« PředchozíPokračovat »
Intent on home, had turned, and saw the boat
behold them from the foggy beach :
listen for reply ;
Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, Who could observe, as he prepared to die, He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, And traced the movement of each different mind : He might have seen, that not the gentle maid Was more than stern and haughty man afraid; Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress, And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address ; While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd. The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, Why would you urge me? I at first denied." Fiercely they answered :-“Why will you complain, Who saw no danger, or were warned in vain ?"
A few essayed the troubled soul to calm,
Now rose the water through the lessening sand,
Once more, yet once again, with all our strength Cry to the land- - we may be heard at length !" Vain hope, if yet unseen !—but hark !—an oarThat sound of bliss ! comes dashing to their shore ; Still, still the water rises ; “Haste !” they cry, “Oh, hurry, seamen ; in delay we die !" (Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) And now the keel just cuts the covered sand, Now to the gunwale stretches every hand : With trembling pleasure all confused embark, And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark: While the most giddy, as they reach the shore, Think of their danger, and their God adore.
STAY, jailor, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee :
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad : But yet I firmly, truly swear,
I am not mad, I am not mad.
My tyrant husband forged the tale,
Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown my friends bewail
Oh ! jailor, haste that fate to tell : Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer :
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad, I am not mad.
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see
'Tis gone! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold !—No warmth! no light !
Life, all thy comforts once I had ;
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ;
What! 1,—the child of rank and wealth,— Am the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,
Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head ;
But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad.
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung ;
Nor how with her you sued to stay ;
Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how—I'll drive such thoughts away ;
They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad.
His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ; None ever bore a lovelier child :
And art thou now for ever gone ? And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? I will be free ! unbar the door!
I am not mad; I am not mad.
Oh! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ?
His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes, - I see his glaring eyes ;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help! help !-He's gone !-Oh! fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain, -I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon ;—for, lo! you — while I speak —
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror !—the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ;-I feel the truth;
Your task is done, I'm mad ! I'm mad !
THE TWO WEAVERS.
BY HANNAH MORE.
As at their work two weavers sat
“What with my babes and sickly wife,”
“ How glorious is the rich man's state!
“ In spite of what the Scripture teaches, In spite of all the pulpit preaches, This world,- indeed, I've thought so long Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong. “ Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ; The good are troubled and opprest, And all the wicked are the blest.”
Quoth John, “Our ignorance is the cause,
“Seest thou that carpet, not half done,