put his nose inside the doore, they fell upon himself an' his men, an' thrated 'em just in the same way he meant to thrate themselves, by castin' 'em out over the cliff into the main
"I think, sir," concluded my informant, with a sagacious nod, "that was a rale poet of a bishop."
Never go to dine with a bishop who lives alone on an island in the sea, without taking arms and provisions concealed in your chest.
THE beautiful female portrait on the adjoining page was designed by the painter as an impersonation of the character of Diana Vernon. If Mr. Wright desires to represent the glove-scene in "Rob Roy," he has committed a mistake in making it take place in the open air. It occurred, it will be remembered, in the library.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPROVISATRICE;
BEHOLD a breast that could the world defy
At length laid open to thy searching eye!
As springs a plant from out its parent mould,
Thy soul's first bloom shall leaf by leaf unfold;
A soul once filled with dews of early truth,
And love, the fragrance of the flower of youth!
All now is withered, the last leaf is gone,
And the bloom lives in memory alone :
Alas! the gift of song hath but the power
To raise the ashes of each buried flower!
It was no dream when first in youth I stood
By the fair shores of Arno's sounding flood,
No vision false that offered to mine eye,
Borne on the tide, the light barks glancing by ;
The vine-crowned banks, lit by the sun's last gleam,
The olive-boughs, green-waving by the stream;
The ruined pile that towers above the deep,
Where evermore the wind-swayed banners sweep;
Or, rising dark in all its shattered pride,
Each palace lone by that fair river's side.
'Twas mid a scene so fair, that first and last
The joy of Nature o'er my spirit passed.
And 'mid those fallen remains of olden art
I left the wilder ruin of my heart!
Scarce on my life's young path, yet all untried,
The flowers of fourteen springs had bloomed and died,
Ere him I saw, whose voice, for ever gone,
Still wakes on memory's chord its sweetest tone!
Ah, happy time! that ever grief should rase
From life the first fresh feelings of those days!
When each bright hour upon its swift wings brought
The gush of tenderness, the flow of thought!
When the hushed spirit, like a waveless ocean,
Waits but a breath to swell in soft emotion.
Farewell the years! farewell the scenes of youth!
The soul's devotion, and its dream of truth!
No more for me the olive banks shall gleam
By the swift waves of Arno's bounding stream;
Never, as once, my lingering foot shall fall
'Mid the grey ruin of each time-worn hall;
For me no more the light barks cleave the tide,
No more the banner-folds wave wild and wide:
Cold as the sculptured forms of yonder aisle,
That, mournful, seem above their tombs to smile;
In memory's eye each hope around me spread
Smiles, like a living image of the dead.
years swept on, - four sweet, yet bitter, years, And left my cheek no bloom, mine eye no tears:
The noon, the promise of my life, is gone,
And where is now the vision of its dawn?
The dream, wherein I dwelt through years to come, The single treasure of his heart and home?
'T was mine to meet his gaze with silent eye,
Who would have gloried for his sake to die;
And with a heart no other's voice could move,
Greet the calm tone, as of a brother's love.
When others' warmth would this weak breast alarm, How sweet to turn to his protecting arm!
That arm for ever true, for ever near,
The lonely covert to the wounded deer;
When every other sheltering wing was furled,
The only refuge from a warring world.
Though day by day beneath these lids I felt
The drops that would not freeze, and dared not melt ;
Though with each added pang, each stifled pain,
The links of life were dropping from the chain ;
From my fixed eye no tear was seen to roll,
None marked the inward struggle of my soul;
Though many a bitter taunt's relentless shower
Sunk on my heart, like blight upon the flower,
If e'er my cheek grew crimson at his name,
'T was the quick blush of anger, not of shame;
Ah! far too gentle was that love, though vain,
And o'er my cheek it passed, and left no stain.
At length the gloom, that robed me as a shroud,
Swept by, as o'er the moon's pale form the cloud;
Within me woke a voice, till now unheard,
Like the rich carol of some early bird;
How rushed the waves of grief with backward roll,
A second spring grew green within my soul;
O'er my day visions passed a gentle throng,
Of hearts subdued by tenderness and song;
In fancy, round my hearth loved faces smiled,
In thought, I heard my father bless his child;
While he, for whom so long I lived and breathed,
Round these pale brows the poet's crown enwreathed!
Alas, the seeds of hope, untimely shed
On life's lone waste, dull weeds too soon o'erspread;
The only fruit that of the germ appears,
Lives in the gathered harvest of my tears.
The dream is o'er, the vision vain and wild;
Oh, father, frown not on your mourning child!
When breathed sweet hope her first, her last, farewell,
Deep in my soul the penal ashes fell;
The living world unto mine eye grows dark,
And seas of death are swelling round mine ark ;
This quivering voice the closing waters drown,
And the wrecked heart amid the rush goes down!
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