He stops, as if he thought the bliss And holds his breath, as one might do'sim 'Tis surely he—he saw him move, He toss'd his head with a prouder air, Eager emotion swell'd his breast, And he raised his voice to its wildest tone, That voice was rescue from the grasp Of painful, ling'ring death 'Twas life to one prepar'd to yield To the winds his parting breath a d 'Twas hope to him from whom despair The latest hope had riven→ 'Twas a friend, when he might scarce expect A friend from earth or heaven. And surely 'twas the sweetest sound That ear had ever known The heart might almost st burst with joy to'l That heard the welcome tone. Não vi in Tokens and xn bu The pilgrim heard—he rais'd his head, And beheld the savage form With sudden fear he seiz'd the gun confcA That rested on his arm. Le syn Enough of parting life remain'd His errand to fulfil One painful, dying effort more So he heeded not his aching wound, HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREAT THE ANCHOR. A MARINER at eventide Pushed his light boat from the land- And fix his anchor in the sand. Then blithe returning to the shore He hied him homeward to his rest. LE COLIMACON. SANS amis, comme sans famille, Se retirer dans sa coquille Pour faire à son prochain les cornes ; Par les traces les plus impures; Et celle du Colimaçon. THE BLOSSOM. FAID Anna to Jane, as they loiter'd one day In the year's early spring by the garden hedge side, Those bright, blushing flowers on yonder tall tree "Are the fairest and sweetest I ever espied. "But I know that to night ere the sun shall have set, "Their form will be chang'd and their colours will fly: "I almost could weep that such beauty should pass― ""Tis surely a pity that blossoms must die. "But at least I'll enjoy them as long as I can, "For go when they will I shall leave them with sorrow; "They shall bloom on my bosom at least for to-day, 66 Since, whether or no, I must lose them to-morrow." The blossom was gather'd, and smil'd on her breast It died, as it would were it left on the tree- And 'tis so that we sigh o'er our life's fleeting joys, The fruit they should bear us is gather'd in heaven. 'Twill be well for poor Anna in life's after years, If too much engross'd by the joys of the hour, Too eager to seize on the pleasures of earth, She lose not the fruit for the sake of the flower. A HYMN IN ADVERSITY. THE tender herb must sometimes droop, Or ere its leaf has grown The Autumn blight will sometimes come, Before the flower has blown. And even so, O Lord most High! Nor let me venture to complain, The love that gave the bitter first, Or if thou wilt that not for me Perhaps thou know'st if earth had found A fairer boon for me, Lur'd by the splendour of the gift, I had forgotten thee. |