Each with its root stuck down like a wedge
In the bed of the marshy pool;
And wherever the waters were clear and cool,
They were fringed by the oleander,
Whose rosy petals love to be
Where they can their own beauty see
And blow where rills meander :
Or at the side of some still lake,
Where sea and sky
Gaze eye to eye,
And of each other's charms partake.
The rainbow-tinted iris,
And the slender asphodels,
Nodded gaily to each other
With a graceful easy motion;
And pouted out their lips,
Like those curious eastern shells
That have palaces to dwell ir.
At the bottom of the ocean.
The narcissus gaz'd with wonder
On his beauty in the stream;
And between his leaves and under
Glow'd the crocus' golden gleam.
And the tulip's deep-mouthed pitcher
Stood erect upon her stem,
For she knew her flowers were richer,
Though no fragrance rose from them.
Than the petals of the wild thyme
That nestled at her feet,
And the marjoram or lavender,
Though their breath is very sweet.
The poppy with his scarlet plumes
Was like a soldier tall,
But the tallest was the hollyhock,
For he rose above them all,
And with trumpets stood the columbing
As if to sound a call,
At which the flowers should wake from rest,
And into ranks should fall,
As the bugle makes the soldier start,
And the steed neigh in his stall.
2. DEATH OF THE QUEEN.
Death was fiercely beating
At life's shatter'd gate,
And scoffed at all entreating
That he awhile should wait.
And senselessness was stealing
O'er the wearied, aching brain,
And every pulse and feeling
Were numb'd by cruel pain.
The ear was dull and dim the eye,
the startled air
An awful cry of wild despair,
Which made the trembling hearers start,
And chill'd the life-blood in each heart.
But whilst they stood with tortur'd ear.
Prepared again that sound to hear,
Lo! on the queenly face a change
Had pass'd unutterably strange :
The look of pain and woe was gone;
The brow like polish'd marble shone;
The gleaming eyes were fix'd above
With a fond look of awe and love.
The hands were rais'd as if to clasp
Something beloved in their grasp;
The quivering lips essay'd awhile
To speak, but only reach'd a smile;
Then all was still: upon the breast
The folded arms sank down to rest;
The dark eyelashes, like portcullis spears,
Clos'd fast for ever o'er the gate of tears.
CCCLXXVII. ELIZA COOK, 1817—
1. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
I love it; I love it-and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize :
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart :
Not a tie will break-not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ?—A mother sat there
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour, I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear.
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide.
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim and her locks were grey,
And I almost worshipped her, when she smiled,
And turned from her bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped;
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past 'tis past!-but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow.
'Twas there she nursed me-'twas there she died And memory flows with a lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my check.
But, I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
Long parting from the hearts we love,
Will shadow o'er the brightest face;
And happy they who part, and prove
Affection changes not with place!
A sad farewell is warmly dear;
But, something dearer may be found
To dwell on lips that are sincere,
And lurk in bosoms closely bound.
The pressing hand-the steadfast sigh
Are both less earnest than the boon,
Which, fervently, the last fond sigh
Begs in the hopeful words, "Write soon!"
"Write soon!"-oh! sweet request of truth!
How tenderly its accents come!
We heard it first in early youth,
When mothers watched us leaving home.
And still, amid the trumpet-joys,
That weary us with pomp and show,
We turn from all the brassy noise,
To hear this minor cadence flow.
We part; but carry on our way
Some loved one's plaintive spirit-tune,
That, as we wander, seems to say,
"Affection lives on faith-write soon!"
CCCLXXVIII. REV. C. KINGSLEY, 1819-
THE THREE FISHERMEN.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west, as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.
For men inust work and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbour be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women were weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town.
For men must work and women must weep.
And the sooner its over the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
"They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower." Poetic Treasures.]
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