« FöregåendeFortsätt »
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON
FISHWOMEN AT CALAIS. 'TIS said, fantastic ocean doth enfold
The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; But, if the Nereid sisters and their queen, Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolled, The dames resemble whom we here behold, How terrible beneath the opening waves To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, Withered, grotesque-immeasurably old, And shrill and fierce in accent! Fear it not; For they earth's fairest daughters do excel; Pure undecaying beauty is their lot; Their voices into liquid music swell, Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grotThe undisturbed abodes where sea-nymphs dwell!
BRUGES. BRUGES I saw attired with golden light, Streamed from the West, as with a robe of power: 'Tis passed away; and now the sunless hour, That slowly introducing peaceful night Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight Offers the beauty, the magnificence, And sober graces, left her for defence
Against the injuries of time, the spite
The spirit of antiquity-enshrined
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. A WINGED goddess, clothed in vesture wrought Of rainbow colours; one whose port was bold, Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought, Hovered in air above the far-famed spot. She vanished-leaving prospect blank and cold Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot, And monuments that soon must disappear! Yet a dread local recompense we found;
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal
BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. WHAT lovelier home could gentle fancy choose? Is this the stream, whose cities, heights and plains, War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the morn with pearly dews? The morn,
that now, along the silver Meuse, Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, With its gray rocks clustering in pensive shade, That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise From the smooth meadow ground, serene and still !
AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. Was it to disenchant, and to undo, That we approached the seat of Charlemagne? To sweep from many an old romantic strain That faith which no devotion may renew? Why does this puny church present to view Its feeble columns? and that scanty chair? This sword that one of our weak times might wear; Objects of false pretence, or meanly true! If from a traveller's fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day,
Then would I seek the Pyrenean breach
THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. Oh for the help of angels to complete This temple-angels governed by a plan How gloriously pursued by daring man, Studious that he might not disdain the seat Who dwells in heaven! But that inspiring heat Hath failed ; and now, ye powers ! whose gorgeous wings And splendid aspect yon emblazonings But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet For you, on these unfinished shafts to try The midnight virtues of your harmony: This vast design might tempt you to repeat Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground Immortal fabrics-rising to the sound Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!
IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF
THE RHINE. AMID this dance of objects sadness steals O'er the defrauded heart—while sweeping by, As in a fit of Thespian jollity, Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green earth reels; Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels The venerable pageantry of time, Each beetling rampart—and each tower sublime, And what the dell unwillingly reveals Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
Near the bright river's edge. Yet why repine?
HYMN FOR THE BOATMEN
By the current swept along ;
Drown the music of a song,
Where these troubled waters roar!
Bleeding on that precious rood;
Gently wound the peaceful flood,
Watching o'er the river's bed,
Else we sleep among the dead;
Let thy love its anger soothe: