Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o'er mountains afar:
O for the crags that are wild and majestic !—
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!
41.-THE LOST LOVE.-Byron.
When we two parted in silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted, to sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this!
The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame.
They name thee before me,—a knell to mine ear!
A shudder comes o'er me—why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee, who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee too deeply to tell!
In secret we met in silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee after long years,
How should I greet thee ?— with silence and tears!
1 There be none of Beauty's daughters with a magic like Thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charmèd ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming: 2 And the midnight Moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the Deep-whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep so the Spirit bows before thee to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion-like the swell of Summer's ocean!
48. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.—Byron.
1 She walks in beauty, like the Night of cloudless climes and starry skies and all that's best of dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellow'd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy Day denies. 2 One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impair'd the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face,-where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place! 3 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent ;a mind at peace with all below-a heart whose love is innocent,
44.-BROKEN SILENCE.-Marston.
Oh, break not her silence!—she listens to voices
Whose tones are a feeling, whose echoes a thrill;
And more than in aught that is real, she rejoices
In dreams which presage what they ne'er can fulfil !
Oh, break not her silence!—her heart is replying
To chords that are swept by a breeze from the past;
No hymn in the present can match with that sighing
O'er hopes which, though vanish'd, were dear to the last!
Thou canst not break her silence !-no word that is spoken
Can now wound her ear, no regret dim her eyes;
Thou canst not break her silence; yet, hark! it is broken,—
"Come hither, come hither!".
'-a Voice from the Skies!
45.-INWARD BEAUTY.-Akenside.
The shape alone let others prize-the features of the fair;
I look for spirit in her eyes, and meaning in her air.
A damask cheek, an ivory arm, shall ne'er my wishes win;
Give me an animated form that speaks a mind within.
A face where awful honour shines, where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines the tenderness of love.
These are the soul of beauty's frame, without whose vital aid
Unfinish'd all her features seem, and all her roses dead.
But, ah! where both their charms unite, how perfect is the view,
With every image of delight, with graces ever new!
Of power to charm the deepest woe, the wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, and rapture through the soul.
46. THE IVY GREEN.-Dickens.
Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, that creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, in his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, to pleasure his dainty whim ;
And the mouldering dust that years have made is a merry meal for him.
Fast stealeth he on, though he wears no wings, and a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings to his friend the huge oak-tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground, and his leaves he gently waves;
And he joyously twines and hugs around the rich mould of dead men's graves.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, and nations scatter'd been ;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade from its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green.
47.-LOVE NOT.-Mrs. Norton.
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay;
Hope's gayest wreaths are formed of earthly flowers-
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
When they have blossom'd but a few short hours.
Love not, love not; the thing you love may die-
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave, as once upon its birth.
Love not, love not; the thing you love may change,
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat-yet not be true!
Love not, love not !... Oh, warning vainly said
In present years as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal-till they change, or die!
My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky so was it when my life began, so is it now I am a man, so be it when I shall grow old, or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: and I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety.
II. From Scottish Authors.
49.-I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.-Marquis of Montrose.
My dear and only love, I pray may that fair world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway but purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part, which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,-and never love thee more!
As Alexander I will reign, and I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain a rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch to gain or lose it all!
But I will reign and govern still, and always give the law;
And have each subject at my will, and all to stand in awe:
But 'gainst my batteries if I find thou storm or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,-I'll never love thee more!
And in the empire of thy heart, where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part, or dare to share with me;
Or committees if thou erect, or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,—and never love thee more!
But if no faithless action stain thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen, and glorious by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways as ne'er were known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,—and love thee evermore!
50.-CORONACH.-Sir Walter Scott.
He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest.
The fount re-appearing from the raindrops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering, to the Lost One no morrow!
The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,-how sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever!
51.-FITZ-EUSTACE'S SONG.-Scott.
Where shall the lover rest, whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast, parted for ever ?—
Where, through groves deep and high, sounds the far billow, Where early violets die-under the willow!
There, through the summer day cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway, scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, parted for ever;
Never again to wake-never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest-he, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast, ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!
Her wing shall the eagle flap o'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap ere life be parted:
Shame and dishonour sit by his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it—never, O never!
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning-
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning:
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp and his blade be as bright;
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil,
Who in glen or on mountain meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;-
The mother she ask'd of his household and home:
"Though yon turreted castle stands fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gallanter still;
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles!" said Allen-a-Dale.
|