Un arbre, le dernier adieu de la vegetation, est devant sa porte; et c'est à l'ombre de son pale feuillage que les voyageurs ont coutume d'attendre. CORINNE.
A LIGHT breeze curls the Leven's silver tide,
Spread like a sheet around yon rocky isle,
Whereon, in ruin'd hoariness, a pile
Uprears its massy walls in castled pride;
The sunbeams, shooting o'er a morning cloud,
Fall on it, and display the shrivell'd trees,
Blasted and tall, their thin leaves in the breeze
Fluttering, like plumes above a funeral shroud:
The blue-wing'd sea-gull, with a wailing shriek,
Sails round it; and, on high, the sable rook
Perches in peace:-no more 'tis doom'd to brook
Man's domination; but with aspect meek,
Crumbles to ruin, year, and month, and week,
Voiceless, and with a melancholy look!
Nè greggi, nè armenti
Guida bifolco mai, guida pastore.
AMID this vast, tremendous solitude,
Where nought is heard except the wild wind's sigh,
Or brooding raven's deep and hollow cry,
With awful thought the spirit is embued!-
Around-around, for many a weary mile,
The Alpine masses stretch; the heavy cloud
Cleaves round their brows, concealing with its shroud
Bleak, barren rocks, unthaw'd by summer's smile.
Nought but the desert mountains and lone sky
Are here; birds sing not, and the wandering bee
Searches for flowers in vain ; nor shrub, nor tree,
Nor human habitation greets the eye
Of heart-struck pilgrim ; while around him lie
Silence and desolation-what is he?
WORDSWORTH, I envy thee, that from the strife Far distant, and the turmoil of mankind,
Thou hold'st communion with the eternal mind
Of Nature, leading an unblemish'd life.
What have the bards of other realms and years
Fabled of innocence or golden age,
But, graven on the tablet of thy page,
And of thy life, in majesty appears?
What marvel that the men of cities, they
Whose fate or choice compels them to endure
The sight of things unholy or impure,
Feel not the moonlight softness of thy lay?
But thou hast fought-hast conquer'd, and decay
Flies far from thee, whose great reward is sure!
Although thou canst never be mine,
Although even hope is denied,
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than aught in the world beside.
THE landscape hath not lost its look;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;
Nor hath the gloominess forsook
These granite crags, that frown for ever.
Still hangs around the shadowy wood,
Whose sounds but murmur solitude:
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's querulous repining,
In mingled echoes steal along ;
The setting sun is brightly shining,
And clouds above, and hills below,
Are brightening with his golden glow.
It is not meet-it is not fit,
Though Fortune all our hopes hath thwarted,
While on the very stone I sit,
Where first we met, and last we parted,
That absent from my mind should be
The thought that longs and looks for thee!
The happy hours that we have proved,
When love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our journey tended,—
To memory yield a sweet relief,
And lull me with the joys of grief.
What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest, and now is broken!
I dare not-oh! hast thou forgot
Our early loves-this hallow'd spot ?—
I almost think I see thee stand;
I almost dream I hear thee speaking ;
I feel the presence of thy hand
Thy living glance in fondness seeking,
Here, all apart, by all unseen,
Thy form upon mine arm to lean.
|