« PreviousContinue »
A WORLD WITHOUT WATER.
Yesternight I pray'd aloud,
In anguish and in agony; Upstarting from the fiendish crowd of shapes and thoughts that tortured me.
I had a dream in the dead of night,
A dream of agony;
Of an unclouded sky;
And that all the springs were dry:
And I was standing on a hill,
And looking all around:
Strength in my limbs was found,
My destinies were bound.
Beneath me was a far-spread heath,
Where once had risen a spring,
In its graceful wandering:
And the glare of the dark-blue sky,
In light waves wandering by.
And farther on was a stately wood,
With its tall trees rising high,
Beneath a summer sky:
For ages : he was gone; and all
His rocky pillows shown, With their clustering shells, and sea-weed pall,
And the rich gems round them thrown. And the monsters of the deep lay dead,
With many a human form, That there had found a quiet bed
Away from the raging storm; And the fishes, sodden in the sun,
Were strewn by thousands round; And a myriad things, long lost and won,
Were there, unsought for, found. I turn'd away from earth and sea,
And look'd on the burning sky, But no drop fell, like an angel's tear
The founts of heaven were dry :
Not a cloud was in the air,
He look'd so lonely there!
The agony of thirst :
As if my heart would burst.
The spell that instant broke;
Miss M. A. BROWNE.
Flower of light! forget thy birth,
While thy graceful buds unfold
ADDRESS TO A PRIMROSE.
That thou wert long ago;
Or from my heart the glow
When all the world was new,
Its sweet, fresh fragrance threw; Thou art not what I thought thee then Nor ever wilt thou be again.
It was a thing of wild delight,
To find thee on the bank,
The golden sunlight drank
That clustering grew together,
My heart to love thee so;
Were dear, long, long ago,
No wild-flower on the lea,
I loved so much as thee;
Without one joyful thrill;
My heart is calm and still :
Has faded from my sight.
Brought unto me a blight, 'Tis fitting thou should'st sadder seem, Since Leila perish'd like a dream.
Ah, how I envy thee!
If such a change might be.
And yet it is a lingering joy
To watch a thing so fair,
A little monarch thou art there,
And of a fairy realm, Without a foe to overthrow,
A care to overwhelm.
Thy world is in thy own glad will,
And in each fresh delight, And in thy unused heart, which makes
Its own, its golden light.
With no misgivings in thy past,
Thy future with no fear:
An angel's atmosphere.
How little is the happiness
That will content a child-
A blossom growing wild.
A word will fill the little heart
With pleasure and with pride; It is a harsh, a cruel thing,
That such can be denied.
And yet how many weary hours
Those joyous creatures know; How much of sorrow and restraint
They to their elders owe!
How much they suffer from our faults:
How much from our mistakes; How often, too, mistaken zeal
An infant's misery makes!