« AnteriorContinuar »
IX. EARLY, RISING.-HURDIS. 1
RISE with the lark, and with the lark to bed.
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of every flower that blows.
Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps,
Soon as the sun departs. Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon
Her oriëntal vail puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed,
That nature boasts, to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous steam
Of midnight theater, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims ;
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion.
Oh! there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe per'fumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep ; or wakeful, dream
Of happinèss no mortal heart has felt,
But in the regions of romance'. Ye fair,
Like you it must be wooed, or never won;
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded features to restore : no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.
152. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
I. INVOCATION TO NIGHT.-J. F. HOLLINGS.
TOME, with thy sweeping cloud and starry vest
Mother of counsel, and the joy which lies In feelings deep, and inward sympathies, 1 James Hurdis, an English poet, born in 1763, and died in 1801.
· Soothing, like founts of health, the wearied breast. Lo! v'er the distant hiils the day-star's crest
Sinks redly burning; and the winds erise,
Moving with shadowy gusts and focble sighs Amid the reeds which veil the bitern's nest! Day hath its melody and light-the sense
Of mirth which sports round fancy's fairy mine; But the full power, which loftier aids dispense,
To speed the soul where scenes unearthly shineSilence, and peace, and stern magnificence, And awe, and throned solemnity—are thine!
II. A TWILIGHT PICTURE.-WHITTIER. The twilight deepened round us. Still and black The great woods climbed the mountain at our back: And on their skirts, where yet the lingering daj On the shürn greenness of the clearing lay,
The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung. With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred : The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle luwed; the gate Of the barn-yard creaked benēath the merry weight
Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung,
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear ;
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye,-
The few we liked, the one we loved, -
And the whüle heart is memory :
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;
Yět as the shadows round us lower,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given ;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead ;
The in-door note of in'dustry is still ;
The latch is fast ; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread:
The voiceless flowers—how quietly they shed
Their nightly odors ! and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds, that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps ;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hushed in peace : the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers, for a maid so fair :-
Oh! chat were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
V. NIGHT AT CORINTH.2_BYRON.
'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown
The cold round moon sbines deeply down :
Blue roll the waters : blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So widely, spiritually bright ;-
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee ăway,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shūre lay there Hartley Coleridge, eldest son of brilliancy of imagery, beauty of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born thought, pure English style, and at Clevedown, a small village near pleasing and instructive suggestions. Bristol, England, September 19th, He died on the 6th of January, 1849. 1796. Some of his poems are ex- : The night here described is supquisitely beautiful, and his sonnets posed to have been in 1715, when are surpassed by few in the language. Corinth, then in possession of tho His prose works are remarkable for Venetians, was besieged by the Turks.
Calm, clear, and ăzure as the air ;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves ;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling :
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill;
And the wild hum of that wild höst
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's' voice in air
In midnight call to wonted' prayer.
VI. A SUMMER'S NIGHT.-BAILEY.3
The last high upward slant of sun on the trees,
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall,
Seems to console earth for the glory gone.
Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there;
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings!
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end.
It will wake no more till the all-revealing day ;
When, like a drop of water, greatened bright
Into a shadow, it shall show itself,
With all its little týrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear. The day hath gõne to God, -
Straight-like an infant's spirit, or a mocked
And mourning messenger of grace to man.
Would it had taken me too on its wings!
My end is nigh. Would I might die outright! 1 Muěz' zin, one appointed by the 22d, 1816. He was educated in the Turks, who use no bells for the pur- schools of his native town and at pose, to summon the religious to their the university of Glasgow. His first devotions, to the extent of his voice, and most remarkable poem, "Festus," Wonted, (wủnt' ed).
appeared in 1839. His principal | Philip James Bailey, an English publications since are the “Angel poet, was born in Nottingham, April World” and “Mystic.”
So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality
The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse
Their glory, heightening to the starry blue
Of all embosoming eternity.
VII. NIGHT AND DEATH.-WHITE.
MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue ?
Yět 'nēafh a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus,' with the host of heaven came;
And lo! creätion widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mādest us blind ?
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?-
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
How beautiful this night! The balmiëst sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
this moveless scene. Heaven's ěbon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, -
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemèth it
A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene 1 Joseph Blanco White, a Spanish the magazines and periodical press. gentleman of Irish descent, who He was born in 1775, and died in 1841. came to England in 1810,and devoted · Hěs' pe răs, the cvening star, himself to literature, chiefly through especially Venus.