« FöregåendeFortsätt »
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
THE BUNDLE OF STICKS.
A good old Man, no matter where,
This good old man, who long had lain
He called his children round his bed, And with a feeble voice he said : “ Alas, alas, my children dear, “ I well perceive my end is near; “ I suffer much, but kiss the rod, “ And bow me to the will of God, “ Yet ere from you I'm quite removed, “ From you whom I have always loved ; “ I wish to give you all my blessing, “ And leave you with a useful lesson ; “ That when I've left this world of care, “ Each may his testimony bear, “ How much my latest thoughts inclined, “ To prove me tender, good, and kind ! “ Observe that faggot on the ground, " With twisted hazel firmly bound.” The children turned their eyes that way, And viewed the faggot as it lay; But wondered what their father meant ; Who thus expounded his intent:“ I wish that all of you would take it, “ And try if any one can break it."
Obedient to the good old man, They all to try their strength began : Now boy, now girl, now he, now she, Applied the faggot to their knee ; They tugged and strained, and tried again, But still they tugged and tried in vain : In vain their skill and strength exerted; The faggot every effort thwarted ; And when their labour vain they found, They threw the faggot on the ground.
Again the good old man proceeded, To give the instruction which they needed : “ Untwist,” says he, “the hazel bind, “And let the faggot be disjoined.” Then stick by stick, and twig by twig, The little children and the big, Following the words their father spoke, Each sprig and spray they quickly broke :
« There, father!” all began to cry,
THE AFRICAN. Wide over the tremulous sea,
The moon spread her mantle of light, And the gale, gently dying away,
Breathed soft on the bosom of night.
On the forecastle Maratan stood,
And poured forth his sorrowful tale ; His tears fell unseen in the flood,
And his sighs passed unheard on the gale;
“ Ah wretch !” in wild anguish he cried,
From country and liberty torn !
Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne.
Through the groves of Angola I strayed,
Love and hope made my bosom their home; There I talked with my favourite maid,
Nor dreamed of the sorrows to come.
From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,
My cries echoed loud through the air; There were fury and wrath on his tongue,
He was deaf to the voice of despair.
Accursed be the merciless band,
That his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand,
That was severed from all I held dear.
Flow, ye tearsądown my cheeks ever flow;
Still let sleep from my eyelids depart, And still may the arrows of wo,
Drink deep of the stream of my heart.
But, hark ! o'er the silence of night,
My Adila's accents I hear;
I see her loved image appear.
Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides,
As the mist that hangs light on the wave, And fondly her lover she chides,
Who lingers so long from his grave.
“ Oh Maratan! haste thee,” she cries,
“Here, the reign of oppression is o'er; “ The tyrant is robbed of his prize,
“And Adila sorrows no more.” Now sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view; O! stay thee-my Adila, stay!
She beckons, and I must pursue. To-morrow the white man, in vain,
Shall proudly account me his slave; My shackles I plunge in the main,
And rush to the realms of the brave !"
THE MISER AND PLUTUS.
“ Had the deep earth her stores confined, “This heart had known sweet peace of mind. “But virtue's sold. Good gods! what price “ Can recompense the pangs of vice? “O bane of good ! seducing cheat! “Can man, weak man, thy power defeat ? “Gold banished honour from the mind, 6. And only left the name behind; “Gold sowed the world with every ill; “ Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill :