At the May-feast, thou gavest-O moment of bliss!
Thy hand to my pressure, thy lips to my kiss,-
Thou wert mine, I was thine, thou delight of my heart,
By a link that eternity never can part!
Not all unenjoyed, did the summer-rose fade-
For I brought thee a nosegay, thou beautiful maid—
We shared at the harvest, the dance and the song-
We shared the ripe clusters, nor thought the day long,-
And now that the cold tyrant Winter doth reign,
And the storms sweep the mountain and deluge the plain,
With one heart, by our fireside we sit midst the din-
In the heart is the summer, when love blooms within-
O Life's happy morning! O time of delight!--
Thou art with us, since love doth our bosoms unite,
We loved one another, we still love the same--
And we ever shall love with unchangeable flame!
Taken from an old Magazine, where it appeared without a name appended to it.
ONE of the poor and lowly,
Toilworn and oppress'd,
They bear her sadly, slowly,
The weary to her rest:
For merciless corruption, yet, yet another guest.
Not to the fields they take her,
the turf might grow;
They go not forth to make her
A grave where wild flowers blow,
And o'er her lowly bed the wind might whisper low.
Away, 'mid field and meadow,
Beneath the old church wall,
Where many a solemn shadow
From tree and spire might fall,
And summer's dews and showers so gently rain on all.
Ah, no! within the city
There is a fitter spot
For one like her, whom pity
Compassionateth not;
And there, 'mid stranger dust, her nameless bones may rot.
Of those whom stern privation
From misery's cradle rears,
Through every alternation
Of bitterness and tears;
Even early childhood shaded with a cloud that never clears.
In youth without direction,
With evil frail to cope,
And cursed in each affection
That might have led to hope;
Unaided through the paths of darkest sin to grope.
Uncared for, she hath perish'd,
A lone one on the earth,
Who might have been the cherish'd
Of some poor but happy hearth,
With heart and feelings pure and stainless as at birth.
But want and harsh denial
Had wither'd leaf and bough,
And earth brought more of trial
Than hope to soothe her brow.
Its sunlight and its shadows--what recks she of them now.
A fine passage in Mr. HORNE's poem of that name.
'Tis always morning somewhere in the world,
And Eos ever rises, circling
The varied regions of mankind. No pause
Of renovation and of freshening rays
She knows, but constantly her love breathes forth
On field and forest, as on human hope,
Health, beauty, power, thought, action, and advance.
All this Orion witnessed, and rejoiced.
The turmoil he had known, the late distress
By loss of passion's object, and of sight,
Were now exchanged for these serene delights
Of contemplation, as the influence
That Eos wrought around for ever, dawn'd
Upon his vision and his inmost heart,
In sweetness and success. All sympathy
With all fair things that in her circle lay,
She gave, and all received; nor knew of strife;
For from the sun her cheek its bloom withdrew,
And, ere intolerant noon, the floating realm
Of Eos-queen of the awakening earth—
Was brightening other lands, wherefrom black Night
Her faded chariot down the sky had driven
Behind the sea. Thus from the earth upraised,
And over its tumultuous breast sustain'd
peace and tranquil glory-oh, blest state!-
Clear-brow'd Orion, full of thankfulness,
And pure devotion to the goddess, dwelt
Within the glowing Palace of the Morn.
Another passage from the anonymous volume already cited.
I COULD not think what gave her that fine beauty,
Until I saw her dead: for in her face
There was no line a sculptor would have prized.
And yet methought all heaven was in that face!
I could not look into it and retain
A single hold of earth: and when I gazed
Within her eyes they drank out all my soul,
And left me as a statue with the gleam
Of adoration in its stony front.
But when I saw her dead upon her bier
I turn'd with loathing, and I could have rush'd
Down from this upper earth into my grave
To be where she was not. Ill-favour'd thing!
(what a dream I've had that she was fair!
Either it was a dream or that stretch'd form
Held nothing of the beauty I adored.-
That form was all one settled ashy hue;
No colour came and went, no wreathing thought
Moved o'er its pale pinch'd lips. I stole one look
Into its staring eyes;-they knew not me,
Nor spoke one thought-those eyes that had so oft
Enfolded all my soul within their lids.
I touch'd its cold cheek-God! my blood shrank back
And stopp'd its pulses like a frozen brook.
There was no trace of that fine something there
That flow'd in all the motions of her being.
If that still form was hers, it was not her. For through her frame there ran a wondrous speech E'en when she spoke no word. External things Leapt eagerly into her centring breast,
And came again all dripping with the dew
Of her new thought. And when she spoke it seem'd The utterance of a company of minds,
That even in condemnation gives support
To that which is condemn'd. Most erring souls
When they approach'd her could not hold their sins,
But, child-like, blabb'd them out, and came away
Ennobled and amazed to find what good
Sprang up when she took off their loads of sin.
Yet had she no great gift that one could see.
I thought it was her beauty that I loved,
And sat whole hours pondering it. I saw
Two silver fountains welling in her eyes-
A constant flowing up of crystal thought
That kept them ever clear though trouble stirr'd.
A dreamy summer day was in her hair;
And fancies chased each other o'er her face
Like skiey shadows on a field of grain.
And when I touch'd her hand, O then methought
I stood before the east at early dawn
And saw the crowding beauty of the morn-
Young day still in its cradle of the sea
Rocking and dreaming-streaks of fringy light
That moved like curtains-and the lonely star
Like a young mother watching the baby day,
With half her love on it, half on her lord
Coming from his far voyage in the east.
A poem fill'd her veins, and when she moved,
Listen'd, or read, or lifted up her eyes,
It lived along the surface of her being,
In wavy lines of beauty.
Ay, even in the midst of all this beauty!
Whate'er it was that went-life, spirit, soul-
It took all with it, left not one fair shred.
The lines that hemm'd her living, hemm'd her dead,
And still I look'd for beauty, but could find
Only lost beauty's secret in dead lines.
TO THE SKELETON OF A FOOT.
The following beautiful stanzas, which would not disgrace the pen of a Byron, appear to have been written on seeing the articulated bones of a female foot, in the window of a fashionable bootmaker (Mr. Dowie), to whom they were sent anonymously.
O FLESHLESS fragment of some female form !
Of nature's workmanship the last and best— Which once with life's mysterious fire was warm; What impious hand disturb'd thy place of rest, And in a glassy slipper thee attired,
Loath'd by the many, by the few admired?
The calm observers of the works of God
In thy anatomy his wonders trace
With purer pleasure than, when silken-shod,
The smirking fool beheld thy mincing pace,
And faultless symmetry, which made him sigh,
Though from thee now he turns his ogling eye.
Let those whose folly seeks to draw a line
Of broad distinction between dust and dust, Thy plebeian, or thy noble caste divine!
They cannot:-God, immutable and just, Alike to all his heavenly image gave;
'Tis man that makes the monarch and the slave.
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