Page images
PDF
EPUB

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;

Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate!
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again;
To bear is to conquer our fate!

The Sailor's Orphan Boy.

Campbell.

Stay, lady stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale:
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake-
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale!
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy:
But in the Nile's proud fight he died-
And I am now an orphan boy!

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame !
To force me home my mother sought-
She could not bear to see my joy!
For with my father's life 'twas bought-
And made me a poor orphan boy!

[ocr errors]

The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd-
My mother answered with her tears!
"Oh! why do tears steal down your cheeks,"
Cried I," while others shout for joy ?"
She kiss'd me, and, in accents weak,

She call'd me-" her poor orphan boy !"

"What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasp'd for breath,
And her eyes closed; I shriek'd for aid :—
But, ah! her eyes were closed in death!

My hardships since I will not tell :
But now, no more a parent's joy,
Ah! lady, I have learn'd too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh! were I by your bounty fed !-
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ;
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread-
The sailor's orphan boy has pride!
Lady, you weep:-what is't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ !"
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

On the present State of Athens.

Mrs. Opie.

Ancient of days! august Athena ! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone!-glimmering through the dream of things
that were!

First in the race that led to Glory's goal,

They won-and pass'd away! Is this the whole?
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.
Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn:
Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre !
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.
Even gods must yield-religions take their turn:
'Twas Jove's 'tis Mahomet's-and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built
on reeds!

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven-
Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given
That, being, thou wouldst be again, and go
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so

On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies
Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps:

He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around! But now not one of saddening thousands weeps. Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps Is that a temple where a god may dwell? Why even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of thought, the palace of the Soul! Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit

And Passion's host, that never brook'd control! Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! "All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron :

There no forced banquet claims the stated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And Sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore.

With those who made our mortal labours light! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right.

Byron.

The Rose.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna, convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground!

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

Harmony of Expression.

Conper.

But most by numbers judge a poet's song;
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ;

Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear,

Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there :
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes :
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees;"

If crystal streams" with pleasing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep :"
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught

With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness give offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.

Pope.

Battle of the Baltic.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line :

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

« PreviousContinue »