From the bending rushes, Shall we to the river? I will lightliest trip, By the brisk wind fann'd; Let me see the daughters Of your happy land! Or where the monsters wallow 'Neath the white sea foam, Follow, follow, follow, Come, come, come! 'Neath the glistening laurel, So a never-setting Sun shall mount our sky! Skim we like the swallow, THE SLEEPING SORROW. Translated from the German of RUCKERT, by W. R. EVANS. I HAVE a sorrow dwelling Asleep, but ever ready To waken from his rest. And when he wakes from slumber, Mine eyes upon his fixing, I gaze into them deep His ev'ry look I drink in Until he falls asleep- And he again is lying Asleep within my breast. How great the power of bliss, That tenderly it veileth That life's pure gold of gladness One grief can scarce alloy, And that a single sadness But serves to season joy. FAIREST AND DEAREST. WHо shall be fairest ? Who shall be first in the songs that we sing? When fortune is blindest, Bearing through winter the blooms of the spring; Charm of our gladness, Angel of Life, when its pleasures take wing! She shall be rarest, She shall be first in the songs that we sing! Who shall be nearest, Named but with honour and pride evermore? Whose banner is planted On glory's high ramparts and battlements hoar; Fearless of danger, To falsehood a stranger, Looking not back while there's duty before! He shall be dearest, He shall be first in our hearts evermore! ROBERT BURNS. The following lines were written and delivered by Dr. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, at the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, on January 25th, 1856, at Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A. THE mountains glitter in the snow, A thousand leagues asunder; Though years have clipp'd the eagle's plume The sun still sees the heather bloom, With tartan kilt and philabeg, The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills When down their sides the crimson rills The hunts where gallant hearts were game, The slashing on the border— The raid that swoop'd with sword and flameGive place to law and order. Not while the rocking steeples reel With midnight tocsins ringing Not while the crashing war-notes peal, God sets his poets singing. The bird is silent in the night, Or shrieks a cry of warning While fluttering round the beacon's light But hear him greet the morning! The lark of Scotia's morning sky! Whose voice may sing his praises? With heaven's own sunlight in his eye, He walked among the daisies. Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong, But left his land her sweetest song, And earth her saddest story. 'Tis not the forts the builder piles That chain the earth together; The wedded crown, the sister isles Would laugh at such a tether. The kindling thought, the throbbing words, That set the pulses beating, Are stronger than a myriad swords Of mighty armies meeting. 376 Thus while within the banquet glows, THE MANOR HOUSE. From a poem entitled The River, by COVENTRY PATMORE. So wide, the rainbow wholly stands A river runneth round. Upon a rise, where single oaks, An ancient manor-hall. Around its many gable-ends The swallows wheel their flight; Its warm face through the foliage gleams, The ivy'd turrets seem to love The murmur of the bees; And though this manor-hall hath seen The snow of centuries, How freshly still it stands amid Its wealth of swelling trees! |