And were not these high words to flow But oh! with such a glazing eye, With such a curdling cheekLove, love! of mortal agony Thou, only thou shouldst speak! The wind rose high-but with it rose Beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer She wiped the death-damps from his brow, She spread her mantle o'er his breast, Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, She had her meed!-one smile in death And his worn spirit pass'd. While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave THE FISHERMAN. BARRY CORNWALL. A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, In the wild waters labouring, far from home, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare; Without the comfort, hope-with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees-its end! Eternal ocean! old majestic sea! Ever love I from shore to look on thee, And sometimes on thy biHowy back to ride, Be found beside me safe and clustering still. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. MISS BOWLES. How happily, how happily the flowers die away! The gay and glorious creatures! they neither "toil nor spin ;" Yet lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright Than ever brow of eastern queen endiadem'd with light. The young rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never pall, Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all!The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed air, Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. The happy careless creatures! of time they take no heed; Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away; Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, "would God that it were day!" And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy nature's breast; No pain have they in dying—no shrinking from decay: Oh! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! THE UNKNOWN POET'S GRAVE. L. E. LANDON. THERE is no memory of his fate, Not his the memory that makes Had left their deathless trace; None say "'twas here his burning line Was dreamed-and hence is all divine." Yet here thy step has often been, And here thy songs were sung; No:-nameless is the lowly spot No pity on it weeps ; There weeds may grow, or flowers may bloom, For this is a forgotten tomb. And yet how often those dark pines 'Twas written on those autumn leaves Of all who gaze on Tivoli, Who is there that remembers thee? That dark-eyed lady, she who taught Her fate has been thine own: Thy friends-thou wert too delicate And like words written on the sands The world it had no part in thee; Thy dreams of fame were vague and void, The mystery of a star, Whose glory lifted us from earth, The beautiful, the far! |