« PoprzedniaDalej »
Then, O my brothers, trust and love,
A golden country lies before us,
And truth and beauty doming o'er us,
CURIOSITY. From Pride shall have a Fall, a Comedy, by the Rev. Dr. CROLY.
CURIOSITY! True, lady, by the roses on those lips, Both man and woman would find life a waste But for the cunning of-CURIOSITY! She's the world's witch, and through the world she runs, The merriest masker underneath the moon ! To beauties, languid from the last night's rout, She comes with tresses loose, and shoulders wrapt In morning shawls; and by their pillow sits Telling delicious tales of-lovers lost, Fair rivals jilted, scandals, smuggled lace! And then they smile, and turn their eyes, and yawn, And wonder what's o'clock, then sink again; And thus she sends the pretty fools to sleep.
She comes to ancient dames-and stiff as steel,
She sits by ancient politicians, bowed
DOWN INTO THE GRAVE.
By EBENEZER ELLIOTT.
Drop, drop into the grave;
Drop, drop into the grave.
Drop, drop into the grave !
The birds in spring will sweetly sing,
That death alone is sad ;
That death alone is sad;
'Tis death alone that's sad.
What then ? We two have both lived through
The sunshine and the rain;
Who sent his sun and rain !
The sunshine and the rain.
Race after race of leaves and men
Bloom, wither, and are gone;
So life and death roll on ;
Will life and death roll on.
How like am I to thee, Old Leaf!
We'll drop together down;
We'll drop together down.
We'll drop together down!
Drop, drop into the grave, Old Leaf,
Drop, drop into the grave:
Drop, drop into the grave.
Drop, drop into the grave!
THE TAPESTRIED CHAMBER.
And the twilight shadows fall,
O’ the lonely haunted hall.
For the faintest footsteps tread, As it echoes o'er its oaken floor,
Seems a voice from the shrouded dead.
With fix'd unearthly look,
With her eyne on an ancient book;
And the peasants say, I trow,
There wandereth to and fro!
And she conneth her book alway;
And her robe o' the russet grey! Oh! if met, when the spectral moonbeams smile,
By one of that feudal race, Tolls the bell of yon pile, and the dim church aisle
Is the doom'd one's resting place.
And the crackling faggots blaze,
That live in the minstrel lays ;
Then a tale of the dead is sung and said,
That, gentle dames, I may not tell, For, hark! 'tis the time o' the midnight chime,
- May the good saints shield us well!
By Charles Mackay.
What comfort we see
Where love bends the knee ;
We learn’d to repeat,
Made holiness sweet.
Has something still dear,
Ne'er bought with a tear :
Of faces, once gay,
Like a vision away.
Kind sayings abound ;
The kindest is found;
And there, written small,
Words dearer than all !
We love with good will,
Is loved the best still :
And dear is the one
Till life's love is gone.
LONG LIFE. Count not thy life by calendars; for years Shall pass thee by unheeded, whilst an hour, Some little fleeting hour, too quickly past, May stamp itself so deeply on thy brain, Thy latest years shall live upon its joy. His life is longest ;- not whose boneless gums, Sunk eyes, wan cheeks, and snow-white hairs bespeak Life's limits ; no! but he whose memory Is thickest set with those delicious scenes 'Tis sweet to ponder o'er when even falls.
Byron. AUTUMN. But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage dusk and dim Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks, And give the season in its latest view.