And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds-or like the stream
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part for ever.
O you that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the fields of bliss above
He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round :—
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light
Like that celestial bird, whose nest
Is found below far eastern skies,-
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies!
Some difference of this dangerous kind,—
By which, though light, the links that bind
The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in love's summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst.
Found in an old periodical, where it appeared anonymously, but well deserving a more permanent place among the beauties of English poetry.
THE star of love on evening's brow hath smiled,
Showering her golden influence with her beam;
Hush'd is the ocean wave, and soft and mild
The breathing zephyr; lull'd is every stream,
Placid and gentle as a vestal's dream;
The bard of night, the angel of the spring,
O'er the wild minstrels of the grove supreme,
Near his betrothed flower expands his wing;
Wake, lovely rose, awake, and hear thy poet sing!
The night is past; wake-Queen of every flower,
Breathing the soul of spring in thy perfume;
The pearls of morning are thy wedding dower,
Thy bridal garment is a robe of bloom!
Wake, lovely flower! for now the winter's gloom
Hath wept itself in April showers away;
Wake, lovely flower! and bid thy smiles assume
A kindred brightness with the rosy ray
That streaks the floating clouds with the young blush of day.
How beautiful is this, by EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the famous Corn Law Rhymer of Sheffield;-the man who laboured with his hands, not ashamed to earn his bread by honest industry, while in his hours of rest he found amusement in the composition of some of the most vigorous and original poetry our language can boast.
GOD, release our dying sister!
Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her:
Whiter than the wild, white roses,
Famine in her face discloses
Mute submission, patience holy,
Passing fair! but passing slowly.
"Though," she said, "you know I'm dying,"
In her heart green trees are sighing;
Not of them hath pain bereft her,
In the city, where we left her:
"Bring," she said, "a hedgeside blossom!"
Love shall lay it on her bosom.
There is in this poem, by LOCKHART, a singular tone of solemnity, that awes the reader, and subdues his breath if he attempts to read it aloud.
THE mighty sun had just gone down
Into the chambers of the deep;
The ocean birds had upward flown,
Each in his cave to sleep;
And silent was the island shore,
And breathless all the broad red sea,
And motionless beside the door
Our solitary tree.
Our only tree, our ancient palm,
Whose shadow sleeps our door beside,
Partook the universal calm
When Buonaparte died.
An ancient man, a stately man,
Came forth beneath the spreading tree,
His silent thoughts I could not scan,
His tears I needs must see.
A trembling hand had partly cover'd
The old man's weeping countenance,
Yet something o'er his sorrow hover'd,
That spake of war and France;
Something that spake of other days,
When trumpets pierced the kindling air,
And the keen eye could firmly gaze
Through battle's crimson glare.
Said I, "Perchance this faded hand,
When life beat high, and hope was young,
By Lodi's wave, or Syria's sand,
The bolt of death had flung.
Young Buonaparte's battle cry
Perchance hath kindled this old cheek;
It is no shame that he should sigh—
His heart is like to break!
He hath been with him young and old;
He climb'd with him the Alpine snow;
He heard the cannon when they roll'd
Along the river Po.
His soul was as a sword to leap
At his accustom'd leader's word;
I love to see the old man weep-
He knew no other lord.
As if it were but yesternight,
This man remembers dark Eylau ;
His dreams are of the eagle's flight
Victorious long ago.
The memories of worser time
Are all as shadows unto him;
Fresh stands the picture of his prime--
The later trace is dim."
I enter'd and I saw him lie
Within the chamber all alone;
I drew near very solemnly
To dead Napoleon.
He was not shrouded in a shroud-
He lay not like the vulgar dead—
Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud,
From his pale brow was fled.
He had put harness on to die,
The eagle star shone on his breast,
His sword lay bare his pillow nigh,
The sword he liked the best.
But calm, most calm, was all his face,
A solemn smile was on his lips,
His eyes were closed in pensive grace-
A most serene eclipse!
Ye would have said, some sainted sprite
Had left its passionless abode-
Some man, whose prayer at morn and night,
Had duly risen to God.
What thoughts had calm'd his dying breast (For calm he died) cannot be known; Nor would I wound a warrior's rest,— Farewell, Napoleon!
How fine a contrast has MACAULAY drawn, in these lines from his Lays of Ancient Rome, between the corn fields as they are, and the battle-field as it was.
Now on the place of slaughter
Are cots and sheep-folds seen,
And rows of vines, and fields of wheat,
And apple-orchards green:
The swine crush the big acorns
That fall from Corne's oaks;
Upon the turf, by the fair fount,
The reaper's pottage smokes.
The fisher baits his angle;
The hunter twangs his bow;
Little they think on those strong limbs
That moulder deep below.
Little they think how sternly
That day the trumpets peal'd;
How, in the slippery swamp of blood,
Warrior and war-horse reel'd;
How wolves came with fierce gallop,
And crows on eager wings,
To tear the flesh of captains,
And peck the eyes of kings;
How thick the dead lay scatter'd
Under the Portian height;
How, through the gates of Tusculum,
Raved the wild stream of flight:
And how the Lake Regillus
Bubbled with crimson foam,
What time the Thirty Cities
Came forth to war with Rome.
Another sweet composition by N. P. WILLIS.
THROW up the window! 'Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind seems liquid-it o'ersteals
My bosom and my brow so bathingly.
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