Obrazy na stronie

There is music when summer is with us on earth,

Sent forth from the valley, the mountain, the sky; There is music where rivers and fountains have birth,

Or leaves whisper soft as the wind passeth by ; There is music in voices that gladden our homes,

In the lay of the mother, the laugh of the child ; There is music wherever the wanderer roams,

In city or solitude, garden or wild :Oh, God of Creation ! these sounds are of Thee, Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!



WHEN we are parted, let me lie
In some far corner of thy heart
Silent, and from the world apart,
Like a forgotten melody.
Forgotten of the world beside,
Cherish'd by one, and one alone,
For some loved memory of its own;
So let me in thy heart abide

When we are parted!

When we are parted, keep for me,
The sacred stillness of the night,
That hour, sweet love, is mine by right:
Let others claim thy day of thee!
The cold world sleeping at our feet,
My spirit shall discourse with thine
When stars upon thy pillow shine,
At thy heart's door I stand and beat

Though we are parted i


By FREDERICK TENNYSON. Oh! if no faces were beheld on earth, But toiling manhood, and repining age, No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth To look upon us kindly, who would wage The gloomy battle for himself alone ? Or through the dark of the o'erhanging cloud Look wistfully for light ? Who would not groan Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud ? But little children take us by the hand, And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes ; Patience and fortitude beside us stand In woman's shape, and waft to heav'n our sighs : The guiltless child holds back the arm of guilt Upraised to strike, and woman may atone With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt The damning seal when evil deeds are done.


Sweet Heaven! I do love a maiden,
Radiant, rare, and beauty-laden :
When she's near me, heaven is round me,
Her dear presence doth so bound me!
I could wring my heart of gladness,
Might it free her lot of sadness!
Give the world, and all that's in it,
Just to press her hand a minute;
Yet she weeteth not I love her;

Never dare I tell the sweet
Tale, but to the stars above her,

And the flowers that kiss her feet.

0! to live and linger near her,
And in tearful moments cheer her!
I could be a bird to lighten
Her dear heart,-her sweet eyes brighten :

Or in fragrance, like a blossom,
Give my life up on her bosom!
For my love's withouten measure,
All its pangs are sweetest pleasure;
Yet she weeteth not I love her ;

Never dare I tell the sweet
Tale, but to the stars above her,

And the flowers that kiss her feet.

THE CASTLE. A passage in a poein entitled The Earl's Return, by OWEN MEREDITH. RAGGED and tall stood the castle wall. And the squires at their sport, in the great South Court, Lounged all day long from stable to hall Laughingly, lazily, one and all. The land about was barren and blue, And swept by the wing of the wet sea-mew. Seven fishermen's huts on a shelly shore: Sand-heaps behind, and sand-banks before : And a black champaign streak'd white all thro' To a great salt pool which the ocean drew, Suck'd into itself, and disgorged it again To stagnate and steam on the mineral plain; Not a tree or a bush in the circle of sight, But a bare blackthorn which the sea-winds had wither'd With the drifting scum of the surf and blight, And some patches of gray grass-land to the right, Where the lean red-hided cattle were tether'd : A reef of rock wedged the water in twain, And a stout stone tower stood square to the main.

And the flakes of the spray that were jerk'd away
From the froth on the lip of the bleak blue sea
Were sometimes flung by the wind, as it swung
Over turret and terrace and balcony,
To the garden below where, in desolate corners
Under the mossy green parapet there,
The lilies crouch'd, rocking their white heads like mourners,
And burn'd off the heads of the flowers that were
Pining and pale in their comfortless bowers,
Dry-bush'd with the sharp stubborn lavender,
And paven with discs of the torn sunflowers,

By dimpled brook, and fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deck'd with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastime keep.
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.

THE FLOWER'S NAME. A quaint but highly poetical composition, by ROBERT BROWNING, HERE's the garden she walk'd across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince; She must have reach'd this shrub ere she turn'd,

As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurn'd,

To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brush'd the box : And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she pass'd you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie.

This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip,

Stoop'd over, in doubt, as settling its claim ;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,

Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name ? was it love or praise ?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake ? I must learn Spanish one of these days,

Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase !

But do not detain me now ; for she lingers

There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,

Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not,

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall ; Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces

Roses, you are not so fair after all !


By COLERIDGE. And this place my forefathers made for man ! This is the process of our love and wisdom To each poor brother who offends against usMost innocent, perhaps--and what it guilty ? Is this the only cure? Merciful God! Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot. Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks; And this is their best cure! Uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning, and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies,

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