« AnteriorContinuar »
DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.
Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I,
How shall I praise them, or how take rest! There is not room under all the sky
For me that know not of worst or best, Dream or desire of the days before, Sweet things or bitterness, any more. Love will not come to me now though I die,
As love came close to you, breast to breast.
I shall never be friends again with roses ;
As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire ; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ;
I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.
Day, in melting purple dying ;
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness ! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken; Though thy softness but deceive me, Say thou ’rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent !
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!
Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.
In a look if death there be,
The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
shine, The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,
The music burning at heart like wine,
These things are over, and no more mine.
These were a part of the playing I heard
Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,
Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
The wine and leaven of lovely life.
BY THE ALMA RIVER.
I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
Do as the world doth, say as it saith ;
To feel you tread it to dust and death
Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life gives and the years let go, The wine and money, the balm and leaven, The dreams reared high and the hopes brought
low, Come life, come death, not a word be said ; Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?
WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, – that “soldier" toy ; Look where father's picture stands,
Father, that here kissed his boy
By the Alma River !"
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk;
Chance-poised victory's bloody work; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol !
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
Willie, all to you and me
How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow Is that spot, whate'er it be,
stronger, Where he stands — no other word
As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! Stands- God sure the child's prayers heard — How shall I weer, when I can watch no longer ! Near the Alma River.
Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still? Willie, listen to the bells
Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth Ringing in the town to-day ; That's for victory. No knell swells
Gazeth through tears that makeitssplendordull; For the many swept away,
For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,
My cup of happiness is all too full.
Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Till the morning comes again ;
Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Till the third dread morning tell
Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and Who they were that fought and — fell
Flies to its haven of securest rest !
Poor the bed is, - poor and hard ;
What shall I do with all the days and hours Dreaming of us two at home;
That must be counted ere I see thy face? Or, beneath the starry dome,
How shall I charm the interval that lowers Digs out trenches in the dark,
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Where he buries Willie, mark ! Where he buries those who died
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence Willie, Willie, go to sleep ;
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Faster, and send news of joy ;
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, When I need not shrink to meet
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare
O, how or by what means may I contrive In some eyes - child, say that
To bring the hour that brings thee back moro prayer
near ? Once again, - a different one, Say, “O God! Thy will be done
How may I teach my drooping hope to live By the Alma River."
Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
While thou, beloved one! art far from me. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee,
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Gently compel and hasten thy return !
Through these long hours, nor call their min. Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy utes pains. staying,
I will this dreary blank of absence make Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends,
A noble task-time ; and will therein strive though dear,
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake Compensate for the grief thy long delaying
More good than I have won since yet I live. Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
So may this doomed time build up in me Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; So may my love and longing hallowed be, When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,
And thy dear thought an influence divine. And silence hangs on all things like a spell !
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE
DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his
bride; But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to
sea ; And the croun and the pund were baith for me!
For aught that ever I could read,
in his ee,
Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!"
THE BANKS O'DOON.
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie
YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ?
wrack; How can ye chant, ye little birds,
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie And I sae weary, fu'o' care ?
dee? Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
Or why do I live to say, Wae's me!
My father argued sair, — my mother didna speak, Departed
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like - never to return.
to break; Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
was in the sea; And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, And my fause luver stole my rose,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Till he said, “ I’m come back for to marry thee !"
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me? When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; hame,
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; And a' the warld to sleep are gane ;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. When my gudeman lies sound by me.
LADY ANNE BARNARD
AULD ROB MORRIS.
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, My father died; and I, the peasant-born, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And, with such jewels as the exploring mind And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; From those twin jailers of the daring heart, She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
And lured me on to those inspiring toils But 0, she's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird,
By which man masters men! For thee, I grew And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! yard;
For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
And every Muse such attributes as lend The wounds I must hide that will soon be my And passion taught me poesy,
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
of thee, dead.
And on the painter's canvas grew the life The day comes to me, but delight brings me Of beauty ! - Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
Men called me vain,
some, mad, — I heeded I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
not; And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. But still toiled on, hoped on, — for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee !
The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 0, how past describing had then been my bliss, And sent them to thee, such a tribute, lady, As now my distraction no words can express ! As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
- appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things
It had created - yea, the enthusiast's name, CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy DEFENCE.
That very hour - when passion, turned to wrath, PAULINE, by pride Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould The tempters found me a revengeful tool The evil spirit of a bitter love
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
The strawberry-leaves were red and sear;
When, pausing on the windy hill, I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
The hill that overlooks the sea, Old gossipis tell, - how maidens sprung from You talked confidingly to me, kings
Me whom your keen, artistic sight Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, Has not yet learned to read aright, like Death,
Since I have veiled my heart from you, Lerels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook And loved you better than you knew.
LORD EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
LINDA TO HAFED.
FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."
You told me of your toilsome past;
You did not see the bitter trace
“How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
And we might live, love, die alone ! Far from the cruel and the cold,
Where the bright eyes of angels only
A paradise so pure and lonely !
The passing smile her cheek put on;
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; And, bursting into heartfelt tears,
Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right,We part — forever part — to-night! I knew, I knew it could not last, 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past! O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die !
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
O misery! must I lose that too?
You walk the sunny side of fate ;
Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth,