204

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

MOORE.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

AIR: "Stevenson."

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, -
There's nothing true but heaven.

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,

There's nothing bright but heaven.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we 're driven;

And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way,
There's nothing calm but heaven.

Moore.

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
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? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live

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,
While thou, beloved one, art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pain.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive

206

HUNTING-SONG FOR 1839.

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet alive.

So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

MRS. KEMBLE.

HUNTING-SONG FOR 1839.

YE hunters of New England

Who bear the rusty guns

Your fathers shot the redcoats with,
And left them to their sons!
With all your firelocks blaze away
Before the bucks are gone,

As you aim at the game

In the woods of old Naushon,

Where the shot are flying right and left.
In the woods of old Naushon.

Our sportsmen are proverbial
Among the ducks and loons,
And greatly feared of quadrupeds,
From mammoths down to coons.
With double barrels loaded high,
Their triggers both are drawn,
As they clang and they bang

In the woods of old Naushon,

Where the bucks are leaping through the leaves
In the woods of old Naushon.

THE BUGLE-HORN.

New England's trusty sportsmen
Shall leave their wives so dear,
To hunt with our brave Governor
For many a happy year.

Then, then, ye gallant gentlemen,
When ancient corks are drawn,
Fill the toasts to the host

In the hall of old Naushon,

While the wine is flowing bright and free

In the hall of old Naushon.

HOLMES.

207

THE BUGLE-HORN.

OH, who does not love the bugle-horn?

How sweet are its tones on the breezes borne !

They seem like the voice of a spirit to be,

Breathing its heavenly melody.

What a lovely morn is this to blend

Its music with that which the forests lend!

The sunlight breaks through the leaves of green,
And softly rests on the limbs between,

And the gale of autumn has checked its career,
While the hills re-echo the cadence clear.
How thrillingly sweet the notes float along,
And the sheen of the ocean still bears them on,

As calmly wrapped in an emerald bed,

It sleeps in peace, for the storm spirit has fled.

So

pure and clear in repose it seems

Like the face of a sleeper who sinless dreams;

And the crash in the distance that's brought to my ear Is caused by the leap of the forest deer.

208

1835.

COME TO THE SPORTS, ETC.

At the sound of my bugle he 's up and away:
No music to him is the huntsman's lay.
Oh, Death, when he comes, let it be such a morn!
From its tenement here when my spirit is borne,
May it pass like the notes of my bugle-horn!

W. H. H.

W. H. H. introduced the bugle into NAUSHON woods. His instrument still belongs to one of my grandchildren. We have lately tried to reproduce the effect of it at the hunt of 1883.

COME TO THE SPORTS OF OUR WAVE-CIRCLED ISLE.

COME to the sports of our wave-circled isle,
Come when the forest is changing;

By the starry light of an autumn night,
The deer through the woods are ranging.

The hoar-frost fringes the moss-covered tree,
The wind through the boughs is sighing;
Though its leaves are sear with the waning year,
A buck in their shade is lying.

The hues of summer are gone from the hill,
But the sunshine around it is streaming;
With a living light the forest is bright,
Where the doe in her lair is dreaming.

These are the glories of Nature's decay,
She fades with no tinge of sadness;
O'er her scarlet bowers, o'er the dying flowers,
The fawns are leaping in gladness.