Слике страница
PDF
ePub

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talked of love.

In humblest, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had;

But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his; but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.
Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died !

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay :
I ll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die : 'Twas so for me that Edwin did.

And so for him will I."

“Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cried,

And clasped her to his breast :
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide:

'Twas Edwin's self that prest!
Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign;
And shall we never, never part,

My life—my all that's mine ?
No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true ;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's, too."

Goldsmith.

A MORNING SONG.

H

ARK, hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings,

And Phæbus 'gins arise,

The steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies ;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise ;
Arise, arise!

Shakspeare.

TH

MOUNTAIN SCENERY.
HE western waves of ebbing day

Rolld o'er the glen their level way :

Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravine below Where twined the path, in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass; Huge as the tower which builders vain, Presumptuous, piled on Shinar's plain, The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seem'd fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Crests—wild as pagod ever deck'd, Or mosque of eastern architect. Nor were those earth-born castles bare, Nor lack'd they many a banner fair, For, from their shiver'd brows display'd Far o'er th' unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen, The briar-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west wind's summer sighs. Boon Nature scatter'd, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalm’d the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; The primrose pale and violet flower Found in each cliff a narrow bower ; Nightshade and foxglove, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride,

Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath.
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ;
And higher yet the pine-tree hung
His scatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow sky.

Scott.

MISS BLANCHE’S ROSE.

A

ND you are the poet, and so you want

Something-what is it--a theme or fancy?

Something or other the muse won't grant In your old poetical necromancy.

Why, one-half of you poets—you can't denyDon't know the muse when you chance to meet her,

But sit in your attics and mope and sigh
For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,

When flesh and blood may be standing by,
Quite at your service, should you but greet her.
What if I told you my own romance ?

Women are poets if you so take them, One-third poet—the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make them.

Give me ten minutes before you go-
Here at the window we'll sit together,

Watching the currents that ebb and flow,
Watching the world as it drifts below,

Up the hot avenue's dusty glow-
Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather ?

Well, it was after the war broke out,

And I was a school girl fresh from Paris,
Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
And I--did nothing—for I was an heiress;

Picked some lint, now I think. Perhaps
Knitted some stockings-a dozen nearly,

Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps,
Stood at the fair-tables and peddled traps

Quite at a profit. The shoulder straps
Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you really!

Still, it was stupid. Ratata-tat?

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment, round and flat, And every foot-fall tap of a drummer;

And day by day down the avenue went
Cavalry, infantry, all together,

Till my pitying angel one day sent
My fate in the shape of a regiment

That halted just as the day was spent
Here, at our door, in the bright June weather.

None of our dandy warriors they;

Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon, or lace, or bow-knot;

And I opened the window, and leaning there
I felt in their presence the free wood's blowing;

My ck, and shoulders, and arms were bare-
I did not dream they might think me fair-

But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
And here, in my bosom, a red rose glowing.

And I looked from the window along the line,

Dusty and dirty, grim and solemn,
Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,

And a dark face grew from the darkening column;

« ПретходнаНастави »