Sidor som bilder
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I LovED her when she looked from me,
And hid her stifled sighs:

I loved her too when she did smile
With shy and downcast eyes,

The light within them rounding “like
The young moon in its rise.”

I loved her!—Dost thou love no more,
Now she from thee is flown,

To some far distant—distant shore,
Unfetter'd, and alone 7

Peace, peace I know her: she will come
Again, and be mine own.

A kiss—a sigh—a little word We changed, when we did part; * No more: yet read I in her eyes The promise of her heart; And Hope (who from all others flies) From me will ne'er depart.

So here I live—a lover lone,
Contented with my state,

More sure of love, if she return,
Than others are of hate:

And if she die —I too can die, Content still with my fate.

PARENTS’ LOVE. Young Love! what have thy dreams above. Thy hope, thy gladness, thy despair, That with the parent's painful love May dare compare 7

Thy hopes are like the misty cloud;
Thy gladness like the shrinking stream;

Thy loud despair all over-loud;
Thy life—a dream

But deeper than the unfathomed Main, The parent's voiceless love e'er lies;

And oh! the dread, the death, the pain, When all hope dies


OH ! had I nursed, when I was young,
The lessons of my father’s tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew,
From all he saw and others knew,)
I might have been—ah, me !
Thrice sager than I e'er shall be.
For what saith Time !
Alas! he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth !

The thoughts now budding in my brain

- The wisdom I have bought with pain–

l The knowledge of life’s brevity—

Frail friendship—false philosophy–

And all that issues out of wo—

Methinks, were taught me long ago!
Then what says Time 2

Alas! he but brings back the truth

Of all I heard (and lost () in youth !

Truths!—hardly learned, and lately broughl
From many a far forgotten scene!

Had I but listened, as I ought,
To your voices, sage—serene,

Jh what might I not have been
In the realms of thought !

HIS LOVE IS HIDDEN. His love is hidden, like the springs Which lie in Earth's deep heart below; And murmur there a thousand things, Which naught above may hear or know.

'Tis hid, not buried Without sound, Or light or limit, night and day,

It (like the dark springs underground)

* - -i--

l Runs ebbs not and ne'er can decay.


HE is bound for the wars,
He is armed for the fight,
With iron-like sinews,
And the heart of a knight t
All hidden in steel,
Like the sun in a cloud,
And he calls for his charger,
Who neigheth aloud;
And he calls for his page,
Who comes forth like the light
And they mount and ride off,
For the Brescian fight.

Count Gaston de Foix
Is the heir of Narbonne,
But his page is an orphan,
Known—link’d unto none;
The master is young,
But as bold as the blast;
The servant all tender—
Too tender to last :
A bud that was born
For the summer-soft skies,
But, left to wild winter,
Unfoldeth, and dies

“Come forward, my young one,
Ride on by my side:
What, child, wilt thou quell
The Castilian pride 7”
Thus speaks the gay soldier,
His heart in his smile,
But his page blushes deep—
Was it anger ?—the while.
Was it anger ? Ah, no :
For the tender dark eye
Saith—“Master, for thee
I will live, I will die P’

They speed to the field,
Storm-swift in their flight,
And Breschia falleth,
Like fruit in a blight;
Scarce a blow for a battle
A shout for her fame:
All's lost—given up
To the sound of a name !
But Ravenna hath soldiers,
Whose hearts are more bold,
Whose wine is all Spanish,
Whose pay is all gold.

So he turns, with a laugh
Of contempt for his foe,
And now girdeth his sword,
For a weightier blow.
Straight forward he rideth
*Till night's in the sky,
When the page and the master
Together must lie.
Where loiters the page 7
Ha! he hangeth his head,
And, with forehead like fire,
He shunneth the bed!

“Now rest thee, my weary one
Drown thee in sleep.
The great sun himself
Lieth down in the deep;
The beast on his pasture,
The bird on his bough,
The lord and the servant,
Are slumberers now.”
“I am wont,” sighed the page.
“A long watching to keep;
But my lord shall lie down,
While I charm him to sleep,

Soon (cased in his armor) Down lieth the knight,

And the page he is tuning His cittern aright :

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Then—onward they ride
Under clouds of the vine;
Now silent, now singing
Old stories divine;
Now resting awhile,
Near the cool of a stream :
Now wild for the battle,
Now lost in a dream :
At last—they are thridding
The forest of pines,
And Ravenna, beleaguer'd
By chivalry, shines'
e - e &
Ravenna Ravenna |
Now “God for the right !”
For the Gaul and the Spaniard
Are full in the fight.
French squadrons are charging,
Some conquer, some reel;
Wild trumpets are braying
Aloud for Castile !
Each cannon that roareth
Bears blood on its sound,
And the dead and the dying
Lic thick on the ground.

Now shrieks are the music
That's borne on the gust,
And the groan of the war-horse
Who dies in the dust:
Now Spaniards are cheered
By the “honor” they lovel
Now France by the flower
That bloometh above;
And, indeed, o'er the riot,
The steam, and the cloud,
Still the Oriflamme floateth-
The pride of the proud :
What ho! for King Louis?
What ho! for Narbonne?
Come, soldiers 'tis Gaston
Who leadeth ye on!

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Oh, the bellowing thunders | The shudders—the shocks : When thousands 'gainst thousands Come clashing like rocks When the rain is all scarlet, And clouds are half fire, And men's sinews are snapped Like the threads of a lyre? When each litter's a hearse, And each bullet a knell— When each breath is a curse, And each bosom—a hell ! - - - Mourn, Soldiers—he's dead Î The last heir of Narbonne : The bravest—the best But the battle is won 1 The Spaniards have flown To their fosse-covered tent; And the victors are left To rejoice and lament! They still have proud leaders, Still chivalry brave; But the first of their heroes Lies dumb in the gravel

They bear him in honor;
They laurel his head :

But, who meets the pale burthen,
And drops by the dead 7

The Page 7 No–the Wom AN!
Who followed her love,

And who'll follow him still
(If it may be)—above;

Who'll watch him, and tend him,
On earth, or in sky;

Who was ready to live for him— Ready to die!

. . . A month has flown by,
On the wings of the year;
And a train of sad maidens
Droop after a bier:
No crown on the coffin–
No name on the lid—
Yet the flow’r of all Provence

Blanche—Countess—and heiress-
Who loved like the sun,

Lies at last by the side
Of the heir of Narbonnel

. . . Oh Courage dest always
Pay blood for a name 7
True Love' must thou evermore
Die for thy fame?
*Twere sweet—could it be—
That the lover should dwell
In the bosom (a heaven 1)
He loveth so well:
But, if not—why then, Death,
Be thou just to his worth,
And sweep him at once
From the scorn of the earth!


CourAge —Nothing can withstand
Long a wronged, undaunted land;
If the hearts within her be
True unto themselves and thee,
Thou freed giant, Liberty
Oh! no mountain-nymph art thra,
When the helm is on thy brov.,
And the sword is in thy hard,
Fighting for thy own goos' land 1

Courage!—Nothing e”.r withstood
Freemen fighting for their good;
Armed with all their father’s fame
They will win and wear a name
That shall go to endless glory,
Like the gods of old Greek story,
Raised to heaven and heavenly wo. A,
For the good they gave to earth.

Courage —There is none so poor,
(None of all who wrong endure,)
None so humble, none so weak,
But may flush his father's cheek;
And his Maidens dear and true,
With the deeds that he may do.
Be his days as dark as night,
He may make himself a light.
What though sunken be the sun,
There are stars when day is done

Courage —Who will be a slave,
That hath strength to dig a grave,
And therein his setters hide,
And lay a tyrant by his side?
Courage 1–Hope, howe'er he fly
For a time, can never die
Courage, therefore, brother men I
Cry “God t and to the fight again!’


SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come—tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing !
How many smiles —a score ?
Then laugh, and count no more,
For day is dying !

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure

We dream: do thou the same :
We love—for ever;
We laugh; yet few we shame-
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies:
Then—hope and happy skies

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PAINTERs—Poets—who can tell
What Beauty is—bright miracle?
Sometimes brown and sometimes white,
She shifts from darkness into light,
Swimming on with such fine ease,
That we miss her small degrees,
Knowing not that she hath ranged,
Till we find her sweetly changed.

They are poets false who say
That Beauty must be fair as day,
And that the rich red rose
On her cheek for ever glows,
Or that the cold white lily lieth
On her breast, and never flieth.
Beauty is not so unkind,
Not so niggard, not so blind,
As yield her favor but to one,
When she may walk unconfined,
Associate with the unfettered Wind
And wander with the sun.
No; she spreads her gifts, her grace,
O'er every color, every face.
She can laugh, and she can breathe
Freely where she will—beneath
Polar darkness, tropic star,
Impoverished Delhi, dark Bahár,
And all the regions bright and far,
Where India’s sweet-voiced women are

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CoAE hither Let thou and I
*Mount on the dolphin, Pleasure,
And dive through the azure airl
Would’t not be fine—would’t not be rare,
To live in that sweet, sweet sea, the air–
That ocean which hath no measure,
No peril, no rocky shore,
But only its airv, airy streams,
nd its singing stars, and its orbed dreams,)
For ever and evermore 1

Of its wild and its changing weather
What matter—how foul or fair 7
We will ever be found together:
Ah! then, sweet Love, what care, ,
Whether we haunt on the earth or air
In ocean or inland stream f
Or are lost in some endless, endless dream?
Or are bodiless made, like the tender sprite
Of Love, who watch'd me but yesternight,
With moon-flowers white on her whiter brow,
And smiled and sighed,
In her sad sweet pride,
As Thou, fair girl | dost now.


In earlier days, in happier hours,
I watched and wandered with the Sun:
I saw him when the East was red;
I saw him when the day was dead—
All his earthly journey done
Looks of love were in the West,
But he passed—and took no rest!

O'er the immeasurable blue, -
Across the rain, amid the blast,
Onward and onward, like a God,
Through the trackless air he trod,
Scattering bounties as he passed
By the portals of the West—
And never shut his eyes in rest!

Oh, how—in those too happy hours—
How deeply then did I adore
The bright unwearied sleepless Sun,
And wish, just thus, my course to run-
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
My deeds thus good, thus known, thus bright,
Thus undisturbed by rest or night.

But now—since I have heard and seen
The many cares that trouble life,
The evil that requiteth good,
The benefits not understood,
Unfilial, unpaternal strife,
The hate, the lie, the bitter jest—
I feel how sweet are night and rest

And, oh! what morning ever look’d
So lovely as the quiet eve, -
When low and fragrant winds arise,
And draw the curtains of the skies,
And gentle songs of summer weave—
Such as between the alders creep,
Now, and sooth my soul to sleep!


WAGUE Mystery hangs on all these desert places !
The fear which hath no name, hath wrought a spell !

Strength, courage, wrath—have been, and left no traces !
They came—and fled : but whither ? Who can tell ?

We know but that they were—that once (in days When ocean was a bar 'twixt man and man)

Stout spirits wandered o'er these capes and bays, And perished where these river waters ran,

Methinks they should have built some mighty tomb,
Whose granite might endure the century’s rain–
Cold winter, and the sharp night winds, that boom
1 *-* :

* : *-- ~-t-ta- - -1. ------------ *

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