Page images
PDF
EPUB

My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning;

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

2. OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;-
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces ;—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CCLXXXV. CHARLES LLOYD, 1775–1839.
THE FIRST OF MAY, 1795.

'Tis May! once more the laughing meads rejoice,
Once more the salutary zephyrs play,

Once more the grove's gay tenants tune their voice
To hail the lustre of the vernal day.

The quivering wave in gay meander flows,
The silken insect skims the silver stream,
The azure violet, and the pale primrose,

On every green bank negligently gleam.
Brighter the lustre of the glowing skies,

And brighter still as noon-tide hours advance;
The painted landscape beams with deeper dies,
And rays more potent thro' light æther glance.
But what, alas! avails the jocund day?
To uniform distress-'tis never May!

CCLXXXVI. DERMODY, 1775-1802.

ON HIMSELF.

To pleasure's wiles an easy prey,
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.
O stranger! if thy wayward lot

Through folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flower on his head.
For he, by this cold hillock clad,

Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling had,

To soothe all sorrows but his own.

For he by tuneful fancy rear'd,

(Though ever dumb he sleeps below,)
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,

And gave a tear to every woe.
Oh! place his dear harp by his side,
(His harp, alas! his only hoard ;)

The fairy breeze at even tide

Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.

CCLXXXVII. SIR A. BOSWELL, 1775-1822.

GOOD NIGHT.

Good night and joy be wi' ye a';

Your harmless mirth has charmed my

May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw!
In sorrow may ye never part!

heart;

My spirit lives, but strength is gone;
The mountain fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,
And in your deeds I'll live again!

When on yon muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha shewed himself a better man,

Or fiercer waved the red claymore?
But when in peace-then mark me there—
When through the glen the wanderer came.
gave him of our lordly fare.

I

I gave him here a welcome hame.

The auld will speak, the young maun hear;

Be cantie, but be good and leal;

Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear;
Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,

I'll see you triumph ere I fa';

My parting breath shall boast you mine-
Good night and joy be wi' you a'.

CCLXXXVIII. JOHN LEYDEN, 1775-1811.

SCOTLAND.

Land of my fathers!--though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear;
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot;
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit;
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;---
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs,
With unatonéd blood of Gambia's sons:
No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is sought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.
Free as the lark that carols o'er his head,
At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And, whistling loud, directs the mining share:

Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.

CCLXXXIX. HORACE SMITH, 17**—18**.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY.

And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's street three thousand years ago;
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy,-
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune:
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features.

Tell us, for doubtless thou canst recollect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame : Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden,

By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade;
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing
In human blood, and horrors past revealing.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass:

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled or knuckled,

For thou wert dead and buried, and enbalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled;
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great Deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old, that History's pages
Contained no record of its early ages!

Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;
But pr'ythee tell us something of thyself,-
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house!

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,
What hast thou seen, what strange adventures number'd?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold;

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown thy dusty cheeks have rolled.
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ?
What was thy name and station, age and race ?
Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!

Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence,

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »