SPENSERIAN. EVEN here, on earth, not altogether fade For thoughts are things, and written thoughts are seeds Our very dust buds forth in flowers or weeds. One honest song, uncramp'd by forms or creeds, That men unborn may read my times and me, Taught by my living words, when I shall cease to be. MAY. SHADE-LOVING Hyacinth! thou com'st again ; Of the lark's song, the readbreast's lonely strain, And ever sweetest where the sweetest grow. Of rosy hues that red o'er ocean break, When cloudy morn is calm, yet fain to weep, Hark! 'tis the thrush !-he sings beneath the steep, That love is yet on earth, and yet will be, Though virtue struggles, and seems born to fail, Thou are not false, sweet bird! thou dost not keep And break it to our hearts! Maids do not weep none Of late redemption from his sin-made woes, VOL. II. D THE POLISH FUGITIVES. WRITTEN FOR THE HULL POLISH RECORD. THE day went down in fire, The burning ocean o'er A son and grey-hair'd sire Walk'd silent, on the shore. They walk'd, worn gaunt with cares, Where land and billow meet And of that land was theirs The dust upon their feet. Yet they, erewhile, had lands Which plenteous harvests bore; But, spoil'd by Russian hands, Their own was theirs no more. They came to cross the foam, A happier, safer home A land where sowers reap. Yet, while the playful gold The crimson clouds that roll'd The youth his brow upraised From thoughts of deepest woe, And on the ocean gazed, Like one who fronts a foe. The sire was calm and mild, And brightly shone his eye;— How like a stately child, He look'd on sea and sky! But on his son's lean cheek, A heart, that scorn'd to break, For he had left behind A wife, who dungeon'd lay; And loath'd the mournful wind, That sobb'd-Away, away! Five boys and girls had he: And when he saw the sea, On him he heard them call. Oh, fiercely he dash'd down The tear-that came, at length Then, almost with a frown, He pray'd to God for strength. "Hold up!" the father cried, The mother o'er the tide, "But Poland yet shall fling "For soon her cause will be To conquer or to die!'" His hands clasp'd o'er his head, The son look'd up for aid; "So be it, Lord!" he said, And still look'd up, and pray'd, Till from his eyes, like rain, When first the black clouds growl, The agony of pain, In tears, gush'd from his soul. * The name which the Turks, in their superstitious dread, gave to the great Sobieski. |