Obrazy na stronie

Though never yet bath day-beam burn'd

Upon a brow more fierce than that,
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire !
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,

As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again !
Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heav'n-that child-
A scene which might have well beguiled
Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there, while memory ran
O’er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
" There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones— thou blessed child !
“When young and haply pure as thou,
" I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now "
He hung his lead-each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept !

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“O FATHER, Lord ! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiled, Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low religious whisperings, The shivery leaf sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams, That sing of Thee back to free childhood's heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness !—Thou bidd'st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of Thine ! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age Thou lend'st the vernal bliss :-the old man's eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto Thee, who call'st earth's buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And fill'd with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gavest us flowers !”


By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Our host hath spread beneath our tread A broider'd velvet woof; Curtains of blue peep richly through Our fretted palace-roof; Well spent, say I, in forestry Each summer day like this, Till glow-worms light owl watchmen's flight Through our green metropolis !

Like those that made in Arden shade
Their happy court of old,
We'll “fleet the time,” as in the prime
Of the innocent Age of Gold;
And gently school with Dryad rule
The forest burghers" here,
That will obey our gentle sway
From love, and not from fear.
We will not take, for our pleasure's sake,
The life of bird or beast;
Of herb and fruit and wholesome root
We'll make our Eden feast;
All gay with crowns that give no frowns,
Leaf-woven diadems,
And jewels earth unmined gives forth-
Her fragrant surface-gems.

We've band and quire that never tire,
By their own music paid ;
We've swarded spaces for dancing places;
For thought, calm aisles of shade.
And nooks as meet for converse sweet,
Or rest, or happy book,
Fresh with perfumes from growing blooms,
And the rustling of a brook.

Oh, wood and stream, how fair a dream-
How vain a dream is this!
We owe our life to thoughtful strife
With woe and wickedness.

Man must not spare to spell with care
And work out God's intent.
And know, thou wilt be charged with guilt
Who art but innocent.

The hermit wise (my friend replies),
With equal truth might say,
" This word for me, not do but BE,
Has sempiternal sway.
Effect from cause in Nature's laws
Our succour little needs;
There may be debt for pardon yet
In thy most virtuous deeds."

THE GIFTED. From the Poetical Remains, of Mrs. GREY, better known as Mary ANNE BROWNE.

Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes

Must rest within the bosom's fold ;
Oh, woe for those who live on dreams,

Unheeded by the coarse and cold.
They have a hidden life akin

To nothing in this earthly sphere;
They have a glorious world within,

Where nothing mortal may appear-
A world of song, and flower, and gem,
Yet woe for them-oh, woe for them.

Such his perplexing woe who seeks

A refuge upon stranger shores ;
In vain to foreign ears he speaks,

In vain their sympathy implores ;
The same sad fate a bark might prove,

Laden with gold, or princely store,
Without a guiding star above

And an unmeasured deep before.
The world doth scorn them, gibe, contemn;
Woe for the gifted, woe for them!

AN ENIGMA. Another of W. M. PRAED's graceful Enigmas will be welcome to the reader. The solution is left to his own sagacity.

UNCOUTH was I of face and form,

But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence or thunderstorm,

By famine or by fight;
Not a warrior went to the battle plain,

Not a pilot steer'd the ship,
That did not look in doubt and pain,
For an omen of havoc or hurricane,

To my dripping brow or lip.

Within my second's dark recess

In silent pomp I dwelt;
Before the mouth in lowliness

My rude adorers knelt;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,

And ever the red blood ran;
And amid the sin and smoke and din,
I sat with a changeless endless grin,

Forging my first for man.
My priests are rotting in their grave,

My shrine is silent now,
There is no victim in my cave,

No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay

Of all that was divine; .
My name and my memory pass away ;-
And yet this bright and glorious day

Is call'd by mortals mine !

SUN, MOON, AND STARS. ERNST MORITZ ARNDT, now in his seventy-seventh year, is a Pomeranian, a patriot, a poet, and a professor of philosophy. He has read much, written much, seen much, and suffered much; and no man enjoys a higher character among his countrymen for all the qualities that adorn human nature. His works are very voluminous; but as an author he is chiefly known to the great body of German readers by his songs, most of which are characterized by peculiar fire, energy, and

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