Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, And last I thought of that fair isle which sent I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way. Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stoneA rugged road through rugged Tiverton. And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, Where will this dreary passage lead me to? This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked-but saw a far more welcome sight. Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, The barley was just reaped; its heavy sheaves The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. I saw where fountains freshened the green land, With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, Went wandering all that fertile region o'er Rogue's Island once-but when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead. Beautiful island! then it only seemed. A lovely stranger; it has grown a friend. Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth, And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong: Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked And grew profane, and swore, in bitter scorn, Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, And I have seen-not many months ago An eastern Governor in chapeau bras And military coat, a glorious show! Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! 'Twas a great Governor; thou too shalt be Great in thy turn, and wide shall spread thy fame And swiftly; furthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name. And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, Then we will laugh at winter when we hear The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. THE NEW MOON. WHEN, as the garish day is done, The new moon's modest bow grow bright, Few are the hearts too cold to feel The sight of that young crescent brings And childhood's purity and grace, The captive yields him to the dream And painfully the sick man tries Most welcome to the lover's sight For prattling poets say, That sweetest is the lovers' walk, And tenderest is their murmured talk, And there do graver men behold And thoughts and wishes not of earth Like that new light in heaven. OCTOBER. Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! In the gay woods and in the golden air, In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, THE DAMSEL OF PERU. WHERE olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. |