But O! how strongly weakness rules;
How low the loftiest hopes of fools;
How vain to dream those forms could be
Aught but a phantom troop for me!
I paced the voiceless hall, and gazed
On goodliest shapes like one amazed;
With burning cheek and fainting limb,
My bosom shook, my sight was dim.
I wander'd quick from shade to shade,
In steadfast majesty array'd,
And each, with threats and mocks of shame,
A dread avenging fiend became.
The hueless eye, the placid brow,
With horrid light were all a-glow;
And those high gods to spectres turn'd,
Started, and shriek'd, and scowl'd, and spurn'd.
A ghastly throng around me spread,
And echoing yells pursued my tread;
And all that clear unearthly world
To chaos, vast and wild, was hurl'd.
An exquisite passage in SHELLEY's beautiful poem Adonais.
ALL he loved and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watchtower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimm'd the aërial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd,
Pale ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray,
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds: a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.
Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if the Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth,
With dew all turn'd to tears: odour, to sighing ruth.
Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale,
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!
Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead season's bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field nd brere,
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake.
Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawn'd on chaos; in its stream immersed
The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight,
The beauty and the joy of their renew'd might.
The leprous corpse touch'd by this spirit tender
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought, we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning ?-th' intense atom glows
A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose.
Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
Woe is me!
And grief itself be mortal!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to
THE MEN OF THE NORTH.
A Ballad, by CHARLES MACKAY.
FIERCE as its sunlight, the East may be proud
Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;
Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;
The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:
Fair though they be,
There's an isle in the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth-
The lords of the world are the Men of the North!
Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
There's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;
Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do-
Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"
Winter and storm only nerve us the more,
And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door: Strong shall we be
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth,
We'll stand in our courage-the Men of the North!
Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;
Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.
Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:
Proud let us be
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Men with true hearts-let our fame echo forth-
Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!
One of HENRY GLASSFORD BELL's clever poems.
I'LL no walk by the kirk, mother,
I'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.
What ails ye at the minister ?-
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.
I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.
Then ye'll gang down by Holylee-
Ye needna look sae scared-
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye'll aiblins meet the Laird?
I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.
Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!
He's fleech'd ye out o' a ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.
The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above;
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?
Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gait
That Geordie Young comes by!
His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.
By ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
THERE is music in the storm, love,
When the tempest rages high;
It whispers in the summer breeze
A soft, sweet lullaby.
There is music in the night,
When the joyous nightingale,
|