« FöregåendeFortsätt »
TO A BUST OF HOMEU.
[standing ON MT DESK.]
Homee, thou art not dead I Thou canst not die
While beats one heart on this terrestrial sphere,
That quickens to the spell of Poesy,
Or, Fancy's smile illumes its chambers drear.
Three thousand years have watched thy steady light
Guiding the minstrel band to Fame's high goal,
As Cynosura through the treacherous night,
Directs the mariner o'er the dangerous shoaL
Those filmy orbs emmove with Genius' fire;
Those pale lips speak from out the mighty past,
Of Helen's beauty, and Achilles' ire,
And Ilium's tears, and sighs, and struggles vast,
Until I hear the Grecian shouts resound,
And Troy's proud walls come tumbling to the ground. VIII.
TO MY BOOKS.
Hallowed companions! tators! ministers!
To ye I bring my overburdened heart,
Bare its deep wounds with many sighs and tears,
And bless ye while ye soothe its burning smart.
If falsehood, envy, hate, or death surround me,
Ye fortify and make my spirit strong—
If sickness fling her pallid mantle round me,
Ye speed the weary-winged hours along;
If pleasure lure me to the festive hall—
Nature too long detain me by the brink,
Ye, like kind, watchful parents, gently call
Me hither, at your sapient founts to drink.—
Oh! who would spurn the shrine which Wisdom tends—
Oh ! who could fail to love such pure and constant friends!
So dear a friend as thou I never knew—
Such truth, and faith, and love, and sympathy
From evanescent hearts I never drew,
As I have drawn from thy soul-melody.
When I am sad thou chant'st some Paynim story
Until my woe is lost in woes of eld;
When I am glad, thou sing'st of knightly glory,
Till heart and brain in magic spell are held.
And here, all day, thy voice my spirit drinks,
While reeling rapture steals along my veins,
Till every pulse inebriated sinks
Beneath the power of thy delicious strains;
And softly beatific harp-notes roll,
And seraphs sing around the altars of my soul.
Think not that I am hapless, ye who read
JOYS OF INTELLECTUAL EMPLOYMENT.
'Tis true I'm poor in what the world calls bliss;
'Tis true I have known many wounds of pride,
With which a weaker nature would have died.
'Tis true I've passed Charybdis in distress,
Yet mid the maelstrom thrilled with happiness.
We should not murmur 'gainst an earthly trial—
It throws a stronger sunlight on life's dial,
Awakes the spirit in its chrysalis,
And plumes it to the broad, bright heavens to soar.
0 God! if I could sing the bliss I've known,
While sitting in this study-room alone,
Listing the soul-waves wash the eternal shore;
If I could ring it out in one loud song,
'Twould shake the throne of grief and banish wroni;