Obrázky stránek
PDF
ePub

And round the sinewy neck 't was plain
Some strangling pressure's sable stain,
But served with surer aim to guide
The headsman's stroke by which he died.

No more: behind yon distant pines
Too fast the autumnal sun declines.
When evening's shades have closed around,
Let those remain who will,

Not mine to trespass on the ground
Where spectral sounds and sights abound.
Adieu! thou haunted Mill.

LOVE.

BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.

WONDERFUL passion!-clasping all, yet single!
When in warm youth the' impetuous pulses beat,
How all is changed in that emotion sweet;
How with the beautiful we seem to mingle,—
A brook, a flower, can make the senses tingle.
We thread the conscious paths with burning feet,
And our hearts throb to see each loved retreat,
By lonely stream, or grove, or dell, or dingle.
And there, through many a day, will passion live,
When that hath died from which its life it drew.

Yea, there are scenes which ever can revive

Feelings long past, breathing our youth anew, And to disused eye-lids strangely give

Hot tears- else cold, as is the marble dew.

TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

UNHAPPY child of indiscretion!

Poor slumberer on a breast forlorn, Pledge and reproof of past transgression, Dear, though unwelcome to be born.

For thee, a suppliant wish addressing
To Heaven, thy mother fain would dare ;
But conscious blushes stain the blessing,
And sighs suppress my broken

prayer.

But spite of these, my mind unshaken,
In parent pity turns to thee;
Though long repented, ne'er forsaken,
Thy days shall loved and guarded be.

And lest the injurious world upbraid thee,
For mine or for thy father's ill,

A nameless mother oft shall aid thee,
A hand unseen protect thee still.

And though to rank and place a stranger, Thy life an humble course must run, Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger, Which I, too late, have learned to shun.

Meantime, in the sequestered valleys,
Here may'st thou rest in safe content,
For innocence may smile at malice,
And thou, O thou, art innocent!

Here too thy infant wants are given,
Shelter and rest, and purest air,
And milk as pure-but mercy, Heaven!

My tears have dropt, and mingled there!

ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III.

BELLS toll for peasants, and we heed them not
But when the great, the good, the mighty die,
Roused by the grandeur of their lofty lot,

We pause to listen, and reflecting sigh!

We cannot grieve alike for youth and age:
For thee, fair Scion of the royal tree,
We wept in anguish; time could scarce assuage.
We wept-and oh! not only wept for thee,—

But thee, the age-worn Monarch of these realms,
Thyself survivor of each dearest tie;
We mourn not with the sorrow that o'erwhelms,
But with the silent tear of memory.

Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night,
But ran its course, and slowly verging, set;
Preparing shades had long involved its light,
And stole the poignant anguish of regret,

To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved,
The darkened mind in mercy first was given;
That thou might'st never mourn the fondly loved,
Nor know them lost on earth, till met in heaven!

O! what a rapturous change, from dark to light,
From double darkness, of the soul and eye,
For thee-whose days were quenched in deepest night!
To thee-'t was death to live-'t is life to die!

Those darkened eyes no more obstruct the day,
That mind no more spurns reason's blest control;

Far from her wretched tenement of clay,

All eye-all reason—soars the happy soul!

As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,
And high communion with thy spirit hold?
Still sweetly whispering, 'join our kindred band,
Come where the gates of Heaven for thee unfold.'

Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,

The loved-the lost-to thy embraces press;
Come, where the Saviour who has died to save,
Lives-loves-and reigns eternally to bless!

THE PARTING SONG.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! thou'rt from my native dell, Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of fare

well!

And fare thee well;-flow on, my stream! flow on thou bright and

free,

I do but dream that in thy, voice one tone laments for me.
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my

tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!

I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the

groves,

The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother loves! The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene,—

Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come, Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

Not as the dead!-no, not the dead! we speak of them-we keep

Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep;

We hallow even the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung,
We
pass with softer steps the place they filled our band among!
But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!

I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell,
When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, fare-
well!

And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong;
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the
sky,

And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak! within my breast whate'er hath seemed to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed for
thee!

Brightly it would have gushed, but thou-my mother! thou hast thrown

Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine

own.

« PředchozíPokračovat »