Page images
PDF

No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour was spoken, For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted ledges broken;– Like H. who for his murderers pray'd, she wept, but did not chide, And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died!

Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond woman’s truth; Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth: And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved and lost, That the truest and the tenderest heart must always

suffer most
A. A. WATTs.

-

TO A CHILD.

WHose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly 7

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind 7

For thou in every wight that passes
Dost now a friendly playmate find!

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
X. fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Ty shyness, swiftly from me running,
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,
With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,
Of right good-will thy simple token!

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,

To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after kindness more engaging!

[ocr errors]

But yet, for all thy merry look,
#}. frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing!

Well; let it be ' through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change'
Miss BAILLIE.

[ocr errors][merged small]

THE world is full of Poetry—the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies, .
And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high,
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
The year leads round the seasons, in a choir -
For ever charming, and for ever new ;
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful and the tender, in one strain,

Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand
Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
W. of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven.

"Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move
In measured file, and metrical array;
"Tis not the union of returning sounds,
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme,
And quantity, and accent, that can give
This all pervading spirit to the ear,
Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines
Man with the world around him, in a chain
Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till
He tastes the high communion of his thoughts,
With all existences, in earth and heaven
That meet him in the charm of grace and power.
'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays,
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet,
And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts,
Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments
That overload their littleness. Its words
Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break
Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired
The holy prophet, when his lips were coals,
His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts
Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath,
Commission'd to affright us, and destroy.
J. G. PERCIvaL.

MODERN GREECE.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the line where beauty lingers) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix’d yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And—but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it would impart The doom he dreads yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these ...]these alone, Some moments, ay one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d, The first, last look by death reveal’d." Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We stari, for soul is wanting there. Her's is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with..". breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That line which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams but warms no more its cheris #. earth! YRON.

AN EXHIBITION OF A SCHOOL OF YOUNG LADIES.

How fair upon the admiring sight,
In Learning's sacred sane,
With cheek of bloom, and robe of white,
Glide on yon graceful train!
Blest creatures! to whose gentle eye
Earth's gilded gifts are new,
Ye know not that distrustful sigh
Which deems its vows untrue.

There is a bubble on your cup
By buoyant fancy nurst,
How high its sparkling foam leaps up!
Ye do not think’t will burst:
And be it far from me to fling ...
On budding joys a blight,
Or darkly spread a raven's wing
To shade a path so bright.

There twines a wreath around your brow,
Blent with the sunny braid,
Love lends its flowers a radiant glow,
Ye do not think’t will fade;
And yet’t were safer there to bind
That plant of changeless die,
Whose root is in the lowly mind,
Whose blossom in the sky.

Yet who o'er Beauty's form can hang
Northink how future years
May bring stern sorrow's speechless pang,
Or Disappointment's tears,
Unceasing toil, unpitied care,
Cold treachery's serpent moan,
Ills that the tender heart must bear,
Unanswering and alone!

« PreviousContinue »