun seem'd to linger-as if it would be
An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.
At length came the moment-the King and his band
With rapture push'd off their light boat from the land;
And bright shone the gems on their armour, and bright
Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light;
And long ere they landed, they saw through the trees,
The maidens' white garments that waved in the breeze.
More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar,
More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore,
Its keel touch'd the pebbles-but over the surf
The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf,
And rush'd to a shady retreat in the wood,
Where many veil'd forms mute and motionless stood.
"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter?-away
With these veils," cried Turgesius, " no longer delay;
Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold
Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold;
These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss,
Let each seize a veil-and my trophy be this!"
He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd
No fearful weak girl-but a foe to be fear'd!
A youth-who sprang forth from his female disguise,
Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies;
His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy
That shone in the glance of the Warrior-Boy.
And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd,
Who met his opponent with sword and with shield.
Turgesius was slain-and the maidens were blest,
Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest;
And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea,
They hail'd the Boy-Victors-and Erin was free!
TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF TOLLENS.
WITHOUT being super-critical, we can perceive only three faults in the following lines. They are called "Birth-day Verses," though they do not contain even an allusion to such a day. They would more properly take their title from the last than from the first day of our existence. The second is, that they are spoken by a young man of twenty-five. Would not the solemn. character of the observations which he makes, and the wishes in which he indulges, be better suited to him at forty-five? The last line is prosaic and unworthy of all its predecessors. If the expression "in God's name," be poetry, we know not what is prose.—ED.
RESTLESS Time! who ne'er abidest,
Driver! who life's chariot guidest
O'er dark hills and vales that smile,
Let
me, let me breath awhile:
Whither dost thou hasten? say!
Driver! but an instant stay.
What a viewless distance thou,
Still untired, hast travell'd now;
Never tarrying-rest unheeding-
Over thorns and roses speeding,
Through lone places unforeseen-
Cliff and vast abyss between.
Five and twenty years thou'st pass'd,
Thundering on uncheck'd, and fast,
And, though tempests burst around,
Stall nor stay thy coursers found:
I am dizzy-faint-oppress'd-
Driver! for one moment rest.
Swifter than the lightning flies
All things vanish from my eyes;
All that rise so brightly o'er me
Like pale mist-wreaths fade before me;
Every spot my glance can find
Thy impatience leaves behind.
Yesterday thy wild steeds flew
O'er a spot where roses grew;
These I sought to gather blindly,
But thou hurried'st on unkindly:
Fairest buds I trampled, lorn,
And but grasp'd the naked thorn.
Driver! turn thee quickly back
On the self-same beaten track;
I, of late, so much neglected,
Lost-forgot-contemn'd-rejected-
That I still each scene would trace:-.
Slacken thy bewildering pace!
Dost thou thus impetuous drive,
That thou sooner may❜st arrive
Safe within the hallow'd fences
Where delight-where rest commences?
Where then dost thou respite crave?-
All makes answer: "At the Grave."
There, alas! and only there,
Through the storms that rend the air,
Doth the rugged pathway bend:
There all pains and sorrows end;
There repose's goal is won-
Driver! ride, in God's name, on.
From Ned Ward, Jun. a Fellow in London, to Anthony Wood, Jun. a Fellow at Oxford.
We like the wit and rambling manner of Ned Ward. It is not, indeed, in the highest strain of poetry, but neither should it be; for "wit and judgment ever are at strife," and he who is too ambitious of excellence, must be willing to sacrifice a great portion of his wit. Swift was a great wit but not a great poet: Ned is not so witty, but his associations are more poetical.-ED.
DEAR Anthony! thy old friend Ned
Is at his desk, and not a-bed.
'Tis twelve o'clock,-a chilly night,-
My chamber fire is full and bright;
And my sinumbra, like the moon
Upon a summer afternoon,
Smiles with a pale and cloudless ray
In tiny mimicry of day,-
Shedding thin light, assoil'd from gloom,
O'er the horizon of my room.
'Tis twelve o'clock,-the watchman goes
Lulling the hour into a doze,-
Leading Time by, and through the nose ;-
Wrapping his voice in his great coat,
And 'plaining in a woollen note,
Of weather cold, and falling showers,
And cloudy skies (for ever ours!)
And the decay of drowsy hours.
In gusts of wind, down comes the rain,
Swooping like peas upon the pane;
Loud is the music of the sashes,-
And through the solitary plashes,
Dull hackneys waddle from the play,
A rugged eighteen-penny way,-
The driver wriggling on his seat,
With haybands round his head and feet.
I, slipper footed, sit and send
These nothings to my college friend,
Who now perchance,-a counterpart
To me in idleness of heart,-
Leans at his books,-with toasted knees
Against the grate, and hears the breeze
Ransack the midnight college trees-
Hears bell to bell, from tower to tower,
Sullenly murmur the damn'd hour;"*
One of the old dramatists says, “If there is any thing damned on earth, it is twelve o'clock at night." Some of our modern Farce writers think the same.
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