SWEET Richmond! Like a woodland queen
Thou sittest on thy throne of green-
Smiling around, on bank and bower,
And grove, and mead, and tree, and flower;
As each presents its verdant gem
To wreathe thy rustic diadem;
While Thames' soft waves, with murmurs sweet,
Lie gently at thy flower-clad feet,
And still, to leave thy beauties slow,
Flow sparkling through the vale below;
As devious in its path, and wild,
As fits old Ocean's favourite child:
But how unlike the strenuous force
With which he runs his manlier course,
What time he rushes to the Ocean tide,
And on his ample stream his country's bulwarks ride!
Sweet Richmond! In thy terraced grove
How many a flattering tale of love,
And hope, and bliss, and faith sincere,
Have stolen on Beauty's listening ear!
And many a warm, impassioned vow
Been breathed by lips-cold, silent now!
And many a matron, bowed with years,
And toils and griefs, and pains, and fears,
With tearful eye remember still
Past hours of joy on Richmond Hill !
The Child, in life's sweet opening day,
Bounds o'er thy meads, in antic play,
As fresh and fair as Spring's gay morn
That breaks upon thy fairy lawn ;—
And youth beholds thy prospects rise,
Luxuriant woods, and splendid skies;
And lovely as thy blooming bowers,
Hope fondly paints his future hours;
All sunshine, beauty, light, and love,
As Summer's rosy noon in Richmond's flowery grove.
And Manhood marks the magic scene
With thoughtful eye and serious mien,
Nor sees unmoved thy verdant crown
Exchanged for wreath of Autumn brown;
But sighs to think the hour must come,
Shall wrap thy lovely brow in gloom,
When Winter brings its hours of ill,
Alike, to life and Richmond Hill!
Then, wandering forth at evening hour,
Old Age shall view thy lonely bower,—
The frozen stream-the leafless tree-
And sigh, to deem itself like thee!
Joy, pleasure, beauty, fled and gone!-
Cold, helpless, lifeless, sad, and lone!
With one sole hope, that, Winter past,
A lovelier day shall dawn at last-
And hours of bliss, and glory, still
Shall beam on man, and Richmond Hill !
Morning Herald.
A DREAM of saddest beauty: one pale smile
Its light upon the blue-veined forehead shed,
As love had lingered there one little while,
Robbed the cheek of its colour, and then fled,—
Yet leaving a sweet twilight shade, which said
There had been sunshine once. Alas! the bloom,
The light, the hope, at Love's shrine offered!
Yet all in vain !-That altar is a tomb
Of broken hearts!-Its oracle but words of doom!
Literary Gazette.
L. E. L.
you love to hear
Tales of lofty chivalry, Stealing Beauty's sigh or tear;
List not, lady sweet, to me.
But there is a gentle sight,
Roselike, always born with May, Full of arms and glances bright, "Tis GRANADA's holyday!
Twilight on the west was sleeping,
Stars were sliding down the sky,
Morn upon the hills was peeping
With a blue, half-opening eye.
When a silver trumpet sounded,
And, beside the castle wall,
Many a ribboned jennet bounded,
Sparkled many a lance-head tall.
In the plain, balconies proud,
Hung with silk and flowery chain,
Like a statued temple, shewed,
Rank o'er rank, the dames of Spain.
Soon the tapestried kettle-drums
Through the distant square were pealing;
Soon was seen the toss of plumes
By the Viceroy's palace wheeling.
Then, before the portal arch,
Every horseman checked the rein, Till the rocket for their march, Flaming up the sky was seen.
Like a wave of steel and gold,
Swept the lovely pageant on;
Many a champion young and bold
Bearing lance and gonfalon.
At their sight arose the roar
From the people gazing round;Proudly came the squadrons four, Prancing up the tilting ground.
First they gallop where the screen
With its silken tissue hides
Fair Valencia's jewelled Queen,—
Helmless every horseman rides!
Round the barrier then they wheel,
Troop by troop, and pair by pair;
Bending low the lance of steel
To the bowing ladies there.
Hark! the trumpet long and loud!—
'Tis the signal for the charge !—
Now with hoofs the earth is ploughed,—
Now are clashed the lance and targe.
Light as roe-bucks bound the steeds; Sunny bright the armour gleams; Gallant charge to charge succeeds, Like the rush of mountain streams!
Noon has come,-the warriors rest,
Each dismounting from his barb;
Loosening each his feathery crest,
Weighty sword, and steely garb.
Then are shown the lordly form,
Chesnut locks and eagle eyes,
Cheeks with tilting crimson warm,
Lips for lover's perjuries!
As they wander round the plain,
Sparkle cross and collar gemmed,
Sparkle knightly star and chain,
On their tunics golden-seamed.
Till again the trumpets play,
And the mail again is worn;
And the ring is born away,—
And the Moorman's turban torn.
Closes then the tournament ;
And the noble squadrons four, Proudly to the banquet-tent, March by Turia's flowery shore.
Lovely as the evening sky,
Ere the golden sun is down, March Granada's chivalry,
Champions of the Church and Crown!
One still lingered, pale and last,
By the lonely gallery's stair,
As if there his soul had past,
Vanished with some stately fair.
Who the knight?-To few was known. Who his love?-He ne'er would tell. But her eyes were like thine own,— And his heart was,-Oh, Farewell! Blackwood's Magazine.
OPHELIA was the maiden's name,
Only her beauty died;
Envy has nothing to proclaim,
Nor Flattery to hide.
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