Yet fatigue I'll disdain ;-my reward I shall find;
Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize;
And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.
She'll watch to the southward ;-perhaps she will sigh,
That the way is so long, and the mountains so high;
Perhaps some huge rock in the dusk she may see,
And will say in her fondness, " that surely is he!”
Good wife, you're deceived; I'm still far from my
Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,—to-morrow I'll come.
Rev. Edward Young.
Born 1681. Died 1765.
THE fatal period, the great hour, is come,
And nature shrinks at her approaching doom;
Loud peals of thunder give the sign, and all
Heaven's terrors in array surround the ball;
Sharp lightnings with the meteor's blaze conspire,
And, darted downward, set the world on fire;
Black rising clouds the thickened ether choke,
And spiry flames dart through the rolling smoke,
With keen vibrations cut the sullen night,
And strike the darkened sky with dreadful light;
From heaven's four regions, with immortal force,
Angels drive on the wind's impetuous course,
T'enrage the flame it spreads, it soars on high,
Swells in the storm, and billows through the sky :
Here winding pyramids of fire ascend,
Cities and deserts in one ruin blend;
Here blazing volumes wafted, overwhelm
The spacious face of a far-distant realm ;
There, undermined, down rush eternal hills,
The neighbouring vales the vast destruction fills.
Hear'st thou that dreadful crack? that sound which broke
Like peals of thunder, and the centre shook?
What wonders must that groan of nature tell!
Olympus there, and mightier Atlas, fell;
Which seemed above the reach of fate to stand,
A towering monument of God's right hand;
Now dust and smoke, whose brow so lately spread
O'er sheltered countries its diffusive shade.
Shew me that celebrated spot, where all
The various rulers of the severed ball
Have humbly sought wealth, honour, and redress,
That land which heaven seemed diligent to bless,
Once called Britannia: Can her glories end?
And can't surrounding seas her realms defend ?
Alas in flames behold surrounding seas!
Like oil, their waters but augment the blaze.
Some angel, say where ran proud Asia's bound?
Or where with fruits was fair Europa crowned?
Where stretched waste Libya? Where did India's store
Sparkle in diamonds, and her golden ore?
Each lost in each, their mingling kingdoms glow,
And all dissolved, one fiery deluge flow:
Thus earth's contending monarchies are joined,
And a full period of ambition find.
And now whate'er or swims, or walks, or flies,
Inhabitants of sea, or earth, or skies;
All on whom Adam's wisdom fixed a name,
All plunge, and perish in the conquering flame.
FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy every glance and tone
When first on me they breathed and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.
Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me,
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.*
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place ;—
Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
Robert Southey.
Born 1774. Died 1843.
THE MISER'S MANSION.
THOU mouldering mansion, whose embattled side
Shakes as about to fall at every blast;
Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride,
But now the monument of grandeur past.
* The lapwing is fabulously supposed to be gifted with the power of indicating where water is to be found beneath the ground.
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