And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft Its enchantment around him while lingering with as mine.
No western odors wander
On the black and moaning sea,
And when thou art dead. Leander,
My soul must follow thee!
O, go not yet, my love,
Thy voice is sweet and low;
The deep salt wave breaks in above
Those marble steps below.
The turret stairs are wet
That lead into the sea.
Leander! go not yet.
The pleasant stars have set :
And still on that evening when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, will be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your
smiles-
Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!"
Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de-
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features which joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! YAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the Like the vase in which roses have once been dis hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will
bower,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
THOMAS MOORE.
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
weather, And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, sha!! claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
WHEN 'tis summer Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen, And the leaves are waving
O, then 't is sweet,
In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth
alone we love, And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 't is winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat-
O, then 't is sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring, We roamed through the greenwood together. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
O him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice-yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor coulds't thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off-
Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
When flowing cups pass swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flatnes;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confinéd,
With shriller throat shall sing
The mercy, sweetness, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
The enlarged winds that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
T last the happy day is named,
For hearts to be united,
And on that day will be fulfilled
The vows that have been plighted;
The letter comes with eager haste,
To give the information,
And underneath the broken seal
Is found an invitation.
Three maidens fair the message scan-
Its lines with meaning freighted-
And, more than outward looks suggest,
Their breasts are agitated;
Each hoped to win that promised hand,
And change her single station,
And each who sought receives at last,
Receives-the invitation!
HENRY DAVENPORT.
H, the poor shepherd's mornful fate,
When doomed to love and doomed to lan guish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks and dying sighs
My secret soul discover,
While rapture, trembling through mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those lanquid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush and modest air,
So fatally beguiling;
Thy every look, and every grace,
So charm, whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chase,
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.
WILLIAM HAMILTON.
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