"Daughter! thy cheek hath grown pale and thin, Is thy spirit chasten'd and pure within?
Gone from thy glance is its ancient mirth,
Are thy sighs for heaven, or thy tears for earth?"
For earth are her sighs—yet poor Clara knows
"My second" no more than the spring's first rose.
Why doth he tremble-that holy man,-
At eye so sunk, and at cheek so wan?
Less bitter the tears, less burning the sighs,
Heaven asks from her willing votaries;
Alas! when " my all" weeps as Clara weeps,
Holy Church gaineth more than she ofttimes keeps !
St. Ursula's altar was dress'd that day,
The maiden was there, but the monk was away;
St. Ursula's altar was lighted that night,
There were murmurs of sacrilege-whispers of flight,
And legends tell us that Father Giles
Was never seen more in St. Cuthbert's aisles!
Now for a most musical, most melancholy, song from MOORE's Lalla Rookh.
THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream
To sit in that bower and hear the birds' song.
That bower and its roses I never forget,
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright near the calm Bendemeer?
No; the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave;
But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill'd from the flowers that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight 'ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.
A fine passage from the dramatic works of the Rev. H. H. MILMAN.
Yet hath the motion of his breath, the sound
Of his departing footsteps beating yet
Upon my heart. Long sought and found in vain !
In sunshine have I sought thee, and in shade
O'er mountain have I track'd thee, and through vale.
The clouds have wrapt thee, but I lost thee not;
The torrents drown'd thy track, but not from me;
I dared not meet thee, but I sought thee still;
To me forbid, alone to me, what all
The coarse and common things of Nature may;
The airs of Heaven may touch thee, I may not ;
All human eyes behold thee, all but mine ;-
And thou, the senseless, enviable dust
May'st cherish the round traces of his limbs;
His fresh, fair image most away from me.
Oh! that I were the dust whereon thou tread'st,
Even though I felt thee not!
BEAUMONT, in his Philaster, has a descriptive passage of rare excellence, a pure and perfect gem, a very master-piece of Art.
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of
many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me. But ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon 'em he would weep
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle, died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all order'd thus
Express'd his grief; and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain❜d him,
Who was as glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept.
Another poem, which every schoolboy can repeat, after a fashion, must not be omitted from this gathering of the rarest gems of English poetry, even although it is to be found in every collection that has been published. It is one of CAMPBELL's finest lyrics.
THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er its own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
"Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger,
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers
Where my forefathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me!
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!
They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Ah! my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;
Erin! an Exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin, mavournin, Erin-go-bragh!"
This pretty little poem appears in CHARLES SWAIN'S English Melodies.
MORN calleth fondly to a fair boy straying
Mid golden meadows rich with clover dew;
She calls-but he still thinks of nought save playing
And so she smiles and waves him an adieu!
Whilst he, still merry with his flowery store
Deems not that morn, sweet morn! returns no more.
Noon cometh-but the boy, to manhood growing,
Heeds not the time-he sees but one sweet form,
One young fair face, from bower of jasmine glowing,
And all his loving heart with bliss is warm;
So noon unnoticed, seeks the western shore,
And man forgets that noon returns no more.
Night tappeth gently at a casement gleaming
With the thin fire-light, flick'ring faint and low,
By which a grey-hair'd man is sadly dreaming
O'er pleasures gone, as all life's pleasures go;
Night calls him to her, and he leaves his door
Silent and dark-and he returns no more.
LONGFELLOW, in European estimation, though not in that of his own countrymen, as we are informed, holds the second place among the living poets of America, the first being assigned, by common assent, to Bryant. The following poem, however, is not so generally known as it deserves to be. It was written in early life, and has some manifest defects, but also great beauties. There is a freshness and vigour about it that marks the opening genius.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows-
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassion'd voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowl'd and dusky-sandal'd eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade,
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless
laughter;
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind.
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
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