Obrazy na stronie

A man to count. But still I gain by what
I lose in this way. 'Tis experience won—eh?

I think so. My acquaintances think not.
No matter. I grow tedious. Where's my money?



Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows;
In that fine air I tremble, all the past
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this
Is morn to more, and all the rich to come
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me,
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride,
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. Indeed 1 love thee; come,
Yield thyself up; my hopes and thine are one;
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.


Buoyantly he went. Again his stooping forehead was besprent With dew drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide Open'd the great morass, shot every side With flashing water through and through ; a-shine, Thick steaming, all alive. Whose shape divine Quiver'd i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, But vainly; though Mincio leap'd no more, Each footfall burst up in the marish floor A diamond jet: and if you stopped to pick Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick, And circling bloodworms, minnow, newt or loach, A sudden pond would silently encroach This way and that.


What makes man wretched. Happiness denied?
Lorenzo! no: 'tis happiness disdain'd.
She comes ,too meanly drest to win our smile:
And calls herself content, a homely name!
Our flame is transport, and content our scorn.
Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her,
And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead.


Only add
Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith,
Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love,
By name to come call'd charity, the soul
Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath
To leave this paradise, but shalt possess
A paradise within thee, happier far.


Not once or twice in our rough island-story

The path of duty was the way to glory:

He that walks it, only thirsting

For the right, and learns to deaden

Love of self, before his journey closes,

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting

Into glossy purples, which outredden

All voluptuous garden-roses.

Not once or twice in our fair island-story,

The path of duty was the way to glory:

He, that ever following her commands,

On with toil of heart and knees and hands,

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won

His path upward, and prevail'd,

Shall find the toppling crags of duty scaled

Are close uppn the shining table-lands

To which our God Himself is moon and sun.


Look yonder, love! What solemn image through the trunks is straying? And now he doth not move, yet never turns On us his visage of 'rapt vacancy! It is Oblivion. In his hand—though not Knows he of this—a dusty purple flower Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see! He wanders into mist, and now is lost. Within his brain what lovely realms of death Are pictured, and what knowledge through the doors Of his forgetfulness of all the earth, A path may gain? Then turn thee, love, to me: Was I not worth thy winning and thy toil, Oh, earth-born son of Ocean! Melt to rain.

R. H. Horne.

Patience ! why 'tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest him in heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.


Past Days.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking on the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.


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