TO AN INFANT SMILING AS IT AWOKE.
The following exquisite composition came into the possession of one of the Editors many years ago from a source he cannot remember, nor has he been enabled to discover who was the author, or if it has yet appeared in print. Certainly the best of our poets might be proud to claim it as his own.
AFTER the sleep of night as some still lake
Displays the cloudless heaven in reflection,
And, dimpled by the breezes, seems to break
Into a waking smile of recollection,
As if from its calm depths the morning light
Call'd up the pleasant dreams that gladden'd night-
So doth the laughing azure of those eyes
Display a mental heaven of its own:
In that illumined smile I recognise
The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown ;
Thou hast been dreaming of some previous bliss
In other worlds-for thou art new to this.
Hast thou been wafted to elysian bowers
In some blest star, where thou hast pre-existed;
Inhaled the extatic fragrancy of flowers
About the golden harps of seraphs twisted;
Or heard the nightingales of paradise
Hymn choral songs and joyous harmonies ?
Perchance all breathing life is but an essence
Of the great Fountain Spirit in the sky,
And thou hast dream'd of that transcendant presence
Whence thou hast fall'n-a dew-drop from on high--
Destined to lose, as thou shalt mix with earth,
Those bright recallings of thy heavenly birth.
We deem thy mortal memory but begun;
But hast thou no remembrance of the past,
No lingering twilight of a former sun
Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast
Shadows of unimaginable things
Too high, or deep, for human fathomings?
Perhaps, while reason's earliest fount is heightening,
Athwart thine eyes celestial sights are given,
As skies that open to let out the lightning
Display a transitory glimpse of heaven;
And thou art wrapt in visions all too bright
For aught but seraphim or infant's sight.
Emblem of heavenly purity and bliss!
Mysterious type, which none can understand!
Let me with reverence then approach to kiss
Limbs lately touch'd by the Creator's hand.
So awful art thou, that I feel more prone
To ask thy blessing than bestow mine own.
This sweet little poem was written by Miss LANDON, better known, perhaps, as L. E. L. We feel it to be the utterance of a strong emotion; it awakens our own emotions by sympathy, and that is the mission of poetry, whether it be uttered in rhymne or prose. Another charm of
GOOD Night!--what a sudden shadow
Has fallen upon the air,
I look not around the chamber,
I know he is not there.
Sweetness has left the music,
And gladness left the light,
My cheek has lost its colour;
How could he say Good night!
And why should he take with him
The happiness he brought?
Alas! such fleeting pleasure
Is all too dearly bought,
If thus my heart stop beating,
My spirits lose their tone,
And a gloom, like night, surround me,
The moment he is gone.
Like the false fruit of the lotos,
Love alters every taste;
We loathe the life we are leading,
The spot where we are placed;
We live upon to-morrow,
Or we dream the past again;
But what avails that knowledge?--
It ever comes in vain.
The following very beautiful poem appeared in The Times newspaper of November 22, 1852. The author is not known. It well deserves preservation in a collection of the best British poetry.
No sounds of labour vex'd the quiet air
From morn till eve. The people all stood still,
And earth won back a Sabbath.
There were none
Who cared to buy and sell, and make a gain,
For one whole day. All felt as they had lost
A father, and were fain to keep within,
Silent, or speaking little. Such a day
An old man sees but once in all his time.
The simplest peasant in the land that day
Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He heard
The knell of England's hero from the tower
Of the old church, and ask'd the cause, and sigh'd.
The vet'ran who had bled on some far field
Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time
With quaint addition; and the little child,
That stopp'd his sport to run and ask his sire
What it all meant, pick'd out the simple tale,—
How he who drove the French from Waterloo,
And crush'd the tyrant of the world, and made
His country great and glorious,-he was dead!
All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew
But one sad story: from the cotter's bairn
Up to the fair-hair'd lady on the throne,-
Who sat within and sorrow'd for her friend;
And every tear she shed became her well,
And seem'd more lovely in her people's eyes
Than all the starry wonders of her crown.
But, as the waters of the Northern Sea
(When one strong wind blows steady from the pole)
Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide
As eye can reach the creaming waves press on
Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops
One way, when Alpine hollows bring one way
The blast whereat they quiver in the vale,-
So millions press'd to swell the general grief
One way;-for once all men seem'd one way drawn.
Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen,
Some stay'd behind, their hearts, at least, were there The whole day through,-could think of nothing else, Hear nothing else, see nothing!
The student saw the pageant: spied from far
The long-drawn pomp which reach'd from west to east,
Slow moving in the silence; casque and plume,
And banner waving sad; the marvellous state
Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers,
With baton, or with pennon; princes, peers,
Judges, and dignities of church and state,
And warriors grown greyheaded ;—every form
Which greatness can assume or honour name,
Peaceful or warlike,-each and all were there;
Trooping in sable sorrow after him
Who slept serene upon his funeral car
In glorious rest!
A child might understand That 'twas no national sorrow; but a grief
Wide as the world. A child might understand
That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to pay
This homage to the chief who drew his sword
At the command of Duty; kept it bright
Through perilous days; and soon as Victory smiled,
Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace.
Such things, and more, the student spied as dull
Of heart were he who, hearing through the day
The doleful clang from many a tower and spire,
(As if in every College one were dead!)
Could sit with slumbering fancy; hear no strains
Of melancholy music: see no shade
Cast (as by nodding plumes) across his book,
And hiding all the sense: yea, pour no prayer
Voiceless, yet hearty as ineloquent;
Unconscious to himself of what he said :-
:-
"God, rest his gallant spirit! give him peace!
"And crown his brows with amaranth,-and set
"The saintly palm-branch in his strong right-hand!
"Amid the conquering armies of the skies
"Give him high place for ever! let him walk
"O'er meads of better asphodel; and be
"Where dwell the single-hearted and the wise,
"The saviours of their country!-faithful men,
"And loyal to their Prince, and true and brave;
"Men like himself, severely, simply good,
"Who scorn'd to be ambitious,-scorn'd the snares
"Of office, station, rank; but stood sublime
"In natural greatness
"O Father of all Spirits,-give him peace!"
Oriel College, Nov. 18, 1852.
This is one of the most beautiful of the compositions of WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, an American poet, who is said to be more popular in England than in his own country. We know not if it be so; but we can readily understand why his calm, reflective compositions,-distinguished more for gracefulness than spirit, for purity than energy, for good taste than lofty genius, and breathing more of the retreats of nature than of the haunts of man,-should not be so popular with the go-a-head" generation on the other side of the Atlantic as poets who utter strange wild thoughts in burning words, and stir the heart instead of soothing it. The following poem is one of the choicest of BRYANT'S
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