« ПретходнаНастави »
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;
I triumph'd in his pain.
He left me to my pride;
In secret, where he died !
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay :
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 :
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!
My charmer, turn to see
Restored to love and thee.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign;
My life—my all that's mine ?
We'll live and love so true ;
A MORNING SONG.
ARK, hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings,
And Phæbus 'gins arise,
The steeds to water at those springs
To ope their golden eyes;
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
MISS BLANCHE’S ROSE.
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
When flesh and blood may be standing by,
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-
Watching the currents that ebb and flow,
Up the hot avenue's dusty glow-
Well, it was after the war broke out,
And I was a school girl fresh from Paris,
Picked some lint, now I think. Perhaps
Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps,
Quite at a profit. The shoulder straps
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
Till my pitying angel one day sent
That halted just as the day was spent
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
My ck, and shoulders, and arms were bare-
But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
And I looked from the window along the line,
Dusty and dirty, grim and solemn,
And a dark face grew from the darkening column;