Be braided nevermore? No, the lady is not dead, Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed; O dreadful is the world of dreams, When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! And friends cross o'er our solitude, Now friends of ours no more! Or, dearer to our hearts than ever, Keep stretching forth with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands, To clasp us phantoms, as we go Yet all the while we know not why, Fill'd though it be with care and strife; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Of tears upon the real dead, Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss, When bending o'er the death-like cheek Translated from CALDERON. It certainly shames the cold and unimaginative lovers of the north. THE cradle of the infant sun, That scarf'd in purple clouds and dun, A feather'd harp, that still doth sing Sweet music, as it onward flows:- In fine, the cradle, and the light, THE CLIFFS OF THE ISLE OF WIGHT. By a young Swede, named THEODORE ELBERT. THE cliffs that rise in stately show To rampart thee, thou fairy land, How calm they hear the ocean's flow, They have a quiet joy to meet The gentle murmur of the waves, The deep blue main and sportful foam With that bright sea thou lov'st so well. And here, in truth, so sweet and wild, And here is many a secret nook, For eyes on nature wont to feed, Where the sea ripples like a brook Around the turfs of dark-brown weed. Haunts of the billow and the breeze, Where might I rest each wearied limb ? The wide and mighty main should be My thoughts, my heart, I here might lend. And he with every wave should teach And I my spirit would control Into the child's subservient mood; And daily fill my grasping soul With all he speaks of wise and good. Then ought I not the crowd to flee, Their thoughts despise, their deeds abhor; And make the pure and holy sea My playmate and my monitor? Aye, but the universal love, The instincts each to all that bind! And God's own word which bade us cling, Who hath the evil strength to fling And I had rather live my days The tenant of a dungeon's gloom, Where nought of heaven's fresh brightness plays, And chains each wasting limb consume; So might I find some heart to blend In free communion with mine own, Than make the boundless sea my friend, With none but him to hear my moan. MONT BLANC. By L. E. L. (Miss LANDON.) THOU monarch of the upper air, The vapour from the marsh, the smoke Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth but heaven; Only the sunset rose Hath leave to fling a crimson dye Upon thy stainless snows. Now out on those adventurers The glory of thy forehead made A shrine to those below: Men gazed upon thee as a star, And turn'd to earth again, With dreams like thine own floating clouds, The vague but not the vain. No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till blent with nature's mysteries But now where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream ; Our steps have been o'er every soil, Our sails o'er every stream. |