A SONG. A widow bird sate mourning for her love The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, TO SLEEP. SHELLEY. A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? ADONIS SLEEPING. In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth KEATS. WAITING AND WATCHING. All the long summer did she live in hope Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow, By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her heart, RUINS. I do love these ancient ruins: We never tread upon them, but we set SOUTHEY. Loved the church so well, and gave so largely to't, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday-but all things have their end. WEBSTER. MUSIC. I pant for the music which is divine, Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound, It loosens the serpent which care has bound The dissolving strain, through every vein, WOMAN'S TEARS. Hide thy tears SHELLEY. I do not bid thee not to shed them-'twere Than one tear of a true and tender heart— BYRON. THE STORY OF A VIGIL. By MARIE J. EWEN. In the darken'd chamber, so very silent, very lonely, I had watch'd for near an hour, until evening shadows fell; And she lay, asleep I thought her, and I was with her only, She so young, and death so near her! and I loved her 66 more than well." I loved her with the depth and with the power of poet natures, For she alone could understand me-she of all my friends alone; Tearfully I gazed upon her beauty's silent statue features, As she lay in her pale repose like an angel carved in stone. And I whisper'd, "Oh, my friend! all the wealth and all the sweetness Of my soul I pour'd upon you, and its altar light is moving; And my spirit will be left with a sense of incompleteness She murmur'd:-"That is like you, with your far too ardent spirit, And your power of much adoring, the which I dare not over-praise; For I too a portion of the same lonely gift inherit, And much sorrow hath it wrought me in the morning of my days. In the morning of my days, for my life is past its morning, I am young, but ere the time the shades of night are steal ing on; But my soul is now at rest, for I see the distant dawning, The rising of diviner hopes, and the coming of the sun. The glad coming of the sun through the sepulchre's dim portal, Round the setting of my earthly hopes those fairer splendours shine; On the wreck of fleeting joys I have clasp'd a joy immortal, The faith that trusted to the human I have placed on the Divine. VOL. VI. D 84 As you read the other evening the lay of that lone maiden 'I have lived, I have loved!' how I wept amid the strain; 'I have lived, I have loved!' and my soul was so griefladen, I could not answer to your questions for the smartness of the pain. A dream of my former life, as you read the strain, came o'er me. The lamp within, it hath been said, burns clearest towards the last; And in vivid strange distinctness the long-lost rose before me, And I lived in all the sweetness and the anguish of the past. My soul was ever, oh, my friend, of the joyous and the loving, In its prodigal profusion like a fountain gushing free; So I grew up in that sunlight, very happy, unbelieving · throng; But that knowledge came full early, then was joy amid my grieving, And through the silent sorrow I heard the triumph of the song. And I turn'd to those around me, and I pour'd my spirit o'er them. There was that in my rejoicing which they could not understand; I was loved, but not enough beloved,' and I felt, I stood before them, As the gleam of a distant star, or the light on far-off strand. Then there enter'd one among them: I listen'd to his praises, And I thought I saw the haven through the darkness of the night; It was nothing but the homage which beauty ever raises, light. Oh, the glad birds in the forest! Oh, that azure summer morning! Oh, the happy face of nature! Oh, the love that loved in vain! 'Twere better to have braved it down from heights of silent scorning; But my heart, for all its wrongings, was untutor❜d in disdain." Then she clasp'd my hand in hers, and she falter'd in her story, But she was calm, and only weary from speaking over much; For a smile was on her lips, and there shone a kind of glory Round her hair and brow and lovely eyes, or I fancied it as such. Then she whisper'd, "Let it pass! I will hasten to the ending, And I think, my friend, that you too know what remaineth unconfest ; Strange that all my chequer'd life, with the present truly blending, Should but form this silent harmony, this blessedness of rest. For my soul is now at peace. All the trouble of my spirit And I find that all my wasted faith is better for the moving, divine; I met you-and your sympathy, your gentleness of loving, Fill'd with overflowing sweetness all this fainting soul of mine. So like me, yet unlike me! For you were ever lonely, You never sought society, for your studies were your friends; So all your true affection was devoted to me only, For the books were harmless rivals-besides they answer'd to our ends. |