Obrazy na stronie
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False lights, that lead the soul to rove,

Then vanish in an hour!
Our earliest tear, and latest sigh,
Spring from one sad fatality!

DIFFERENCES.
By Charles Mackay.

The king can drink the best of wine—

So can I;
And has enough when he would dine—

So have I;
And cannot order rain or shine—

Nor can I.
Then where's the difference—let me see—
Betwixt my lord the king and me?

Do trusty friends surround his throne

Night and day?
Or make his interest their own?

No, not they.
Mine love me for myself alone—

Bless'd be they!
And that's one difference which I see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.

Do knaves around me lie in wait

To deceive,
Or fawn and flatter when they hate,

And would grieve?
Or cruel pomps oppress my state—

By my leave?
No! Heaven be thank'd! And here you see
More difference 'twixt the king and me!

He has his fools, with jests and quips,

When he'd play;
He has his armies and his ships—

Great are they;
But not a child to kiss his lips,

Well-a-day!
And that's a difference sad to see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.

I wear the cap and he the crown—

What of that?
I sleep on straw and he on down—

What of that?
And he's the king, and I'm the clown—

What of that?
If happy I, and wretched he,
Perhaps the king would change with me!

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.
By W. C. Bryant.

An. day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling,
The Easter sparrow repeats his song;

A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms,
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long.

The blue-bird chants, from elm's long branches,
A hymn to welcome the budding year:

The south wind wanders from field to forest,
And softly whispers the spring is here!

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before these lays from the elm have ceased;

The violet breathes by our door as sweetly
As in the air of her native East.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking,
The daffodil is our door-side queen:

She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower;

No pamper'd bloom of the green-house chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet lays of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,

Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom

Till look'd upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April's breezes

Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,

And hollows green in the sun are waiting
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

THE WOOD THRUSH.
By Barry Cornwall.

Whithee hath the Wood-thrush flown,
From our greenwood bowers?

Wherefore builds he not again,
Where the white-thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings,
The sunny year he bringeth;

And the heart unlocks its springs,
Wheresoe'er he singeth.

Lover-like the creature waits,
And when morning soareth,

All his little soul of song

Toward the dawn he poureth.

Sweet one, why art thou not heard
Now, where woods are stillest?

Oh, come back! and bring with thee
—Whatsoe'er thou wiliest;

Laughing thoughts,—delighting songs,

Dreams of azure hours,—
Something,—nothing;—all we ask

Is to see thee ours!

'Tis enough that thou should'st sing
For thy own pure pleasure;

'Tis enough that thou hast once
Sweeten'd human leisure!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. Translated from the German of Muller, by Longfellow.

"The rivers rush'into the sea,

By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily

Their noisy trumpets blow.

"The clouds are passing far and high, • We little birds in them play;

And everything that can sing and fly
Goes with us, and far away.

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band ?"—

"I greet, thee, little bird! To the wide sea
I haste from the narrow land.

"Full and swollen is every sail;

I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all."—

"I need not and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the'sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys?
When the merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shalt hear^the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one!
I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,

Neither poet nor printer may know."

THE STEAMBOAT.
By 0. W. Holmes, an American'poet.

She how yon flaming herald treads

The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,

She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,

Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,

With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,

With every wave that swells;
And burning o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,

She thunders foaming by;
When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green

That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart

She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;

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