How sweet to think thou may'st be near, to catch my latest
To bend beside my dying bed, and close my glazing eye.
Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is given, The mother's joy, the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven;
Their fireside plaything first, and then, of their failing strength the rock;
The rainbow to their waning years, the youngling of their flock!
WRITTEN UNDER A STATUE REPRESENTING CUPID WITH A FLAMING TORCH REVERSED.
Translated from the Dutch of JAN KRULL, who followed, in all his poetical writings, the style of Cats. He belonged to the lowest ranks of society, and was originally a labouring blacksmith.
THE flaming torch to earth's cold breast the child of Venus
Which when he most essays to quench it most intensely burns.
'Tis ever thus with those who seek to change love's soaring
The greater the constraint they use, the greater is its force: So 'tis throughout the world, where love is most oppress'd and bound,
E'en there its mightiest influence, its greatest strength is
A vigorous bit of description, by GRAHAME.
LONG ere the snow-veil'd dawn, the bird of morn
His wings quick claps, and sounds his cheering call:
The cottage hinds the glimmering lantern trim,
And to the barn wade, sinking, in the drift;
The alternate flails bounce from the loosen'd sheaf.
Pleasant these sounds! they sleep to slumber change;
Pleasant to him whom no laborious task
Whispers, Arise ;—whom neither love of gain,
Nor love of power, nor hopes, nor fears, disturb.
Late daylight comes at last, and the strain'd eye
Shrinks from the dazzling brightness of the scene,
One wide expanse of whiteness uniform.
As yet no wandering footstep has defaced
The spotless plain, save where some wounded hare,
Wrench'd from the springe, has left a blood-stained track.
How smooth are all the fields! sunk every fence;
The furrow, here and there, heap'd to a ridge,
O'er which the sidelong plough-shaft scarcely peers.
Cold blows the north-wind o'er the dreary waste.
Oh ye that shiver by your blazing fires,
Think of the inmates of yon hut, half-sunk
Beneath the drift: from it no smoke ascends;
The broken straw-fill'd pane excludes the light,
But ill excludes the blast: the redbreast there
For shelter seeks, but short, ah! very short
His stay; no crumbs, strewn careless on the floor,
Attract his sidelong glance; to warmer roofs
He flies; a welcome, soon a fearless guest,
He cheers the winter day with summer songs.
Short is the reign of day, tedious the night.
The city's distant lights arrest my view,
And magic fancy whirls me to the scene.
There vice and folly run their giddy rounds;
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight
Of feign'd distress, yet have not time to hear
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps
Of gilded chariots, like the meteor eyes
Of mighty giants, famed in legends old,
Illume the snowy street; the silent wheels
On heedless passenger steal unperceived,
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round
Amid the flowery labyrinths of the dance.
But, hark! the merry catch: good social souls
Sing on, and drown dull care in bumpers deep;
The bell, snow-muffled, warns not of the hour;
For scarce the sentenced felon's watchful ear
Can catch the soften'd knell, by which he sums
The hours he has to live. Poor hopeless wretch!
His thoughts are horror, and his dreams despair;
And ever as he, on his strawy couch,
Turns heavily, his chains and fetters, grating,
Awake the inmates of some neighbouring cell,
Who bless their lot that debt is all their crime.
THE EXILE AT REST.
By JOHN PIERPOINT, an American poet.
His falchion flash'd along the Nile;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unroll'd-and froze.
Here sleeps he now alone: not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Here sleeps he now alone: the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Hath sunk; the nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
Here sleeps alone: the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his mortal form in death.
High is his couch: the ocean flood
Far, far below by storms is curl'd,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him? No.
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard there, is the seabird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The wind's deep voice, the world's low sigh.
From the pages of one of the Magazines, where it appeared anonymously.
WHERE sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep;
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far,
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn,
And water-springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale,
That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest,
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore,
Rest, rest, that shall endure,
Till time shall cease ;
Sleep that no pain shall wake,
Night that no morn shall break,
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
Brilliants.
A STILL NOONTIDE.
Beyond the cedar forests lay the cliffs
That overhung the beach, but midway swept
Fair swelling lands, some green with brightest grass,
Some golden in the sun.
Mute was the scene
And moveless. Not a breeze came o'er the edge
Of the high-heaving fields and fallow lands;
Only the zephyrs at long intervals
Drew a deep sigh, as of some blissful thought,
Then swooned to silence. Not a bird was seen,
Nor heard: all marbly gleamed the steadfast sky.
Hither Orion slowly walked alone,
And passing round between two swelling slopes
green and golden light, beheld afar
The broad grey horizontal wall o' the dead-calm sea.
Let me contemplate;
With holy wonder season my access,
And by degrees approach the sanctuary
Of unmatch'd beauty, set in grace and goodness.
Amongst the daughters of men I have not found
A more Catholical aspect. That eye
Doth promise single life, and meek obedience;
Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth)
The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl
Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn
Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously
A gentle fast (not rigorously imposed)
Would look upon that cheek; and how delightful
The courteous physic of a tender penance-
(Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed
The first fears of a bride), to beat down frailty!
How like a widow in her weeds, the night,
Amid her glimmering tapers, silent sits!
How sorrowful, how desolate, she weeps
Perpetual dews, and saddens nature's scene!
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