« AnteriorContinuar »
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western Still gather strength, and force unwilling
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide.
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pic- The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry tured here,
Thine are those charms that dazzle and Thou transitory flower, alike undone
But when contending chiefs blockade the
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Contracting regal power to stretch their Through tangled forests and through dan
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are free,
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Where beasts with man divided empire
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
The wealth of climes where savage nations To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind; Why have I stray'd from pleasure and re
To seek a good each government bestows? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find; Her useful sons exchanged for useless With secret course which no loud storms
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightening as they
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
In barren, solitary pomp repose?
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main,
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?
Then the forms of the departed
Come to visit me once more.
He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
And with them the Being Beauteous
With a slow and noiseless footstep
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
ALL yesterday I was spinning,
And the dream that I spun was so lengthy,
I heeded not cloud or shadow
Or the humming-bees, or the swallows,
I took the threads for my spinning,
And a flickering ray of sunlight
Was woven in here and there.
The shadows grew longer and longer,
But I could not leave my spinning,
How the silent day had flown.
At last the gray shadows fell round me, And the night came dark and chill, And I rose and ran down the valley, And left it all on the hill.
I went up the hill this morning,
To the place where my spinning lay,— There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remain'd of my dream to-day.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
THE DAY IS DONE.
THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
A feeling of sadness and longing,
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
For, like strains of martial music,
SONNET ON SLEEP.
COME sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re lease,
The indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair doth at me
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
SPOKEN BY GARRICK AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747.
WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
And let the day be time enough to mourn
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the
Never let rising sun approve you liars
To add more grief to aggravate my
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
Each change of many-color'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain; His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast. Then Jonson came, instructed from the
To please in method, and invent by rule; His studious patience and laborious art,
And never wake to feel the day's dis- By regular approach, essay'd the heart;
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays; For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.