THE HUSK AND THE GRAIN. Found in a number of Hood's Magazine, where it appeared anonymously. WEEP! woman, weep! drop thy tears of agony, He, who at morning cheer'd and sustain'd thee, Crawling, they suck the lips that gave thee pleasure; Cruelly they pierce the eyes of love and light: Feast on the neck on which thou lay'st enraptured, Sweetly entranced through all the hours of night. Rigid is the tongue on which thy soul linger'd; Weep! woman, weep! drop thy tears of agony, Hush! widow, hush! stay thy tears of agony, ; He whom thou mournest never touch'd the sod Raise! widow, raise! the eye of faith and gladness,Behold, thou poor heart, the gentleness of God! He, who at evening, sitting beside thee, Brighter than stars is the light that pervades him, Angels have ask'd to be his dear companion, Still thou must have his watchfulness and care, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. By GERALD MASSEY. THERE lives a voice within me, a guest-angel of my heart, And its sweet lispings win me, till the tears a-trembling start; Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody, Night's starry tendernesses dower with glory evermore, yore; But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sunbursts shine, And there be million hearts athirst for Love's immortal wine. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. If faith, and hope, and kindness pass'd, as coin, 'twixt heart and heart, How, thro' the eye's tear-blindness, should the sudden soul upstart! The dreary, dim, and desolate, should wear a sunny bloom, And Love should spring from buried Hate, like flowers o'er Winter's tomb. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. Were truth our uttered language, Angels might talk with men, And God-illumined earth should see the Golden Age again; The burthen'd heart should soar in Mirth like Morn's young prophet-lark, And Misery's last tear wept on earth, quench Hell's last cunning spark. For this world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; Lo! plenty ripens round us, yet awakes the cry for bread, The millions still are toiling, crusht, and clad in rags, unfed! While sunny hills and valleys richly blush with fruit and grain, But the paupers in the palace rob their toiling fellow-men. Dear God! what hosts are trampled 'mid this killing crush for gold! What noble hearts are sapp'd of love! what spirits lose life's hold! Yet a merry world it might be, opulent for all, and aye, With its lands that asks for labour, and its wealth that wastes away. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flow'r-lips of the sod The happy Birds that hymn their raptures in the ear of God The summer wind that bringeth music over land and sea, Have each a voice that singeth this sweet song of songs to me This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; THE DEATH OF THE POET. A passage in SHELLEY'S exquisite poem, Alastor; or the Spirit of Solitude. WHEN on the threshold of the green recess The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death Did he resign his high and holy soul To images of the majestic past, That paused within his passive being now, Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe Reclined his languid head, his limbs did rest, The hovering powers of life. Hope and despair, The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still: The stagnate night :-till the minutest ray Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart. An image, silent, cold, and motionless, As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. VOL. V. L 75 Even as a vapour fed with golden beams A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever, O, for Medea's wondrous alchymy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam For life and power, even when his feeble hand Lifts still its solemn voice:-but thou art fled- |