And when the moon, of fairy stars the queen, Waves her transparent wand o'er all the scene;
And, while inhaling the moss-rose's breath,- (Less sweet than thine, unmatch'd ELIZABETH!) A vision, pale
As the far robes of seraphs in the night, Rises before me with supernal light.
And there, in closest commune with the blue, Thy spiritual glances meet my view.
And thou art my EGERIA, and the glade Encircling it around is holier made.
And, in the silver shout of waters, hear Thy merry, melting tones salute mine ear: And, in the look
Of lilies floating from the flowery land, See something soft and stainless as thy hand. All things convey
A likeness of my early, only love- All fairest things around, below, above: The foamy spray
Over the billow, and the bedded pearls, And the light flag the lighter breeze unfurls. For, in the grace
As well as in the beauty of the sea, I find a true similitude to thee; And I can trace
Thine image in the loveliness that dwells Mid inland forests and sequester'd dells.
REST thee, old hunter! the evening cool Will sweetly breathe on thy heated brow, Thy dogs will lap of the shady pool;
Thou art very weary-O, rest thee now! Thou hast wander'd far through mazy woods, Thou hast trodden the bright-plumed birds' retreat, Thou hast broken in on their solitudes,-
O, give some rest to thy tired feet!
There's not a nook in the forest wide
Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee; Thy step has been where no sounds, beside The rustle of wings in the sheltering tree, The sharp, clear cry of the startled game,
The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar, The bay that follow'd thy gun's sure aim, Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. Then rest thee!-thy wife in her cottage-door, Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray, Peers into the forest beyond the moor,
To hail thy coming ere fall of day;— But thou art a score of miles from home,
And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, And a sapphire light over earth is spread,
The place where thy wife and babes repose. Rest thee a while-and then journey on
Through the wide forest, and over the moor: Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun,
And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door!
THE departed! the departed! They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn, The departed, the departed
Can never more return!
The good, the brave, the beautiful, How dreamless is their sleep, Where rolls the dirge-like music Of the ever-tossing deep! Or where the hurrying night-winds Pale winter's robes have spread Above their narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!
I look around and feel the awe Of one who walks alone Among the wrecks of former days, In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds Among the cypress trees, For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy Will cheer my heart again. The melody of summer waves, The thrilling notes of birds, Can never be so dear to me
As their remember'd words.
I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Still on me sweetly fall, Their tones of love I faintly hear My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on, But my heart is very desolate To think that they are gone.
I AM not old-though years have cast Their shadows on my way;
I am not old-though youth has pass'd On rapid wings away.
For in my heart a fountain flows, And round it pleasant thoughts repose; And sympathies and feelings high, Spring like the stars on evening's sky.
I am not old--Time may have set "His signet on my brow," And some faint furrows there have met, Which care may deepen now:
Yet love, fond love, a chaplet weaves Of fresh, young buds and verdant leaves; And still in fancy I can twine
Thoughts, sweet as flowers, that once were mine.
THE DOVE'S ERRAND. Under cover of the night, Feather'd darling, take your flight! Lest some cruel archer fling Arrow at your tender wing, And your white, unspotted side Be with crimson colour died:- For with men who know not love You and I are living, Dove.
Now I bind a perfumed letter Round your neck with silken fetter; Bear it safely, bear it well, Over mountain, lake, and dell. While the darkness is profound You may fly along the ground, But when morning's herald sings, Mount ye on sublimer wings; High in heaven pursue your way Till the fading light of day, From the palace of the west, Tints with fleckering gold your breast, Shielded from the gaze of men, You may stoop to earth again. Stay, then, feather'd darling, stay, Pause, and look along your way: Well I know how fast you fly, And the keenness of your eye. By the time the second eve Comes, your journey you'll achieve, And above a gentle vale Will on easy pinion sail.
In that vale, with dwellings strown, One is standing all alone: White it rises mid the leaves, Woodbines clamber o'er its eaves, And the honeysuckle falls Pendant on its silent walls. "Tis a cottage, small and fair As a cloud in summer air.
By a lattice, wreathed with flowers Such as link the dancing hours, Sitting in the twilight shade, Envied dove, behold a maid! Locks escaped from sunny band, Cheeks reclined on snowy hand, Looking sadly to the sky,
She will meet your searching eye. Fear not, doubt not, timid dove, You have found the home of love! She will fold you to her breast- Serar as have not purer rest; She your weary plumes will kiss- Seraphs have not sweeter bliss! Tremble not, my dove, nor start, Should you feel her throbbing heart; Joy has made her bright eye dim- Well she knows you came from him, Him she loves. O, luckless star! He from her must dwell afar. From your neck her fingers fine Will the silken string untwine; Reading then the words I trace, Blushes will suffuse her face;
To her lips the lines she'll press, And again my dove caress. Mine, yes, mine-O, would that I Could on rapid pinions fly! Then I should not send you, dove, On an errand to my love: For I'd brave the sharpest gale, And along the tempest sail; Caring not for danger near, Hurrying heedless, void of fear, But to hear one tender word, Breathed for me, my happy bird! At the early dawn of day, She will send you on your way, Twining with another fetter Round your neck another letter. Speed ye, then, O, swiftly speed, Like a prisoner newly freed: O'er the mountain, o'er the vale, Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail! Never, never poise a plume, Though beneath you Edens bloom: Never, never think of rest,
Till night's shadow turns your breast From pure white to mottled gray, And the stars are round your way,- Love's bright beacons, they will shine, Dove, to show your home and mine!
"HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!'
How cheery are the mariners-
Those lovers of the sea!
Their hearts are like its yesty waves,
As bounding and as free.
They whistle when the storm-bird wheels In circles round the mast;
And sing when deep in foam the ship Ploughs onward to the blast.
What care the mariners for gales? There's music in their roar, When wide the berth along the lee, And leagues of room before. Let billows toss to mountain heights, Or sink to chasms low,
The vessel stout will ride it out, Nor reel beneath the blow.
With streamers down and canvass furl'd, The gallant hull will float Securely, as on inland lake
A silken-tassell'd boat; And sound asleep some mariners,
And some with watchful eyes, Will fearless be of dangers dark
That roll along the skies. GOD keep those cheery mariners! And temper all the gales That sweep against the rocky coast To their storm-shatter'd sails; And men on shore will bless the ship That could so guided be,
Safe in the hollow of His hand, To brave the mighty sea!
LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY.
THE bird, that never tried his wing, Can blithely hop and sweetly sing, Though prison'd in a narrow cage, Till his bright feathers droop with age. So I, while never bless'd with sight, Shut out from heaven's surrounding light, Life's hours, and days, and years enjoy,- Though blind, a merry-hearted boy. That captive bird may never float Through heaven, or pour his thrilling note Mid shady groves, by pleasant streams That sparkle in the soft moonbeams; But he may gayly flutter round Within his prison's scanty bound, And give his soul to song, for he Ne'er longs to taste sweet liberty. O! may I not as happy dwell Within my unillumined cell? May I not leap, and sing, and play, And turn my constant night to day? I never saw the sky, the sea, The earth was never green to me: Then why, O, why should I repine For blessings that were never mine! Think not that blindness makes me sad, My thoughts, like yours, are often glad. Parents I have, who love me well, Their different voices I can tell. Though far away from them, I hear, In dreams, their music meet my ear. Is there a star so dear above As the low voice of one you love? I never saw my father's face, Yet on his forehead when I place My hand, and feel the wrinkles there, Left less by time than anxious care, I fear the world has sights of wo, To knit the brows of manhood so,- I sit upon my father's knee: He'd love me less if I could see. I never saw my mother smile: Her gentle tones my heart beguile. They fall like distant melody, They are so mild and sweet to me. She murmurs not-my mother dear! Though sometimes I have kiss'd the tear From her soft cheek, to tell the joy One smiling word would give her boy. Right merry was I every day! Fearless to run about and play With sisters, brothers, friends, and all,- To answer to their sudden call, To join the ring, to speed the chase, To find each playmate's hiding-place, And pass my hand across his brow, To tell him I could do it now! Yet though delightful flew the hours, So pass'd in childhood's peaceful bowers, When all were gone to school but I, I used to sit at home and sigh;
And though I never long'd to view The earth so green, the sky so blue, I thought I'd give the world to look Along the pages of a book.
Now, since I've learn'd to read and write, My heart is fill'd with new delight; And music too,-can there be found
A sight so beautiful as sound?
Tell me, kind friends, in one short word, Am I not like a captive bird?
I live in song, and peace, and joy,- Though blind, a merry-hearted boy.
"It arose before them, the most beautiful island in the world."-IRVING'S Columbus.
It was a sweet and pleasant isle- As fair as isle could be;
And the wave that kiss'd its sandy shore Was the wave of the Indian sea.
It seem'd an emerald set by Heaven On the ocean's dazzling brow— And where it glow'd long ages past,
It glows as greenly now.
I've wander'd oft in its valleys bright,
Through the gloom of its leafy bowers, And breathed the breath of its spicy gales And the scent of its countless flowers.
I've seen its bird with the crimson wing Float under the clear, blue sky; I've heard the notes of its mocking-bird On the evening waters die.
In the starry noon of its brilliant night, When the world was hush'd in sleep- I dream'd of the shipwreck'd gems that lie On the floor of the soundless deep.
And I gather'd the shells that buried were In the heart of its silver sands, And toss'd them back on the running wave, To be caught by viewless hands.
There are sister-spirits that dwell in the sea,
Of the spirits that dwell in the air; And they never visit our northern clime, Where the coast is bleak and bare:
But around the shores of the Indian isles They revel and sing alone-
Though I saw them not, I heard by night Their low, mysterious tone.
Elysian isle! I may never view
Thy birds and roses more, Nor meet the kiss of thy loving breeze As it seeks thy jewell'd shore.
Yet thou art treasured in my heart As in thine own deep sea;
And, in all my dreams of the spirits' home Dear isle, I picture thee!
A GREAT NAME. TIME! thou destroyest the relics of the past, And hidest all the footprints of thy march On shatter'd column and on crumbled arch, By moss and ivy growing green and fast. Hurl'd into fragments by the tempest-blast, The Rhodian monster lies; the obelisk, That with sharp line divided the broad disc Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast: And where these stood, no remnant-trophy stands, And even the art is lost by which they rose: Thus, with the monuments of other lands,
The place that knew them now no longer knows. Yet triumph not, O, Time; strong towers decay, But a great name shall never pass away!
THERE is no type of indolence like this:
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying, The wave unstirr'd about her huge sides lying, No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss, Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft: Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around Upon the polish'd deck or canvass-soft
To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found A bed more tender, since his mother's knee The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea.
Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing, Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail, Some damn' the calm and wish it was a gale; But every lubber there is lazy as a king.
To see a fellow of a summer's morning, With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by, About to give the feather'd bipeds warning, That probably they may be shot hereafter, Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter; For, though I am no lover of the sport
Of harmless murder, yet it is to me Almost the funniest thing on earth to see A corpulent person, breathing with a snort, Go on a shooting frolic all alone;
For well I know that when he's out of town, He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.
Boy in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands: Her mind has all the vigour of a tree, Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea, And all the sweetness of a rose that stands -- In the soft sunshine on some shelter'd lea. She seems all life, and light, and love to me! No winter lingers in her glowing smile,
No coldness in her deep, melodious words, But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle, And all the music of its tuneful birds. With her conversing of my native bowers, In the far south, I feel the genial air Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers, Which, like herself, are bright above compare.
TO MY SISTER.
SISTER! dear sister, I am getting old:
My hair is thinner, and the cheerful light That glisten'd in mine eyes is not as bright, Though while on thee I look, 'tis never cold. My hand is not so steady while I pen
These simple words to tell how warm and clear Flows my heart's fountain toward thee,sister dear! For years I've lived among my fellow-men, [joys, Shared their deep passions, known their griefs and And found Pride, Power, and Fame but gilded And, sailing far upon Ambition's waves, [toys; Beheld brave mariners on a troubled sea, [graves. Meet, what they fear'd not-shipwreck and their My spirit seeks its haven, dear, with thee!
"TIs Winter now--but Spring will blossom soon, And flowers will lean to the embracing airAnd the young buds will vie with them to share Each zephyr's soft caress; and when the Moon Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling
Her arrowy lustre through some vapour's wing, The streamlets will return the glance of night
From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by Spring Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, Instead of Winter's crumbled sparks of white.
So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow Tells of a Spring, whose sweets shall all be ours!
LADY, farewell! my heart no more to thee
Bends like the Parsee to the dawning sun; No more thy beauty lights the world for me,
Or tints with gold the moments as they run. A cloud is on the landscape, and the beams
That made the valleys so divinely fair, And scatter'd diamonds on the gliding streams, And crown'd the mountains in their azure airAre veil'd forever!--Lady, fare thee well! Sadly as one who longeth for a sound To break the stillness of a deep profound, I turn and strike my frail, poetic shell:Listen! it is the last; for thee alone My heart no more shall wake its sorrowing tone.
TO A LADY WITH A BOUQUET. FLOWERS are love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love--strong love, that never can decay! I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd. O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair! Let them repose upon thy forehead fair,
And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd! Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal The love that maiden coyness would conceal!
« НазадПродовжити » |