« PreviousContinue »
To waft me from distraction : once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so
It is the hush of night, and all between
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
He is an evening reveller, who makes
All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
OH! BAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW. On! say not 't were a keener blow
To lose a child of riper years, You cannot feel a mother's woe,
You cannot dry a mother's tears;
Or cherishes a wounded dove,
The watchfulness of love!
Time might have changed that spotless heart! Years might have taught deceit—but now
In love's confiding dawn-we part! Ere pain or grief had wrought decay,
My babe is cradled in the tomb;
Before its perfect bloom.
We see a bark first touch the wave;
As distant as an infant's grave!
Must brave the whirlwind's rudest breath;
T. H. BAILEY.
A REMEMBERED FACE.
Thou phantom of delight?
Thou risest on my sight!
Their rising and decline!
A fairer face than thine.
"Tis many a year since I look'd on
Those meek and loving eyes;
Like meteors through the skies.
"T will make but dearer thine.
And heralds good to come,
A fragrancy divine,*
The odorous light of thine.
Then welcome to my lonely hours,
Thou visionary thing,
Flowers of a vanish'd spring.
But, till life's cords untwine,
RAISED on the rocky barriers of the sea, Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie! Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine-trees tall Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall,
*"The ancients," says Lord Bacon, in his "Ten Centuries of Natural History," "believed that where the rainbow rested it left a delicate and heavenly odour."
Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep
With whom her heart was, died that very mornHer bridal morn! Alas, that there should be
Such evils ever for affection born!
Is the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain;
And on the steep rock rear'd her holy fane.
STANZAS THEY say that the light of her eyes is gone, That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan; That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild, Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child. For the melting glance of her soft blue eye Is chill'd by cold insanity; And the beauty that her bright form wore, Is the shrine of a living soul no more. And her words discourse not music sent From reason's govern'd instrument; But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play. I would not look on her alter'd brow, Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now; I would not view her pale, pale cheek, Nor hear her, in her madness, speak; Nor see her smile, she knows not why, While her tears flow down unmeaningly; Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token Of a brain o'erwrought, and a young heart broken. No-on these things I would not look, For the brightest gift in Fortune's book; For she was join'd with the fairest things That rose in my youth's imaginings. And oh! how oft have I turn'd away From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay, That my soul might drink, to sweet excess, The light of her pensive loveliness. But her languid eye shall charm no more, Her smiles and her tears—they are nearly o'er; For fond hopes lost, and her heart o'erladen, Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.