So, on the idle dreams of youth
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of Truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay;
As fair, as flitting, and as frail,
As that, which fled the Autumn gale;
For ever dead to Fancy's eye,
Be each fair form that glided by;
While dreams of love, and lady's charms,
Give place to honour and to arms!
BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.
LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream,
Which, through dark alders, winds its shaded way,
My suppliant voice is heard :-Ah! do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away.
In the recesses of the forest vale,
On the wild mountain,-on the verdant sod,
Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,-
I wander lonely, communing with God.
When the faint sickness of a wounded heart,
Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame,
I turn to thee, that holy peace in part
Which soothes the invokers of thy awful name.
O all-pervading Spirit!- Sacred beam!
Parent of life and light!-Eternal Power!
Grant me, through obvious clouds, one transient gleam
Of thy bright essence in my dying hour!
Britton's Fonthill Abbey.
WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE, 17TH FEB. 1820.
I saw him last on this Terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness;
Begirt with his Court, and in all the crowd,
Not a single look of sadness.
Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green,-
Blithely the birds were singing;—
The cymbal replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.
I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken,
But every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.
I have heard the earth on his coffin pour,
To the muffled drum's deep rolling ;
While the minute gun, with its solemn roar,
Drowned the death-bell's tolling.
The time since he walked in his glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.
We had fought the fight; from his lofty throne
The foe of our land we had tumbled,
And it gladdened each eye-save his alone
For whom that foe we humbled.
A daughter beloved-a Queen—a son—
And a son's sole child had perished ;—
And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherished.
For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness,
Like a vision throned,—as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness.
His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread,
Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift, shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.
Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,
Though the stream of time kept flowing;
When they spoke of our King 'twas but to say,
That the old man's strength was going.
He is gone at length. He is laid in dust-
Death's hand his slumbers breaking,
For the coffined sleep of the good and just,
Is a sure and blissful waking.
His people's heart is his funeral urn;
And should a sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him.
SEE April comes! a primrose coronal,
Circling her sunny temples, and her vest,
Pranked with the hare-bell and the violet,
Like a young widow, beautiful in tears,
She ushers in the Spring!
OUR native land—our native vale,—
A long-a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale
And Cheviot's mountains blue!
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song!
Farewell ye blithesome braes and meads,
Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!
The battle mound-the Border tower,
That Scotia's annals tell;
The martyr's grave—the lover's bower,
To each to all-farewell!
Home of our hearts! Our fathers' home-
Land of the brave and free!-
The sail is flapping on the foam,
That bears us far from thee.
We seek a wild romantic shore,
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Or view thy cliffs again.
But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green island of our sires.
Our native vale-our native valeA long, a last adieu !— Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue! The Inverness Courier.
WRITTEN UNDER THF HEBE OF CANOVA.
DIVINITY in stone! Yet glowing
Supremely warm, and rich, and fair;
Around a sense of sweetness throwing,
As if her roses wantoned there!
Upon that brow, so pure and soft,
Immortal Love hath set his seal;
And left, in kinder mood than oft,
A sign we cannot see-but feel!
Those eyes-those full and fixed eyes,
They cannot beam, nor glow with fire;
Or herald as the wishes rise,
The thoughts the spirit would respire;
But, passionless themselves, they wake
In us that feeling's tender strife,
Of which the sister Graces make
A busy, brilliant, span of life!
Then oh! those lips!-Those eloquent lips!
So full of love, and peace, and all,
That suffered such a dark eclipse
When erring woman doomed our fall!
Yet knowing this, whoe'er could look
Upon that marble, nor prefer,
That man the fatal apple took,
And left his heaven to live with her.
New European Magazine.
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