The tapestry rustles on the walls; the cry
Of horrid night-birds, screaming fearfully,
Frights the lean fox, as, famishing and keen,
From chambers high he glares upon the scene;
No serf, no guest, no lord-unenvied now
The honours circling round the lordly brow;
Pure as a vestal 'mid conventual gloom,
The moonbeam rests upon his marble tomb."
It was the time when gentle twilight strews
The hills with gems and steeps the vale with dews;
The lake below was seen to shine no more,
But veil'd in mists it rippled to the shore;
From Beauty's bower came Music's sweetest strain,
In tones so soft, so sad, so mix'd with pain,
As if some wandering spirit from above
Woo'd in that calm retreat an earthly love,
And in celestial accents taught to flow
A heavenly passion touch'd with earthly woe.
Oh! 'twas a melody so softly deep
The sadden'd soul in luxury could weep,
And pour itself in ecstacy, and be
A part of that entrancing melody.
Such the sweet sounds whose cadence died away
In change all lovely as declining day,
And charm'd the ear of him who glided by,
O'er the smooth lake, like music of the sky,
Or, when beneath the tall and cavern'd cliff
He lonely steer'd his lightly-moving skiff,
It seem'd the rocks that fairy music made:
Fearful he fled, and charm'd he yet delay'd.
As falls and rises Ocean's azure breast,
When only inward sorrows break her rest,
In gentle undulation, slow and long,
Wave blends with wave, then sinks amid the throng,
Absorbing and absorb'd each melts and dies
Like summer clouds in bright Ausonian skies,
So moved the notes whose ceaseless changes grow,
To ears a spell, as ocean to the view,
Still reaching higher sweetness as they rose
And gathering deeper pathos at each close,
Till dying off in low and plaintive wail,
More sweet than song of dove or nightingale,
Or Memnon's airy harpings to the day,
The last soft strain in music pass'd away-
Like the last wave which heaves upon the shore
When the sunk pebble moves the stream no more.
The voice was mute; the music ceased to sound.
The heavens were still; 'twas stillness all around.
The silent night-dew Beauty's flowers was steeping;
The zephyrs, slept; the happy lake lay sleeping.
Calm was the mountain; quiet was the vale;
Hush'd were the woods; and Echo told no tale.
Sweet Peace sat listening in her lone alcove,
And gazed and mused, her every musing love.
Listening, she seem'd the breathless calm to hear,
Or sounds so faint they reach'd no ruder ear,
Of warbling brooks from distant hills convey'd,
Of dew-drops pattering in the leafy shade,
Or mildly dripping from the bush which weeps
And crisps the lake from yonder jutting steeps,
Of murmurs heard from speaking crags to flow,
When cagles sent the loosened rock below,
Of waters trickling from the oar at rest,
Of fern-bush rustling round the wild deer's breast,
The wavering fall of leaf long sear and dead
Torn by a breath, when storm and blast had fled,
And solemn tones from rude o'erarching cave,
As plunged some sportive dweller of the wave.
Array'd in beauty, sate within her bower
The young enchantress of the pleasing hour,
Lovely as that half-heavenly form whose eyes
First smiled at light in holy paradise.
Oh! who could look on Ada's eyes of blue,
Nor think of heaven, from whence their light they drew! Oh! who could gaze upon the bright blue skies,
Nor turn once more to look on Ada's eyes?
He who at eve, with kindling spirit, far
Through azure fields roves on from star to star,
Whose fancy sees the seraph beings there,
Alone can picture one like Ada fair.
Oh not in earth below nor heaven above
Seem'd aught more form'd to be beloved and love.
Fond Fancy's idol, Nature's sweetest child,
Her own loved spotless lily of the wild;
Pure as young Innocence, whose vision greets
With heavenly light each gentle flower it meets;
A soul, alas! so buoyant in its gladness,
One trifling sorrow could o'erwhelm with sadness.
With head upon her bended arm reclining,
With fond blue eye in dewy moisture shining,
She gazed upon her lover-chief, who sate
With folded arms, and looks disconsolate;
And as she gazed the pearly drops which hung
Beneath each silken lash more faintly clung,
And, trembling, like two silver stars they fell,
And told the tale such meteors ever tell.
BRYAN WALTER PROCTER. FROM ENGLISH SONGS, AND OTHER SMALL POEMS, BY BARRY CORNWALL." 1832.
THE Owl to her mate is calling;
The river his hoarse song sings;
But the Oak is mark'd for falling,
That has stood for a hundred springs.
Hark! a blow, and a dull sound follows;
A second, --he bows his head;
A third, and the wood's dark hollows
Now know that their king is dead.
His arms from their trunk are riven,
His body all bark'd and squared;
And he's now, like a felon, driven
In chains to the strong dockyard :
He's sawn through the middle, and turn'd
For the ribs of a frigate free;
And he's caulk'd and pitch'd, and burn'd,
And now he is fit for sea!
with his wings outspread
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be),
He will triumph again, though dead,
And be dreaded in every sea:
The lightning will blaze about,
And wrap him in flaming pride;
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout,
In the fight, from his bold broad-side.
And when he has fought, and won,
And been honour'd from shore to shore;
And his journey on earth is done,-
Why, what can he ask for more?
There is nought that a king can claim,
Or a poet or warrior bold,
Save a rhyme and a short-lived name,
And to mix with the common mould!
SWEET in her green dell the Flower of Beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair. Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air?
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