Obrazy na stronie

My love is lost-my studies marr'd,
My friends disgraced and changed;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estranged :
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruin'd spirit from its thrall.


A passage from LEIGH Hunt's Story of Rimini. READY she sat with one hand to turn o'er The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before, The other on the table, half enwreathed In the thick tresses over which she breathed. So sat she fix'd, and so observed was she Of one, who at the door stood tenderly, Paulo,—who from a window seeing her Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where, Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day, His usual efforts vain to keep away. Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone, On some small matter needing unison ; Twice linger'd, and conversed, and grown long friends ; But not till now where no one else attends.“ May I come in ?” said he :-it made her start, That smiling voice; she colour'd, press'd her heart A moment, as for breath, and then with free And usual tone, said, --" yes,-certainly." There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, An air of something quite serene and sure, As if to seem so, were to be, secure. With this the lovers met, with thirst they spoke, With this sat down to read the self-saine book, And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced With one permitted hand her lovely waist; And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, Came with a touch together thrillingly, And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said, And every lingering page grew longer as they read.

As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Genevra, with the flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Lancelot, when he kiss'd her first :-
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid ;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only be felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Oh then she wept,—the poor Francesca wept;
And pardon oft he pray'd ; and then she swept
The tears away, and look'd him in the face,
And, well as words might serve the truth disgrace,
She told him all, up to that very hour,
The father's guile, th' undwelt-in bridal bower,
And wish'd for wings on which they two might soar
Far, far away, as doves to their own shore,
With claim from none.—That day they read no more.


Found in a novel entitled Oonagh Lynch, the authorship of which is not avowed. It is well entitled to a place here.

She will not drink the blood-red wine

That sparkles bright and high ;
She sits her down to wail and pine,

The salt tear in her eye.
Will you not drink the wine of France,

Nor yet the wine of Spain ?
" Oh better I love the wan water

I ne'er must drink again!”

The peach like fair maid's cheek is found;

Our southern fruit is fair;
And ye may seek all Scotland round,

Nor find such fruit grow there.
"I better love the bramble black;

The blackberry is good
For these are fruits of Scottish braes,

And they grow in our gay green wood."

Will ye not sleep in golden bed?

The curtains are of silk, Of broidery is the coverlet,

The sheets are white as milk? "Oh! the heather is a better bed,

'Neath the north winds blowing free; And I long to lay my weary head

On the swaird of my own countree.”


Another of Bryant's beautiful poems. I've watch'd too late ; the morn is near ;

One look at God's broad silent sky! Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,

How in your very strength ye die !

Even while your glow is on your cheek,

And scarce the high pursuit begun, The head grows faint, the hand grows weak,

The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's rim,

Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars ; The waning moon, all pale and dim,

Goes up amid the eternal stars. Late in a flood of tender light

She floated through the ethereal blue: A softer sun, that shone all night

Upon the gathering beads of dew, And still thou wanest, pallid moon!

The encroaching shadow grows apace; Heaven's everlasting watchers soon

Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

Oh, night's dethroned and crownless queen!

Well may thy sad, expiring ray
Be shed on those whose eyes have seen

Hope's glorious visions fade away.

Shine, thou, for forms that once were bright,

For sages in the mind's eclipse,
For those whose words were spells of might,

But falter now on stammering lips.

In thy decaying beam there lies

Full many a grave on hill and plain, Of those who closed their dying eyes

In grief that they had lived in vain. Another night, and thou among

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, All rayless in the glittering throng

Whose lustre late was quench'd in thine.

Yet soon, a new and tender light

From out thy darken'd orb shall beam, And broaden, till it shines all night

On glistening dew and glimmering stream.


A Sonnet by CHARLES LAMB. In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew ear; Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear ; And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines! What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! Of Marthas and of Abigails few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can You Barbara resist, or Marian? And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all than Saxon Edith please me less.


Translated by LONGFELLOW from the German of SALIS.

Into the Silent Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither ?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shatter'd wrecks lie thicker on the strand;
Who leads us with a gentle hand,

Thither, oh, thither,
Into the Silent Land.

Into the Silent Land !
To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! tender morning visions
Of beauteous souls ! Eternity's own band !
Who in life's battle firm doth stand,
Shall bear hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land !

O Land! O Land!
For all the broken-hearted;
The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand,
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed,

Into the Silent Land !

THE ARMADA. Another spirit-stirring ballad by MACAULAY. ATTEND all ye who list to hear our Noble England's praise ; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient

days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth

bay; Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny's

Isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ;

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