STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY, ON READING ROMEO AND JULIET. FROM THE GERMAN. Or love and sorrow, 'tis a peerless tale!— I'll share the fear that makes thy pure cheek pale; To mortals there is given a fleeting life: A life!-Ah! no; a wild, vain, hurrying dream !— A deep, dark, restless, ever-foaming stream! 'Tis true, that they who love, are seldom born To blast its beauty ere the leaves increase. Dumb sorrow o'er them waves her dark, depressing wing. But let the faint heart yield him as he may, Danger sits powerless on Love's steady breast; The lovers shrink not in the evil day;— They are afflicted-but are not opprest. To die together, or victorious live That first and holiest vow, 'tis theirs to give ; They care not though the grave their bridal bed should be ! It may be, that if love's expanding flower Is forced to close before the storm's keen breath, That closing may protract the blooming hour, Which is so short in all that suffers death. The silence, and the sorrow, and the pain, May nourish that which they attack in vain. The lowly flame burns longest.-Humble sadness Is kindlier to love's growth than free unvaried gladness. But oh! how glorious shone their ruling star, Which carried them with budding loves to heaven; Whom angels welcomed in bright realms afar, With a full cup, which scarce to taste was given, While any remnant of terrestrial sin Had power to stain the holy draught within! They died:-Young love stood by them calmly sighing, And fanned, with his soft wing, the terrors of their dying. Read not of Juliet, and her Romeo, With tragic trembling, and uplifted hair; Be mild, fair maid, and gentle in thy woe, As in their death were that most innocent pair. A. W. S. TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY. O, Holy Spirit! oft when eve Hath slowly o'er the western sky Her gorgeous pall begun to weave Of gold and crimson's richest dye, I've thought the gentle gales thy breath, The murmuring of the grove thy voiceAnd heaven above, and earth beneath, In thee seemed to rejoice. Sweet visions then, that sleep by day, Around the sun's descending throne; What though the idle wreath would fade Not less the task would soothe my mind. Nor thought on aught that crossed my bliss, And borne to other worlds of thine, Forgot the pangs of this. But this was all in earlier days, When boyhood's hopes were wild and high, And eaglet-like, fixed my gaze Where glory's sun blazed through the sky; But fate and circumstance forbade The noble, though presumptuous flight; Those hopes are blasted and decayed By disappointment's blight. My soul is daring now, as then, Though fate denies its strong desire- The stirring voice that cries 'aspire!' And, aye, some demon in my sight Displays what wreaths for others bloom, The fame that gilds their life with light, The halo that surrounds their tomb; 'And gaze, presumptuous fool!' he cries, Unhonoured-blest thou ne'er shalt be'But pine for ever, there to rise 'Where springs no flower for thee.' Oh, Poesy! thou too hast now In swift succession, bright and fair; Whenever, now, I seek the bowers, My gloomy bosom's joyless cell, No ray of thine illumines more, Which once could guide my spirit well O'er every ill to soar. By all the intense love of thee Which fires my soul, and thrills my frame ! F By tears thou giv'st thy words to be, And by a yet unvanquished will, ZARACH. EVENING. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave, Not softer on the western wave The golden lines of sunset glow. Then all, by chance or fate removed, And life is like a fading flower, When morning sheds its gorgeous dye, That turns not, at its eve, to heaven. New Times. |