Ir is a morn of June :-from east to west
The ships are steerless on the Channel's breast;
And o'er the rocks that fringe isle, reef, and bay,
Light rolling now the murmuring surges play;
In music breaking where of late the roar
Atlantic, burst around the groaning shore:
For Ocean here his billow flings on high,
If the spring-breeze but sportively pass by;
But lists to Summer's breathings-wooed and won
By the warm kisses of the conquering sun.
It is a morn of June:-
:- the gentle Spring
Has flown; but shook such freshness from her wing
O'er field and grove, that Summer's matron day
Wears thy rich virgin hues, delicious May;
And there are strains from bush, and brake, and bower,
Raptured as those which bless the vernal hour.
All earth is vocal; and the heavens reply,-
A thousand voices wander through the sky;
For there the lark-the master-minstrel sings,
And upward-upward soars on fearless wings;
Till earth recal him to her verdant breast,
And love direct the lyrist to his nest.
O, sweet is such a morn to him who loves
The heaven's clear song-the harmonies of groves ;-
Who blessed by leisure, strays in woodlands green,
And wanders oft through all the breathing scene;—
'Mid leafy luxuries who takes his rest,
Or bathes his brow in breezes of the west;
On mountain, moorland, seeks Hygeian gales,
Or dwells with silence in the fragrant vales.
All lovely sounds are with him; lark and bee,
Linnet and thrush, unite their melody;
And waterfall, and streams that down the hills
Melodious rush, and voices of the rills.
He, as he hears of birds the summer mirth
And all the impassioned poetry of earth,
Looks at the bright, blue dawn—a dawn like this,
Feels at each lightsome step increasing bliss;
And as he winds his flower-fringed path along,
Delighted wakes his own full-hearted song.
What are his joys to mine? The groves are green,
And fair the flowers; and there are ever seen
By him the mountain's breast, the hills, the woods,
Grass waving fields, and bright and wandering floods;
The lays of birds are ever on his ear,
Music and sylvan beauty crown his year;—
But if to him the rural reign have power
To fill with joy the swift-revolving hour,
What rapture must be mine, so seldom given,
To feel the beam and drink the gale of heaven!
For O! I love thee, Nature; and my eye
Has felt "the witchery of the soft, blue sky;"
Bear witness, glowing Summer, how I love
Thy green world here, thy azure arch above!
But seldom comes the hour that snaps my chain,
To me thou art all beautiful in vain!
Bird, bee, and butterfly, are on the wing,
Songs shake the woods, and streams are murmuring;
But far from them-the world's unwilling slave,
My aching brow no genial breezes lave;
Few are the gladsome hours that come to cheer
With flowers and songs my dull, unvarying year:
Yet when they come, as now,-from loathed night
The bird upsprings to hail the welcome light
With soul less buoyant than I turn to thee,
Prized for thy absence, sylvan Liberty!
"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they 've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell."
'T was thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue
To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well,
Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere—
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well-
Thus will he think—and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He'll think, a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in,—and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
“He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame-
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh! luckless, luckless well,
For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.
"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and hope he will believe-
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well!"
THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon-pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire!
A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast,
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past!
The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye;—
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;
E'en for the marriage altar crowned,
The lover quits his bride!
And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?
A MORAVIAN TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.
BY LORD FRANCIS LEVESON GOWER.
How idly by yon ruined Mill,
A silent stream, a voiceless rill,
The scanty currents steal;
And yet those broad embankments show
What weight of waves once dashed below,
To turn its shattered wheel.
Conducted by the hand of man,
Blue, dark, and deep, of old they ran :
What envious chance their course has led
Back to their useless native bed?
And why, too, moulders to decay
Yon arch, where wandering lichens stray,
Through which the waters seem
In pride to bear their own away,
And claim their borrowed stream?
Is it for bard or painter's eyes
That here romantic nature tries
To spurn at art's restraint?
Inviting me to moralize,
Or Hobbima to paint?
Yes; paint it in the sun's broad beam,
Come here to moralize by day,
But shun to muse beside that stream,
Or paint it in the moon's pale ray.
Yes; dark and swift those waters glide,
Below the pool is still.
No stream can wash, no depth can hide,
The guilt that mingles with the tide
That laves the haunted Mill.
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