« AnteriorContinuar »
"Whate'er thy lot,--Whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly,--kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of GOD.
" A bruised reed he will not break;
He wounds to heal !
* Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
To fall no more.
" Now, Traveller in the vale of tears !
Pursue thy flight.
46 There is a calm for those who weep,
Low in the ground;
“ The Soul, of origin divine,
A star of day!
“ The SUN is, but å spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE.” THE LYRE.
" AH! WHO WOULD LOVE THE LYRE!"
W. B. STEVENS.
Where the roving rill meander'd
Down the green retiring vale, Poor, forlorn ALCÆUS wander'd,
Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Breath'd a melancholy grace,
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung, And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung: While, at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon, And all the stars, around his head, Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.
Lyre! O Lyre ! my chosen treasure,
“ Solace of my bleeding heart ! “ Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
“ We must now for ever part: « For in vain thy poet sings, « Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings;
“ The Muse's wretched sons are born
" To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
- That which ALEXANDER sigh'd for,
“ That which CÆSAR's soul possess'd, 66 That which heroes, kings, have died for,
“ Glory !-animates my breast : “ Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
“ Pour their death-defying notes ; «« To arms !' they call: to arms I fly, “ Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die!
“ Soft!--the blood of murder'd legions
“ Summons vengeance from the skjes ; “ Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
“ All in awful judgment rise ! “O then, innocently brave,
66 I will wrestle with the wave; “Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail, “ And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.