« PředchozíPokračovat »
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, in war the bravest
heartOh! ever the renowned and loved thou wert-and there thou art !
“ Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!-The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent
knee ! And there before the blessed shrine, my sire, I see thee lie, How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I die!"
New Monthly Magazine.
TO A SKY-LARK.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Æthereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound?
Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground ?
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler! That love-prompted strain,
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain!
Leave to the nightingale the shady wood
A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Of harmony, with rapture more divine.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF
It was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave ;-
Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest on the sky,
Were like dark ships, and battle cry.
I had forgot my woman's fears
In thinking on my country's fame,
Her colours float o'er blood and flame.
Died the high song, as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
A gentle twilight-hour behind.
Then paused I o'er some sad, wild notes,
Sweet as the spring-bird's lay withal;
Like stars that darkened in their fall.
Hopes, perishing from too much light,
" Exhausted by their own excess;” Affections, trusted till they turned,
Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.
And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling?
Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing?
It is—it is ! tread on thy way,
Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold, Look not up from the sullen path
That leads to this world's idol-gold !
And close thy hand, and close thy heart,
And be thy very soul of clay,
Will worship, cringe to, and obey.
But look thou upon Nature's face,
As the young poet loves to look; And lean thou where the willow leans,
O'er the low murmur of the brook :
Or worship thou the midnight sky,
In silence, at its moon-lit hour; Or let a single tear confess
The silent spell of music's power:
Or love, or feel, or let thy soul
Be for one moment pure or free; Then shrink away at once from life,
Its path will be no path for thee !
Pour forth thy fervid soul in song
There are some that may praise thy lays ; But of all earth’s dim vanities,
The very earthliest is praise.
Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves,
Around the poet's temples hung, How turned to gall, and how profaned
By envious or by idle tongue !
Given by vapid fools, who laud
Only if others do the same; Forgotten even while the breath
Is on the air that bears your name.
And He! what was his fate—the bard !
He of the Desert Harp, whose song
That bere him and his harp along?
That fate which waits the gifted one,
To pine, each finer impulse checked;
The shade and silence of neglect.
And this, the polished age, that springs
The Phænix from dark years gone by, That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves
Her warrior and her bard to die.
To die in poverty and pride;
The light of hope and genius past; Each feeling wrung, until the heart
Could bear no more, so broke at last.
Thus withering amid the wreck
Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the minstrel do but die,
Cursing his too beloved strings ! Literary Gazette.
L. E. L.
AN IRISH TRADITION.
From the foot of Inchidony Island, in the bay of Clonakilty, an elevated tract of sandy ground juts out into the sea, and terminates in a bank of soft verdure, wbich forms a striking contrast to the little desart behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under it. Tradition relates, that the Virgin Mary having wandered one evening to this sequestered spot, was there discovered praying, by the crew of a vessel which was then coming to anchor in the Bay. Instead of sympathising with her in her piety, the sailors were so inconsiderate as to turn her into ridicule, and even add to their ill-timed jeers some very impertinent remarks upon her beauty. The result may readily be anticipated-a storm arose, and the vessel having struck upon the black rock of Inchidony, went down with all her crew, not one of whom was ever afterwards heard of !
The evening star rose beauteously above the fading day,
Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared,
The Captain saw “Our Lady” first, as he stood upon the prow, And marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her
Her arms were folded gracefully, upon her stainless breast,
He bad his sailors look on her, and hailed her with a cheer,
jeer; They madly vowed a form so fair they ne'er had seen before, And cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the