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I lee through open blinds
The Heaven's clouded tents,
I snuff the summer winds,
And smell the violet scents, And sink upon my couch in honied indolence; Brimming with Helicon I dash the cup; Why should I spend my years in hoarding up The learning of the past? let dust return To dust, my heart shall never be its urn; Why should I sip my wine from little flasks, Cobwebbed and dusted o'er, when nature yields, And earth is full of purpled vintage fields? Why strain at Beauty dimmed with mortal masks, When I at will may have them all withdrawn, And freely gaze on her transfigured face? Why limp in fetters in a weary race, When I may fly unbound like Mercury's fawn? Why be contented with the sweets of old, Albeit embalmed in nectar, when the trees, The Eden bowers, the rich Hesperides, Droop all around with living fruits of gold? Man's heart has many passions deep and strong, A thousand feathers in his spirits' wings, The love of woman, idleness, and song, Fortune, and fame, and all life's little things. It is enough for us to live and breathe, And feel our hearts at case, and think no more; The flowers that Nature binds, her simplest wreath, Is worth the proudest crown that Wisdom ever wore.
Oh 1 what a life is mine,
A life of glee and mirth,
The sensuous life of earth,
For ever fresh and fine, A heavenly worldliness, mortality divine I When Orient skies, the sea and misty plain, Illumined slowly, doff their nightly shrouds, And heaven's bright archer, morn, begins to rain His golden arrows through the banded clouds, I rise and tramp away the jocund hours, Knee-deep in dewy grass and beds of flowers; I race my eager greyhound on the hills, And climb with bounding feet the craggy steeps, Peak-lifted, gazing o'er the cloven deeps, Where mighty rivers shrink to threaded rills; The ramparts of the mountains loom around, Like splintery fragments of a ruined world, The cliff-bound, dashing cataracts, downward hurled In thunderous volumes shake the chasms profound; The imperial eagle, with a dauntless eye Wheels round the sun, the monarch of the sky; I pluck his eyrie in the blasted woods Of ragged pines, and when the vulture screams, I track his flight along the solitudes, Like some dark spirit in the w/irld of dreams; Sometimes I rove beside the lonely shore, Margined and flanked with slanting, shclvy ledges, Bastioned by grayest rocks with dripping edges, And caverns echoing Ocean's sullen roar, Threading the bladdery weeds and paven shells, Beyond the line of foam, the jewelled chain, Tho largesse of the ever-giving main, Tossed ut the feet of Earth with surgy swells; I plunge and grope the sand for lustrous pearls, To deck my ladye's zone and shining curls, And when my hands are full, I rise again, And strow them on the beach, and swim away, Breasting the billowyness of snowy spray; When noon in fiery armour, travel-spent, Glows through the curtains of his cloudy tent, I loose my little shallop from its pier, And down the winding river slowly float, Steering in coves where trees are mirrored clear, And birds are warbling with melodious throat;
I listen to the humming of the bees, The water's flow, the wind, the wavy trees, And then I take my lyre and touch the chords, And set the summer's melody to words, Chanting a quiet song, a florid lay, As rich and gorgeous as the pomp of Day I Sometimes I lounge in arbours, hung with vines, Pressing the bunchy grapes in rosiest wines, The which I sip and sip with pleasure mute, O'er mouthful bites of golden-rinded fruit; When evening comes, I lie in dreamy rest, Where lifted casements front the glowing west, Watching the clouds like banners wide unfurled, Hung o'er the flaming threshold of the world; Its mission o'er, the holy day recedes, Borne heavenward in its car with fiery steeds, Leaving behind a lingering flush of light, Shedding its mantle at the feet of Night; The flocks are penned, the earth is growing dim, The moon comes rounding up the welkin's rim, O'ermisted, rubious, an argent shell, Washed from the caves of darkness on a swell; And one by one, like pearls through azure brine, In drifted beds, the stars begin to shine; And lo! through clouds that part before the chase Of silent winds, a belt of milky white, The galaxy, a crested surge of light, A reef of worlds along the sea of space; My sweet musicians play, in distant vales, A strain that wakes the chiding nightingales, Who strive to drown the envious instruments; My spirit faints in rapturous ravishments, Lost in a flood of bliss, voluptuous, deep, Joy-piloted into the heavenly ports of sleep.
My heart is like a vine,
Full-fed with passion-springs,
And all its budding rings,
And tendrils interwine
Around my ladye dear, And bear their lavishness of vintage all the year; I bow, obeisant to her charmed sway, The sovereignty that won my soul of yore; I linger in her presence night and day, And feel a heaven around her evermore; I kneel beside her couch In chambers lone, And soft unbraid and lay her locks apart, And take her tapering fingers in my own, And press them to my lips with leaps of heart; I live for love, for love alone, and who Dare chide me for it. who dare call it folly? It is a holy thing, if aught is holy, And true, if spotless Truth herself is true; Earth cleaves to earth, and sensuous life is dear, Mortals should love mortality while here, And seize the glowing moments as they fly; Full eyes should answer eyes, warm lips should meet, And hearts enlocked to kindred hearts should beat, And all be happy in their loves until they die.
I move with silent feet,
Along the chamber sweet,
The cage that holds my dove,
The palace of my love,
O'erhung with curtains white,
That shed a chastened light, Like that which filled the sky on Dian's wedding night . The windows all are shadowed o'er with vines, Wreathing their lattices, and eglantines Full-blown and scanty-leaved, and basil pots, And mignonettes, and dear forget-me-nots;
And globy vases line the sills without,
Canaries chirp, and finches draw their cars,
And all imaginable dainty cates. And delicacies, drinking-cups of gold, Beakers with jewelled lips, and long-necked flunk* In wicker mail, and bottles broached from casks In cellars delved deep and icy cold, Select, superlative, and centuries old, Empurpled, crimson in the light of day, Its pearls dissolving in the rubious spray, Like soft affections, ecstacies divine, In spirits burned and flushed with Love's voluptuous wine.
My dear and gentle wife,
Away! my ladye wakes in deep surprise.
Alas 1 my dream is flown, And I am all alone, Alone in tears and grief, A sere and withered leaf, For autumn winds to blow, Where'er they will, around this wilderness below—
Alone in utter wol
Thk sunset beamed above the tropic isle, And bathed with beauty air and earth and sky; No faintest breeze the rich banana stirred, And even the bamboo's light and graceful plumes, And the palm's lofty crown, were motionless; When, from the guava grove, a stately pair Came forth, the beautiful and proud young queen Anaoaona, and her royal child. The idols of their tribe, they fearless roamed, For, breathed upon by them, a simple reed's Slight melody had summoned to their side, In danger's hour, a hundred champions.
They left the sports, they left the festal rites,
The good Las Casas was the Indian's friend;
Full oft the trail of the dark Indian lay
Twilight was deepening ere the royal pair Retraced the homeward trail, and on the air, Long ere they reached their palace gates, they heard The bravas of the gay Castilian, blent With the poor unsuspecting Indian's shout Of artless pleasure. In her generous soul Anacaona harboured no distrust, And, wearied, yet in tranquil faith, she left The subjects to their revel, while she sought The hammock with Nonana. Slumber sweet Lulled with its angel wing their innocent hearts.
How dread the waking! Roused by a sudden glare,
And still, above
A TALE OF CHICAGO.
BY MAJOR BICHAEDSO.N,
AUTHOR Op "ECARTE," "WACOU8TA," "THE CAHADIAN BROTHERS," "WAR Or 1812," "JACK BRAQ IB sPA1S," ETC., ETC.
(Concluded from page 354.)
It was now the middle of May. A month had elapsed since the events detailed in the preceding chapter. The recollection of the outrage committed early in April, at Heywood's farm, was fast dying away, and in the bosoms of those more immediately interested in the fate of its master, all apprehension of a repetition of similar atrocities, had in a great measure ceased. A better understanding between the commanding officer and his subordinates had arisen. Corporal Nixon was now Sergeant Nixon. Collins had succeeded to him. Le Noir and the boy, Protestant and Catholie, had been buried in one grave. Ephraim Giles had beoome a sort of factotum of Von Vottenberg, whose love of whiskey punch was, if possible, on the increase. Winnebeg, the bearer of confidential despatches to Colonel Miller, at Detroit, announcing the hostile disposition of certain Winnebagoes, had not returned. Harmony, in a word, had been restored in the Fort, when one evening, in compliance with the request of his friend, Renayne thus explained the facts of his absence, on the memorable night of the massacre.
"You Yunkee! stop Ingin when him go wigwam!" commenced Renayne, rising and imitating the action of one unsteady from intoxication. "Spose him tell'era Gubberner?"
"Oh you horrid wretch! I see it all now. How could I have been so imposed upon? You then were the drunken Indian I let out that night. Upon my word, Master Renayne, I will never forgive you for that trick."
"Yes you will, old fellow. It was the only way to save you from the scrape, but I confess I have often laughed in my sleeve since, when I reflected how completely I had deceived you."
"Hang me if you did not play your part to admiration; but the best of the jest is, that on reporting the circumstance to the commanding officer, on the following morning, he said I had acted perfectly right: so, had you known this,
when you had that scene on the parade, you might have pleaded his sanction. However, all that is over. Let us hear your story."
"The tale is soon told," began Renayne. "On that evening, when you and Van Vottenberg were so busy—the one in concocting his whiskey punch, the other in cutting up the Virginia, I was racking my brains for a means to accomplish my desire to reach the farm, where I had a strong presentiment, from the lateness of the hour, without bringing any tidings of them, the fishing party were with Mr. Hoy wood, in a state of siege, and I at length decided on what seemed to me to be the only available plan. I was not sorry to see you leave after taking your second glass, for I knew that I should have little difficulty in sewing up the Doctor, whose tumbler I repeatedly filled, and made him drink off, after sundry toasts, while he did not perceive—or was by no means sorry if he did—that I merely sipped from my own. When I thought he had swallowed enough to prevent him from interfering with my project, I bade him good night, and left him, knowing well that in ten minutes he would be too drunk to move. Instead, however, of going to bed, I hastened at once to preliminaries, having first got rid of my servant, whom I did not wish to implicate by making him acquainted with my intended absence. But, tell me, did you examine my room the next day?"
"And found nothing missing?"
"Nothing. I searched everywhere, and found only yourself wanting—the bed unrumpled, and everything in perfect bachelor order."
"And that leather dress, in which I onoe paid a visit to the camp of Winnebeg, from whose squaw, indeed, I had bought it, and which always hangs against the wall at the foot of my bed?"
"Ah! now I recollect, that was certainly not there, although I did not notice its absence then. So, so, that was the dress in which you