Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He curs'd himself in his despair;
The waves rushed in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear-
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY LIBRARY.
My days among the dead are pass'd;
Around me I behold
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old.
My never failing friends are they
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity:
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
THIS to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy;
And after many a fight against the Moor
And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain,
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon,—his first thought
In safety was of her, who, when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long-look'd-for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For ere he came, the number of her days
Was full. O Reader, what a world were this,
How unendurable its weight, if they
Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!
THE lily cheek, the “purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,
Mary! of these the poet sung, for these
Did woman triumph: turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause
Wielded the sword of freedom; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude;
No Cordé, with self-sacrificing zeal,
Had glorified again the Avenger's name,
As erst when Cæsar perished: happy, too,
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.
SELECTIONS FROM THE SONNETS.
FAIR is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray;
And lovely to the musing poet's eye
Fades the soft radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway; And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, Edith! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the cold converse of the indifferent throng Too swiftly then toward the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness, ye speed along, Whilst I, from all the world's dull cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burdened heart.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gathered tempest ! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain..
I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his thin raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as hope within him. I the while
Pause here in sadness, though the sunbeams smile Cheerily around me. Ah, that thus my lot Might be with peace and solitude assigned, Where I might from some little quiet cot Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind.
O THOU Sweet Lark! who, in the heaven so high!
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully!
I watch thee soaring with a deep delight,
And, when at last I turn my waking eye
That lags below thee in the infinite,
Still in my heart receive thy melody.
O thou sweet Lark! that I had wings like thee!
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below;
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that hold her here.
THOU lingerest, Spring! still wintry is the scene; The fields their dead and sapless russet wear; Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear Starring the sunny bank, or early green
AS THUS I STAND BESIDE THE MURMURING STREAM."
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