Or songs of maids, beneath the moon With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Whose part, in all the pomp that fills Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. COME, take our boy, and we will go Before our cabin-door; The winds shall bring us, as they blow, And we will kiss his young blue eyes, Songs that were made of yore: And thou, while stammering I repeat, Thy country's tongue shalt teach; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet Than my own native speech: Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise I'm glad to see my infant wear Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, By his white brow and blooming cheek, Come talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, Outshine the beauty of the sea, White foam and crimson shell, I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, A sight to please thee well: Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,That seat among the flowers. And I will learn of thee a prayer, To Him who gave a home so fair, The God who made, for thee and me, THE FIRMAMENT. Ay! gloriously thou standest there, With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, Far, far below thee, tall gray trees The eagle soars his utmost height, Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. Thou hast thy frowns-with thee on high The storm has made his airy seat, Beyond that soft blue curtain lie His stores of hail and sleet. Thence the consuming lightnings break, There the strong hurricanes awake. Yet art thou prodigal of smiles Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern The glory that comes down from thee, The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way. Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The meek moon walks the silent air. The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast, May thy blue pillars rise. I only know how fair they stand And they are fair—a charm is theirs, That earth, the proud green earth, has not, With all the forms, and hues, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, Oh, when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us then Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast, |