They wave empurpled, or, in rainbows dyed, When clears the ship for fight, and hope of peace hath pass'd. Pale though the reeking city's dusky pall, The lambs are awake, the birds sing in the brake, Man mingles his voice with the winds that rejoice And the bell's iron tongue the deep question hath rung, "In this hour shall devotion be wanting?" All is life-all is light—all is wakefulness round, New suns o'er every moment fling, New worlds to life each moment spring, The heavens laugh out with a joyous voice- Hears thousand stars rejoice, And into music breaking, Pours along the listening skies, Melody that never dies; New suns, new worlds, in swift succession born, Each hour Thou lookest upon, To Thee is a new dawn, Eternity to Thee one bright, rich, teeming morn. Mount then, ye birds! roll, waves-your vapoury sail Sigh earth, enwrapt-man, lift thy soul with aweAll things, adore-fulfil your nature's law! Mount to your God-mount upward-higher still, And thou, bright day, whose earliest accents rise A DEATH SCENE. By Miss BRONTE, sister of the Author of Jane Eyre. O DAY! he cannot die, O Sun, in such a glorious sky, He cannot leave thee now, While fresh west winds are blowing, And all around his youthful brow Edward, awake, awake Thy golden evening gleams Warm and bright on Arden's lake Arouse thee from thy dreams! Beside thee, on my knee, That thou, to cross the eternal sea, Wouldst yet one hour delay. I hear its billows roar- But no glimpse of a further shore Believe not what they urge Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, It is not death, but pain That struggles in thy breast; Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again- One long look, that sore reproved me And, with sudden check, the heaving Paled at length, the sweet sun setting; Then his eyes began to weary, But they wept not-but they changed not Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged not- So I knew that he was dying- THE DREAMS OF OLD. By MARY ANNE Browne. THE dreams of old have faded, To try their power once more. What our fathers deem'd a boon; Yet for the parted glory They shed on mortal mould, Think gently of the fantasy That framed the dreams of old. Where are the fairy legions That peopled vale and grove, Who does not know they were but dreams, Where is the high aspiring Who now would seek the planets, VOL. VI. E 84 To the beggar, who, leaving his wallet, shall sit, What boots it to me, that my name shall appear On a stone, by some scholar decipher'd and spelt? For the flowers which, they say, shall be strewn on my bier, 'Twere better, methinks, could their fragrance be felt. Posterity!-that which, perchance, may not be Be warned that you never need hope to illume My grave with your torch: dear philosophers, see, How I toss thro' the window the cost of my tomb! ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. An Ode in honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By Jонn Dryden. 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne: Hiş valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound. (So should desert in arms be crown'd :) The lovely Thais by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. |