And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
Miserere Domine ,
Hark! the cadence dies
away, On the quiet moonlight sea : The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Miserere Dominie !
A SUNNY shaft did I behold
From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled
Within that shaft of sunny mist; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst !
And thus he sang : “ Adieu! adieu !
Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms, they make no delay :
The sparkling dewdrops will not stay.
Sweet month of May,
We must away;
Far, far away!
To day! to day !
CHORAL SONG.
FROM "ZAPOYLA." UP, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!
To the meadows trip away. 'Tis you
must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay;
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse :
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay :
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
FROM THE PICCOLOMINI, OR FIRST PART OF
WALLENSTEIN.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
THE cloud doth gather, the green-wood roar,
The damsel paces along the shore; The billows they tumble with might, with might; And she flings out her voice to the darksome
night; Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ;
The world it is empty, the heart will die,
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky;
Thou Holy One, call thy child away!
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day-
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.
SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS
OB. ANNO DOM. 1088.
N°
O more 'twixt conscience staggering and the
Pope,
Soon shall I now before
my
God
appear,
By him to be acquitted, as I hope ;
By him to be condemned, as I fear.-
Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed,
Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said :
I see a hope spring from that humble fear.
All are not strong alike through storms to steer
Right onward. What? though dread of threatened
death
And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ?
That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice
didst start, Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, Or not so vital as to claim thy life ; And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true !
Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own,
Judge him who won them when he stood alone,
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare-
O first the age, and then the man compare !
That age how dark! congenial minds how rare !
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!
No throbbing hearts awaited his return !
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,
He only disenchanted from the spell,
Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey ?
The ascending day-star with a bolder eye
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn !
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry
The spots and struggles of the timid dawn;
Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn
The mists and painted vapors of our morn.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND,
FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF
BUTLER'S BOOK OF THE CHURCH.
I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray,
And heed them more than auglit they do or say ; The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ; These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth !
made up of impudence and trick,
With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick,
Rome's brazen serpent-boldly dares discuss
The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!
And with grim triumph and a truculent glee
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,
That made an empire's plighted faith a lie,
And fixed a broad stare on the Devil's eye-
(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart
To stand outmastered in his own black art !)
Yet
Enough of — ! we're agreed, Who now defends would then have done the deed. But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, Who but must meet the proffered hand half way When courteous
POET. (Aside.)
(Rome's smooth go-between !)
Laments the advice that soured a milky queen-
(For “ bloody” all enlightened men confess
An antiquated error of the press ;)
Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds,
With actual cautery staunched the church's wounds.
And tho' he deems that with too broad a blur
We damn the French and Irish massacre,
Yet blames them both—and thinks the Pope might
What think you now ? Boots it with and shield
Against such gentle foes to take the field
Whose beck’ning hands the mild Caduceus wield ?
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