Obrazy na stronie

A sweet passage in a poem by Thomas Hood.

Oh, these be fancy's revellers by night!

Stealthy companions of the downy moth—
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light,

Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth ;—

These be the Masters on night's silver cloth,—
The gnat, with shrilly trump, is their convener.

Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth,
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener,
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener.

These be the pretty genii of the flowers,
Daintily fed with honey and pure dew—

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours,
King Oberon, and all his merry crew,
The darling puppets of romance's view;

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,
Famous for patronago of lovers true ;—

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them,

So do not thou with crabbed frowns appal them.

For these are kindly ministers of nature

To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress;

Pretty they be, and very small of stature,—
For mercy still consorts with littleness:
Therefore the sum of good is still the less,

And mischief grossest in this world of wrong :—
So do these charitable dwarfs redress

The tenfold ravages of giants strong,

To whom great malice and great might belong.


From a volume entitled Italy and other Poems, by William


Not yet the morn-star had his light withdrawn,
Nor yet the sun had risen: while thick the dews
Hung on the branch, impatient of the dawn,

To Paestum's solitude I sped my way.

'Twas the sweet season, 'twas the birth of May,

When gladness swells the universal voice,

And all that live in very life rejoice.

Onward I went rejoicing. But when lay

Before me Paestum's desolated ground.

The sun in noontide blaze refused its light;

And suddenly on wings of violent sound

A storm-cloud, dark as night,

Rush'd from the o'ershadow'd mountains and amain

'Mid gusts of hailstones burst th' o'erwhelming rain,

And thunders peal'd, and, preluding their roar,

Wing'd flames that rent the clouds traversed the welkin

Yet-—the dread thunder-peal, the lightning fire
That rent the clouds, and fitful flash'd between,
Seem'd as accordant with the gloomy scene,
Deep awe, and solemn feelings to inspire.
But when the sun at transient interval
Burst through the veil, and on the desert laid
Its golden light, at once, with all their pomp
Of massive pdlars, in their strength array'd,
Broader and brighter from surrounding shade.
Range answering range, the giant temples rose
Before me, like a forest avenue
Of oaks, beneath a thousand winters' snows
Grown gray. And still, where'er I turn'd my view
On the colossal fanes, incumbent Time
Deepen'd the character that Greece of yore,
Bad genius, and her high-soul'd sons adore,
Th' Herculean grandeur of her Doric prime,

Sole monuments of nations long unknown!
Ye, in your strength alone,
Stand 'mid the desolate region, where of old
Dense population swarm'd. How drear the shore,
O'er vacant billows vacant billows roll-d,
Where the sail ceased not gleaming, nor the oar
Its restless labour. Void the courts that view'd
O'er hecatombs, the incense columns rise,
Dark'ning the sun-paved skies.
Where now the images, the molten gods,

The trident-bearer, and the brow of Jove,

Whose grandeur glorified your proud abodes?

Where fouler forms hid in the neighb'ring grove?

The singers, where? and the gay choir that timed

The timbers on their breast?

And they whose loose hair widely streaming breathed

Fresh fragrance, as the floatings of their vest

In dance at solemn feast, like shadows wreathed

The giant columns? Where the hallow'd pomp

Of sacrifice, the victim, and the priest,

Who, when the offerings on the altar blazed,

Look'd down with Fate's stern eye, and inly gazed

On doonvd futurity, while yet the beast,

Reek'd in warm blood, and palpitating life

Throbb'd underneath the knife?

Gone are they—and ye too, proud fanes! who view'd

Throughout their wide vicissitude

The birthday, and the death of ages past,

While suns and mutable moons their courses roll'd,

Till the gray world wax'd old:

Ye, who, regardless of the thunder's blast,

Unto the whirlwind say, and gathering storm,

That your colossal form

Shall o'er times yet unborn its shadow cast:

Oh ! that ye too had fall'n, and found your grave

In th' earthquake's fathomless cave,

Ere that, un'wares some hapless traveller,

By science led, and love of antique lore,

Your relics to explore;

Who, awestruck, half a worshipper, had bent,

O'er each religious monument;

And now had gather'd, as from nature's tomb,

One last memorial of his toil,

A Psestan rose, twice crown'd with yearly bloom,

To grace his native soil,

Had perish'd by the dark assassin's hand

Beneath the temple's gloom.

So, so to leave, far from his fatherland,

His bones unblest on your abandon'd shore,

To whiten in the sun that bleach your strand,

Long as your temple lasts—till time shall be no more.


By the Rev. F. Ma Honey, who wrote under the name of Father Prout.

With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
Of this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,

But all their music spoke nought to thine:

For memory dwelling on each proud swelling

Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I have heard bells tolling "old Adrian's mole" in,

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
With cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of St. Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.

O! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower of Kiosko

In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom, I freely grant them,

But there's an anthem more dear to me,—

Its the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

By Charles Mackay.

Faie streamlet running
Where violets grow,
Under the elm trees,

Murmuring low;
Rippling gently

Amid the grass;
I have a fancy,
As I pass:
I have a fancy as I see
The trailing willows kissing thee;
As I behold the daisies pied,
The harebells nodding at thy side;
The sheep that feed upon thy brink,
The birds that stoop to thy wave to drink;
Thy blooms that tempt the bees to stray,
And all the life that tracks thy way;—

I deem thou flowest

Through grassy meads,
To show the beauty
Of gentle deeds;
To show how happy

The world might be,
If men, observant,
Copied thee:
To show how small a stream may pour
Verdure and beauty on either shore;
To teach what humble men might do,
If their lives were pure and their hearts were true;
And what a wealth they might dispense,
In modest, calm beneficence;
Marking their course as thou dost thine,
By way-side flowers of love divine.

And streamlet, rushing,

With foam and spray,
Over the boulders

In thy way;

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