« 上一頁繼續 »
She was like summer, with her living gladness,
Her dewy eye;
Into sad hearts, her lovely life went by;
And earth grew lone; Oh, marvel not her brow is shaded,
She who made summer to her heart is gone!
THE LADY'S DREAM. From an old magazine, where it appeared anonymously. It is an admirable imitation of the style and sentiment of Hood, and the author, if it was not himself, ought to achieve as great a fame.
The lady in her bed,
Her couch so warm and soft,
For turning often and oft
And toss'd her arms aloft.
At last she startled up,
And gazed on the vacant air,
Some dreadful phantom there-
From visions ill to bear.
The very curtain shook,
Her terror was so extreme;
Kept a tremulous gleam;
"Oh me! that awful dream!
- That weary, weary walk,
In the churchyard's dismal ground;
That came and fitted round,
In every sight and sound !
“ And oh! those maidens young,
Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin,
And cheeks without a bloom :And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride · We haste to an early tomb !
"'For the pomp and pleasure of pride,
We toil like Afric slaves,
Where yonder cypress waves ;
A ground so full of graves !
6 And still the coffins came,
With their sorrowful trains and slow;
A sad and sickening show;
Of such a world of woe!
** Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
That grieve this earthly ball,
But now I dreamt of them all!
" Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;
And fill the burial-sod,
Not unmark'd of God!
- I dress'd as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
In many an ample fold; But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.
“The wounds I might have heal’d!
The human sorrow and smart ! And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart!”
She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Remorse was so extreme:
Would dream the Lady's Dream!
SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Art thou come and gone;
I am left lone, lone.
The swallow summer comes again,
To fly with thee, false as thou.
Sunny leaves from any bough.
Lilies for a bridal bed,
Pansies let my flowers be;
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS IN PRAISE OF PAN.
Our flocks from harm,
And arm in arm
Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee
Thus do we sing :
As the young spring,
By Sir Philip SIDNEY.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
AUTUMN IN SCOTLAND. A beautiful descriptive passage in the Hon. Mrs. Norton's poem The Child of the Islands. Brown Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand
Binding the harvest in a thousand sheaves; A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,
Shines on thatch'd corners and low cottage-eaves,
More lovely yet, where Scotland's soil receives
For there the scarlet rowan seems to mock
The red sea coral-berries, leaves, and all; Light swinging from the moist green shining rock
Which beds the foaming torrent's turbid fall;
And there the purple cedar, grandly tall, Lifts its crown'd head and sun-illumined stem;
And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall) Bends o'er the lake, that seems a sapphire gem Dropt from the hoary hill's gigantic diadem.
And far and wide the glorious beather blooms,
Its regal mantle o'er the mountains spread,
By many a viewless wild flower richly shed;