« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of
Navarre! Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never
shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor
spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms
be bright: Ho! burghers of St Genevieve, keep watch and ward to
night, For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath
raised the slave, And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of
the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre !
LINES ON A SKELETON.*
If social love that ege employed, * This poem was found about the year 1823 near a skeleton in the Museum of the College of Surgeons, London The curator sent it to the “Morni g Chronicle." A reward of fifty guineas was offered in vain to discover the writer,
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,
shall be for ever bright
And tread the palace of the sky.
Wears kindred smile, or kindred line;
They say my father's brow, is mine;
The other's likeness in my face,
That finds some long forgotten trace.
I heard them name my father's death,
His home and tomb alike the wave; And I was early taught to weep,
Beside my youthful mother's grave. I wish I could recall one look,
But only one familiar tone ;
I should not feel so all alone.
İn search of love I cannot find,
Are whisper'd by the evening wind :
So clear, so beautiful above,
With something of an answering love.
Look from those distant stars on me ?
message to thy child from thee? Dost thou pine for me, as I pine
Again a parent's love to share ? I often kneel beside thy grave, And pray to be a sleeper there.
. The vesper bell !—'tis eventide,
I will not weep, but I will pray: God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou
Alone canst be the orphan's stay ! Earth's meanest flower, heaven's mightiest star,
Are equal to their Maker's love, And I can say, “ Thy will be done,” With
eyes that fix their hopes above.
CCCXLVIII. JOHN KEBLE, 1805–
REFLECTIONS ON FLOWERS.
Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you
lies To fill the heart's fond view ?
In chỉdhood's sports companions gay,
Memorials prompt and true.
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
Of happy wanderers there.
What passions rage and glare !
Your first and perfect form ye show,
In the world's opening glow.
be found if ye are sought,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
And come again to-morrow.
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
By all but lowly eyes;
He taught us how to prize.
As when he paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd :
Ye fear no vexing mood.
That daily court you and caress,
And heaven thy morn will bless."
With none to watch her and caress,
Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air,
Silly, and wild, and out of place;
Entranced the soul in its desolate graco.