Page images
PDF
EPUB

Whose love was in the grave-whose hope in heaven.

Yet a fine nature must have been his own;
A sense of beauty and a strong delight
In the brave seeming of the visible world,
Whose loveliness is like a sympathy.
Winds the fair river through the vale below,
With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods
Hang the far summits with their changeful shade.
In the soft summer fields are many flowers,
Which breathe at evening on the scented wind.
Still the wild cherry trees are growing round,
Which first he planted, - yet he loved the

world

The bright-the beautiful-the glorious worldBut loved it as those love who love on earth, Only the hope that looketh up to heaven.

THE SNOWDROP.

THOU beautiful new comer,

With white and maiden brow; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and shelter'd alley Is dark with winter green; Not such as in the valley At sweet springtime is seen.

The lime tree's tender yellow,
The aspen's silvery sheen,
With mingling colours mellow
The universal green.

Now solemn yews are bending

'Mid gloomy fires around;

And in long dark wreaths descending,

The ivy sweeps the ground.

No sweet companion pledges

Thy health as dewdrops pass;

No rose is on the hedges,

No violet in the grass.

Thou art watching, and thou only,
Above the earth's snow tomb;
Thus lovely, and thus lonely,
I bless thee for thy bloom.

Though the singing rill be frozen,
While the wind forsakes the west;
Though the singing birds have chosen
Some lone and silent rest;
Like thee, one sweet thought lingers
In a heart else cold and dead,
Though the summer's flowers, and singers,
And sunshine, long hath fled :

'Tis the love for long years cherish'd,
Yet lingering, lorn, and lone;
Though its lovelier lights have perish'd,
And its earlier hopes are flown.
Though a weary world hath bound it,
With many a heavy thrall;
And the cold and changed surround it,
It blossometh o'er all.

THE ASTROLOGER.

ALAS! for our ancient believings,

We have nothing now left to believe; The oracle, augur, and omen

No longer dismay and deceive.

All hush'd are the oaks of Dodona;

No more on the winds of the north,
As it sways to and fro the huge branches,
The voice of the future comes forth.

No more o'er the flower-wreathed victim
The priest at the red altar bends :
No more on the flight of the vulture
The dark hour of victory depends.

The stars have forgotten their science,
Or we have forgotten its lore;

In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight,
We question of fortune no more.

O folly! to deem that far planets
Recorded the hour of our birth;
To glorious they are, and too lovely,
For the wo and the weakness of earth.

Now the science of fate is grown lowly,
We question of gipsies and cards ;
'Tis a question how much of the actual
The fate of the votary rewards.

"Tis the same in all ages; the future
Still seems to the spirit its home;
We are weary and worn with the present,
But happiness still is to come.

THE INDIAN GIRL.

SHE sat alone beside her hearth-
For many nights alone;
She slept not on the pleasant couch
Where fragrant herbs were strown.

At first she bound her raven hair
With feather and with shell;
But then she hoped; at length, like night,
Around her neck it fell.

They saw her wandering 'inid the woods,
Lone, with the cheerless dawn,
And then they said, "Can this be her
We call'd 'The Startled Fawn." "

Her heart was in her large sad eyes,

Half sunshine and half shade;

And love, as love first springs to life, Of every thing afraid.

The red leaf far more heavily

Fell down to autumn earth,

Than her light feet, which seem'd to move To music and to mirth.

With the light feet of early youth, What hopes and joys depart! Ah! nothing like the heavy step Betrays the heavy heart.

It is a usual history

That Indian girl could tell; Fate sets apart one common doom For all who love too well.

The proud-the shy-the sensitive,-
Life has not many such;
They dearly buy their happiness,
By feeling it too much.

A stranger to her forest home,

That fair young stranger came

They raised for him the funeral songFor him the funeral flame.

Love sprang from pity, and her arms

Around his arms she threw;

She told her father, "If he dies,

Your daughter dieth too."

For her sweet sake they set him free

He linger'd at her side;

And many a native song yet tells

Of that pale stranger's bride.

Two years have pass'd-how much two years Have taken in their flight!

They've taken from the lip its smile,

And from the eye its light.

Poor child! she was a child in yearsSo timid and so young;

With what a fond and earnest faith

To desperate hope she clung!

His eyes grew cold-his voice grew strange

They only grew more dear.

She served him meekly, anxiously,

With love-half faith, half fear.

And can a fond and faithful heart

Be worthless in those eyes

For which it beats ?-Ah! wo to those

Who such a heart despise.

Poor child! what lonely days she pass'd,
With nothing to recall

But bitter taunts, and careless words,
And looks more cold than all.

Alas! for love, that sits at home,
Forsaken, and yet fond;

The grief that sits beside the hearth,

Life has no grief beyond.

He left her, but she follow'd himShe thought he could not bear When she had left her home for him

To look on her despair.

Adown the strange and mighty stream

She took her lonely way!
The stars at night her pilots were,
As was the sun by day.

Yet mournfully-how mournfully!-
The Indian look'd behind,
When the last sound of voice or step

Died on the midnight wind.

Yet still adown the gloomy stream
She plied her weary oar;

Her husband-he had left their home,

And it was home no more.

She found him but she found in vain

He spurn'd her from his side;

He said, her brow was all too dark,

For her to be his bride.

She grasp'd his hands,-her own were cold,

And silent turn'd away,

As she had not a tear to shed,

And not a word to say.

And pale as death she reach'd her boat, And guided it along;

With broken voice she strove to raise

A melancholy song.

None watch'd the lonely Indian girl,

She pass'd unmark'd of all,

Until they saw her slight canoe
Approach the mighty Fall!*

Upright, within that slender boat
They saw the pale girl stand,
Her dark hair streaming far behind-
Upraised her desperate hand.

* Niagara.

The air is fill'd with shriek and shout-
They call, but call in vain;
The boat amid the waters dash'd-
""Twas never seen again!

We seek not the hedges where violets blow, There alone in the twilight of evening we go; They are love-tokens offer'd, when heavy with dew,

To a lip yet more fragrant an eye yet more blue. But leave them alone to their summer-soft dreamWe seek the green rushes that grow by the stream.

THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG.

Away from the meadow, although the long grass Be fill'd with young flowers that smile as we pass;

This song alludes to a well-known superstition among Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that

the young Hindoo girls. They make a little boat out of a cocoanut shell, place a small lamp and flowers within this

shine

tiny ark of the heart, and launch it upon the Ganges. If it When the hand of a beauty is deck'd from the float out of sight with its lamp stil burning, the omen is prosperous: if it sinks, the love of which it questions, is illfated.

mine.

We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers,

[blocks in formation]

O! boundaries of Europe!

O! rivers great and small!

O! islands, gulfs, and capitals!

How I abhorr'd ye all!

And then those dreadful tables

Of shillings, pence, and pounds! Though I own their greater trouble In after life abounds.

"Tis strange how memory lingers
About those early hours;
And we talk of happy childhood,
As if such had been ours.

But distance lends enchantment To all we suffer'd then; Thank Heaven, that I never Can be a child again!

FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON.

THE western coasts of India abound with a great variety of fish, of excellent quality; and a considerable population in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of catching the fish is as follows: piles or stakes, of considerable size and length, are sunk and secured at certain distances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles out to sea; these are driven or forced down by fastening boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This operation is further assisted at the same time by a number of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine productions.

BURN yet awhile, my wasting lamp, Though long the night may be; The wind is rough, the air is damp, Yet burn awhile for me.

The peepul tree beside our door,
How dark its branches wave;
They seem as they were drooping o'er
Its usual haunt, the grave.

Why was it planted here to bring
The images of death ?

Surely some gladder tree should spring
Near human hope and breath.

O dove that dwellest its leaves among,
I hear thee on the bough;
I hear thy melancholy song,

Why art thou singing now ?

(39)

All things are omens to the heart
That keeps a vigil lone,
When wearily the hours depart,
And yet night is not flown.

I see the lights amid the bay,
How pale and wan they shine;
O wind, that wanderest on thy way,
Say which of them is mine.

A weary lot the fisher hath
Of danger and of toil,

Over the wild waves is his path,
Amid their depths his spoil.

I cannot hear the wind go by
Without a sudden fear;
I cannot look upon the sky,
Nor fear that storms are near.

I look upon the sunny sea,
And think of rocks below;
Still present are the shoals to me
O'er which my love must go.

I cannot sleep as others sleep,
Night has more care than day;
My heart is out upon the deep,
I weep-I watch-I pray.

Ah, see a speck the waves among,
A light boat cuts the foam,
The wild wind beareth me his song,
Thank God, he is come home.

SCENES IN LONDON.

THE SAVOYARD IN GROSVENOR SQUARE.

HE stands within the silent square,
That square of taste, of gloom ;
A heavy weight is on the air,
Which hangs as o'er a tomb.

It is a tomb which wealth and rank
Have built themselves around-
The general sympathies have shrank,
Like flowers on high dry ground.

None heed the wandering boy who sings,

An orphan though so young;
None think how far the singer brings
The songs which he has sung.

None cheer him with a kindly look,
None with a kindly word;

The singer's little pride must brook
To be unpraised, unheard.

2c2

At home, their sweet bird he was styled,
And oft, when days were long,
His mother call'd her favourite child,
To sing her favourite song.

He wanders now through weary streets,
Till check and eye are dim;

How little sympathy he meets,
For music or for him.

Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright,
His dark eyes fill with glee,
Cover'd with blossoms snowy-white,

He sees an orange tree.

No more the toil-worn face is pale,
No faltering step is sad;
He sees his distant native vale,
He sees it, and is glad.

He sees the squirrel climb the pine,
The doves fly through the dell,
The purple clusters of the vine;
He hears the vesper bell.

His heart is full of hope and home,
Toil, travel, are no more;
And he has happy hours to come
Beside his father's door.

O charm of natural influence!
But for thy lovely ties,

Never might the world-wearied sense
Above the present rise.

Bless'd be thy magic everywhere,
O Nature, gentle mother;

How kindlier is for us thy care,
Than ours is for each other.

BEVERLEY MINSTER.

BUILT in far other times, those sculptured walls Attest the faith which our forefathers felt, Strong faith, whose visible presence yet remains; We pray with deeper reverence at a shrine Hallow'd by many prayers. For years, long years,

Years that make centuries-those dimlit aisles, Where rainbows play, from colour'd windows flung,

Have echo'd to the voice of prayer and praise;
With the last lights of evening flitting round,
Making a rosy atmosphere of hope.
The vesper hymn hath risen, bearing heaven,
But purified the inany cares of earth.
How oft has music rock'd those ancient towers,
When the deep bells were tolling; as they rung,
The castle and the hamlet, high and low,

| Obey'd the summons: earth grew near to God,
The piety of ages is around.
Many the heart that has before yon cross
Laid down the burden of its heavy cares,
And felt a joy that is not of this world.
There are both sympathy and warning here;
Methinks as down we kneel by those old graves
The past will pray with us.

THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL

AND CONE.

"WHEN the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies considerably, in different seasons; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply of water to the Falls-the spray, of course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its surface, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises from the dashing of the water against its base, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual action produces enormous icicles." - "The formation of this cone may serve to explain the origin of glaciers."

"To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top of the cone to the plain below."

We do not ask for the leaves and flowers

That laugh as they look on the summer hours;

Let the violets shrink and sigh,

Let the red rose pine and die:

The sledge is yoked, away we go,

Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snow.

Lo! the pine is singing its murmuring song,
Over our heads as we pass along;
And every bough with pearl is hung,
Whiter than those that from ocean sprung.

The sledge is yoked, away we go,

Anid the firs, o'er the soundless snow.

The ice is bright with a thousand dyes
Like the changeful light in a beauty's eyes.
Now it weareth her blush, and now
It weareth the white of her marble brow.
The sledge is yoked, and away we go,
Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow.

We are wrapp'd with ermine and sable round,
By the Indian in trackless forests found;

« PreviousContinue »