« ПретходнаНастави »
That I might make Oppression reel,
As only gold can make it,
As only gold can break it.
And every human passion,
Would come and keep in fashion ; That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate,
And every base emotion,
Beneath the waves of ocean!
And motives always pure;
I wish the bad were fewer;
To heed their pious teaching;
So different from preaching !
Appraised with truth and candour;
From treachery and slander;
That women ne'er were rovers ;
And husbands always lovers !
And every good Ideal,
To be the glorious Real;
With His supremest blessing,
7. Godfrey Saxe.
THE FIRST SWALLOW.
HE gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and, beneath,
The silver wreath of May.
The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, saw her dart with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she past. Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day.
EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
'URN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
With hospitable ray.
With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go." * Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries,
“To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still :
I give it with good will.
Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My blessing and repose.
To slaughter I condemn;
I learn to pity them.
A guiltless feast I bring A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And gaily pressed and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The crackling faggot flies.
To soothe the stranger's woe:
And tears began to flow.
With answering care opprest: “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried
“The sorrows of thy breast? From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or unregarded love?
Are trifling and decay;
More trifling still than they.
A charm that lulls to sleep !
And leaves the wretch to weep !
And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Swift mantling to the view,
As bright, as transient, too.
Alternate spread alarms;
A maid in all her charms.
“And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,” she cried, " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Companion of her way.
A wealthy lord was he;
He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came;