« FöregåendeFortsätt »
She too essay’d to deck the waste
On Como's lake the evening star
A foreign land is now her choice,
And then the gay and glittering crowd
Above she sees the sky's blue glow,
Thus seized and speechless had she stood,
The stranger ne'er forgets, then how should she?
-eFROM PHILIP WAN ARTEVELDE.
REPOSE OF THE HEART.
The heart of man, walk it which way it will, Sequester'd or frequented, smooth or rough, Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks, Or mid the clang of trumpets and the march Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt, Its hour of truce, its instant of repose, Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek The food of its affections—still must slake Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure, And pleasant to behold.
APPROACH OF MORNiNG.
The gibbous moon was in a wan decline, And all was silent as a sick man's chamber. Mixing its small beginnings with the dregs Of the pale moonshine and a few faint stars, The cold uncomfortable daylight dawn'd; And the white tents, topping a low ground-fog, Show'd like a fleet becalm'd.
ARTEVELDE'S LOVE FOR ADRIANA.
To bring a cloud upon the summer day Of one so happy and so beautiful,— It is a hard condition. For myself, I know not that the circumstance of life In all its changes can so far afflict me, As makes anticipation much worth while. But she is younger, of a sex beside Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire, More sudden and more perishable too; So that the gust wherewith the one is kindled Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair . As fair as heaven to look upon as fair As ever vision of the virgin blest That weary pilgrim, resting at the fount Beneath the palm, and dreaming to the tune Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal. It was permitted in my pilgrimage, To rest beside the fount beneath the tree, Beholding there no vision, but a maid Whose form was light and graceful as the palm, Whose heart was pure and jocund as the fount, And spread a freshness and a verdure round. This was permitted in my pilgrimage, And loth I am to take my staff again. Say that I fall not in this enterprise— Still must my life be full of hazardous turns, And they that house with me must ever live In imminent peril of some evil fate. —Make fast the doors; heap wood upon the fire; Draw in your stools and pass the goblet round, And be the prattling voice of children heard. Now let us make good cheer—but what is this 1 Do I not see, or do I dream I see A form that midmost in the circle sits Half visible, his face deform'd with scars, And foul with blood —Oh yes, I know it—there Sits DANGER with his feet upon the hearth. (Pauses for some time, and then resumes in a livelier tone.)
Still for myself, I fear not but that I,
GREATNESS AND SUCCESS.
HE was one Of many thousand such that die betimes, Whose story is a fragment known to few. Then comes the man who has the luck to live, And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances, And deem there's ne'er one in dangerous times Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endow’d Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others Have had their fortunes founder'd by a chance, Whilst lighter barks push'd past them; to whom add A smaller tally, of the singular few, Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace. The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
THAN Lord de Vaux there’s no man sooner sees Whatever at a glance is visible ; What is not, he can never see at all. Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points, But never solving questions: vain he is— It is his pride to see things on all sides, Which best to do he sets them on their corners. Present before him arguments by scores Bearing diversely on the affair in hand, He'll see them all successively, distinctly, Yet never two of them can see together ; Or gather, blend, and balance what he sees To make up one account; a mind it is Accessible to reason's subtlest rays, And many enter there, but none converge; It is an army with no general, An arch without a key-stone. Then the other, Good Martin Blondel-Vatre—he is rich In nothing else but difficulties and doubts. You shall be told the evil of your scheme, But not the scheme that’s better. He forgets That policy, expecting not clear gain, Deals ever in alternatives. He's wise In negatives, is skilful at erasures, Expert in stepping backwards, an adept At auguring eclipses. But admit His apprehensions, and demand, what then 1 And you shall find you’ve turn'd the blank leaf
REPENTANCE AND IMPROVEMENT.
He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
ARTEVELDE'S CHARACTER OF HIS WIFE.
She was a creature framed by love divine For mortal love to muse a life away In pondering her perfections; so unmoved Amidst the world's contentions, if they touch'd No vital chord nor troubled what she loved, Philosophy might look her in the face, And like a hermit stooping to the well That yields him sweet refreshment, might therein See but his own serenity reflected With a more heavenly tenderness of hue ! Yet whilst the world's ambitious empty cares, Its small disquietudes and insect stings, Disturb’d her never, she was one made up Of feminine affections, and her life
Was one full stream of love from fount to sea.
ARTEvelDF’s vision of His wife, THE NIGHT BEFORE his DEATH.
, Touchi Ng this eye-creation;
What is it to surprise us!.....
Dejected I had been before: that sight
In white, as when I saw her last, laid out
CHARACTER OF ARTEVELDE, BY THE DUKE OF
FAMINE IN A BESIEGED CITY.
I PAID a visit first to Ukenheim,
The man who whilom saved our father's life,
He pluck'd aside the curtain of the couch,
--FROM EDWIN THE FAIR.
THE VOICE OF THE WIND.
The wind, when first he rose and went abroad Through the vast region, felt himself at fault, Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wasture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind, He wooed the several trees to give him one. First he besought the ash; the voice she lent
From God or man
Fitfully with a free and lashing change
DUNSTAN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS TEMPTATIONS.
T I but denounce Loves on a throne, and pleasures out of place. I am not old; not twenty years have fled Since I was young as thou; and in my youth I was not by those pleasures unapproach'd Which youth converses with.....
When Satan first
Attempted me, ’twas in a woman's shape;
CALMNESS AND RETROSPECTION.
A such En and judicial calmness holds Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed, The picture of the past presents itself Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen In his last moments by a drowning man. Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf: Time and the elements conspired its fall; The worm hath eaten out the tenderer parts, And left this curious anatomy Distinct of structure—made so by decay. So, at this moment, lies my life before me, In all its intricacies, all its errors— And can I be unjust 3
A SOLILOQUY OF LEOLF.
HERE again I stand, Again and on the solitary shore Old ocean plays as on an instrument, Making that ancient music, when not known 4 That ancient music, only not so old As He who parted ocean from dry land, And saw that it was good. Upon mine ear, As in the season of susceptive youth, The mellow murmur falls—but finds the sense Dull'd by distemper; shall I say—by time ! Enough in action has my life been spent Through the past decade, to rebate the edge Of early sensibility. The sun Rides high, and on the thoroughfares of life I find myself a man in middle age, Busy and hard to please. The sun shall soon Dip westerly,–but oh! how little like Are life's two twilights' Would the last were first, And the first last! that so we might be soothed Upon the thoroughfares of busy life Beneath the moonday sun, with hope of joy Fresh as the morn,--with hope of breaking lights, Illuminated mists and spangled lawns, And woodland orisons and unfolding flowers, As things in expectation. Weak of faith ! Is not the course of earthly outlook, thus Reversed from Hope, an argument to Hope— That she was licensed to the heart of man For other than for earthly contemplations, In that observatory domiciled For survey of the stars 1
This life, and all that it contains, to him Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams Fill'd with book-wisdom, pictured thought and love That on its own creations spends itself. All things he understands, and nothing does. Profusely eloquent in copious praise Of action, he will talk to you as one Whose wisdom lay in dealings and transactions; Yet so much action as might tie his shoe Cannot his will command ; himself alone By his own wisdom not a jot the gainer. Of silence, and the hundred thousand things 'Tis better not to mention, he will speak, And still most wisely.
DUNSTAN ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTher.
Why did I quit the cloister? I have fought The battles of Jehovah ; I have braved The perfidies of courts, the wrath of kings, Desertion, treachery, and I murmur'd not, The fall from puissance, the shame of flight, The secret knife, the public proclamation,And how am I rewarded ? God had raised New enemies against me, from without The furious Northman,—from within, far worse, Heart-sickness and a subjugating grief. She was my friend—I had but her—no more, No other upon earth—and as for heaven, I am as they that seek a sign, to whom No sign is given. My mother: Oh, my mother! .
EVENING IN AUSTRALIA.
It is a summer eve—the gorgeous west Lights into flame the ocean's heaving breast; The sun has rested from his march on high, But left his glowing banner in the sky,_ And, far and wide, is flung its crimson fold O'er clouds that float in purple and in gold, Or, piled around his rich pavilion, lie In thousand shapes to fancy's curious eye. The very air is radiant with the glow ; The billows dance in liquid light below ; The splendours rest upon the woods of pine, And jewell'd mountains in their brightness shine; While earth sends flashing back the glory lent, In thousand colours, to the firmament.
The falcon pauses, in his midway flight, And turns him, eastward, from the dazzling light; Along the valleys strides the vast emu, And o'er the waters wanders the curlew ; The pelican, upon his dizzy steep, Looks proudly down along the glowing deep : While herons spread their plumes o'er coral graves, Or fall, like snow-drifts, on the buoying waves. Far off, the white-winged eagle sails on high, And nestles half-way 'twixt the earth and sky, Above the archer's ken and arrow's flight, Rock'd on the Eucalyptus' towering height, Whose healing leaves weep balsam on the ground, And fling their sighs of fragrance all around. O'er many an inland lake, with swelling breast, And scarlet-painted beak, and golden crest, The mourning swan in dark-eyed beauty rides, Or spreads his jetty plumage o'er the tides,< Along whose banks resounds the far halloo Of tribes that chase the graceful kangaroo, Or lurk for vengeance in some covert way And rush from ambush on their startled prey.
In light canoes, along the purple seas. The natives sport, like swallows in the breeze; Glide where the porpoise rocks himself to sleep, But shun the dolphin, where he stirs the deep; Or lead the measured music of the oar Where the small billows break upon the shore, Flow to the beach, like joys that will not stay,
Sculpture, Australia, The English Helicon, and numerous contributions to the annuals and literary magazines. Some of his pieces are very pleasing and harmonious. The best of them are “poems of the affections,” descriptive of domestic incidents and feelings, upon which he writes with taste, simplicity, and tenderness.
Then ebb again, like happiness, away.
—oVENICE, THE WIDOW.
ANn still that strange old city of the deep,