Зображення сторінки

Two sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret :
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize;
While one augments its gaudy show,
More to entrance the loser's woe;
The victor sees his faery gold
Transform’d, when won, to drossy mold;
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss,
And rues as gold that glittering dross.


(From the Lady of the Lake.]
He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing,

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever!


[From the Antiquary.) Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall,

Thou aged carle so stern and gray? Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it passed away?

“Knowst thou not me ?” the deep voice cried,

“So long enjoyed, so oft misused-
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused ?
Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away ;
And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay.
Redeem mine hours—the space is brief-

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief

When Time and thou shalt part for ever!”

MOORE. THOMAS MOORE, a man of humble origin, was born in Dublin, A.D. 1770. During his college course he took a vehement interest in Irish political matters, and is said to have been exposed to danger in 1798. Soon afterwards he visited England, in which country he passed the greater part of his mature life. His musical, as well as his literary and social talents, made him a general favourite; while his political opinions, and the skill with which he advocated them in squib and epigram, recommended him to the leaders of the Whig party. A large proportion of his verses are thus but verses of the day, tủe subject admitting of no more; and some of his earlier poems are open to a heavier charge, that of immorality. Far the best of his poems, the most real at once and the most imaginative, are those which were written most under the influence of genuine feeling, and which had the advantage of being adapted to the ancient music of his native land - viz. The Irish Melodies. There is in the poetry of Moore a remarkable brilliancy of fancy and wealth of wit, as well as much sweetness both of sentiment and versification; but to imagination and passion, pathos and power, moral elevation and fidelity to nature, it makes little pretension; nor has it always the merit of sound diction and consistency. In religion Moore was a Catholic. Except Lord Byron, he was probably the most popular poet of his day; as may be inferred from the circumstance that his publisher gave him 30001. for his Lalla Rookh. During his later life Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, Wilts, where he died A.D. 1852.


How dear to me the hour when twilight dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ! For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light that plays

Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think ’t would lead to some bright isle of rest.


How oft has the Benshee cried !
How oft has death untied
Bright links that glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwin'd by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth:
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth:

Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave!
We're fall’n upon gloomy days;
Star after star decays;
Every bright name that shed

Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth :

But brightly flows the tear
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quench'd are our beacon lights-
Thou, of the hundred fights !
Thou, on whose burning tongue

Truth, peace, and freedom hung !
Both mute ; but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they liv'd and died.

Let Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,

Which he won from her proud invader ;
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd

Led the red-branch knights to danger;
Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

When the clear cold eve 's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days

In the wave beneath him shining ;

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over, Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

For the long-faded glories they cover.


Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furld? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world ?
Sadly, 0 Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away:
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay,
When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above?


Night clos'd around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood few and faint, but fearless still ! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimmd, for ever crost 0, who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?
The last sad hour of freedom's dream

And valour's task mov'd slowly by ;
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; If death that world's bright opening be,

0, who would live a slave in this ?


She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he lov'd awaking ;-
Ah, little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwin'd him ;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
0, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They 'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west,

From her own loy'd island of sorrow.


GEORGE GORDON, Lord Byron, the descendant of one of those Norman families which attended the Conqueror to England, was born in London A.D. 1787. In 1798 he succeeded to the ancestral title, on the death of his grand-uncle. Till his eleventh year he was brought up chiefly in Scotland; he went afterwards to Harrow, and in 1805 entered Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1807 he published his Hours of Idleness. It possessed little merit; but the ungenerous ridicule with which the book was assailed exercised a salutary influence on the future fame of the poet, by stimulating him to new and stronger exertions. In 1809 he set out on his travels, and visited Spain, Portugal, and Turkey. It was at this period also that he wrote the first two cantos of Childe Harold. On their publication he suddenly, as he expressed it, “woke and found himself famous.” His popularity was increased by each new work-his social position, his genius, and much in his personal character, combining to make him the idol of the many; but, while his literary ambition was stimulated by a success almost unprecedented, the vanity and egotism which vitiated his genius were fostered proportionately. In 1815 he married; and the next year his wife separated from him. The cause of their quarrel has never

« НазадПродовжити »