4. ARAB MAIDEN'S SONG.
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee:
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flow'ring in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come, thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sun-shine through the heart;
As if the soul that moment caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then.
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath'd and shone
New as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!
Then fly with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place.
Then fare thee well! I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
CCXCVIII. EBEN. ELLIOTT, 1781—1847.
Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbine flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once moro
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
CCXCIX. REGINALD HEBER, 1783-1826.
1. THE SEASONS.
When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;
When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,
The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade;
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp display.
Shall man, the lord of Nature, expectant of the sky,
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny?
No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,
Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour
Thee.
The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade,
The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the
The winds be lull'd—the sun and moon forget their old decree,
But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.
O feeble boast of transitory power!
Vain, fruitless trust of Judah's happier hour!
Not such their hope, when through the parted main
The cloudy wonder led the warrior train:
Not such their hope when through the fields of night
The torch of heaven diffus'd its friendly light:
Not, when fierce Conquest urg'd the onward war,
And hurl'd stern Canaan from his iron car;
Nor, when five monarchs led to Gibeon's fight,
In rude array, the harness'd Amorite :
Yes-in that hour, by mortal accents stay'd,
The lingering Sun his fiery wheels delay'd;
The Moon, obedient, trembled at the sound,
Curb'd her pale car, and check'd her
mazy round!
Let Sinai tell-for she beheld his might,
And God's own darkness veil'd her mystic height.
(He, cherub-born, upon the whirlwind rode,
And the red mountain, like a furnace glow'd :)
Let Sinai tell-but who shall dare recite
His praise, his power,-eternal, infinite?—
Awe-struck, I cease; nor bid my strains aspire,
Or serve his altar with unhallow'd fire.
From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny ?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story!
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole!
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.
CCC. JANE TAYLOR, 1783-1824.
So, so, you are running away, Mr Fly,
But I'll come at you now, if you don't go
There, there, I have caught you, you can't get away:
Never mind, my old fellow, I'm only in play.
Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill'd the poor fly,
You have pinch'd him so hard, he is going to die:
His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand;
There, now he is fallen down dead in your hand!
I hope you are sorry for what you have done :
You may kill many flies, but you cannot make one.
No, you can't set it up, as I told you before,
It is dead, and it never will stand any more.
Poor thing! as it buzz'd up and down on the glass,
How little it thought what was coming to pass!
For it could not have guessed, as it frisk'd in the sun,
That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun.
The spider, who weaves his fine cobweb so neat,
Might have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat;
But the poor flies must learn to keep out of your way,
As you kill them for nothing at all but your play.
CCCI. ANN TAYLOR, 178*-18**.
A VERY SORROWFUL STORY.
I'll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee;
A true and a pitiful one it shall be,
About an old man, and a poor man was he.
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