Obrazy na stronie

She it was, dear, who in Greek story acted

Such tragic masques : who in the grape's disguise Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul distracted,

And sear'd old Homer's eyes : Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended,

O'er Falconer's bones the matted sea-weed spread : Chatterton poison'd, Otway starved, and blended

White with the early dead!

She too with many a smile thy sire has flatter'd,

Promising flowers, and fame, and guerdons rare; Till youth was past, and then, he found, she scatter'd

Her vows and wreaths in air. Shun then the Siren: spurn her laurell'd chalice,

Though the bright nectar dance above the brim : Lest she should seize thee in her mood of malice,

And tear thee, limb from limb. But to selecter influences, my beauty,

Pay thy young vows,-to Truth, that ne'er beguiles, Virtue, fix'd faith, and unpretending duty,

Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles.
Look on me, love, that in those radiant glasses

Thy future tastes and fortunes I may trace,-
O'er them alternate shade and sunshine passes,

Enhancing every grace.
Peace is there yet, and purity, and pleasure ;

With a fond yearning o'er the leaves I look :
But the lid falls— farewell the enchanting treasure !

Closed is the starry book !

“AS I LAYE A THINKYNGE.” The last lines of Thomas INGOLDSBY, whose real name was BARHAM—the author of the famous Ingoldsby Legends.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the birde as she sat upon the spraye;

There came a noble Knyghte,
With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye :
As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the tree;

There seem'd a crimson'd plain,
Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,
And a steed with broken rein

Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pityful to see.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the birde as she sat upon the boughe ;

A lovely mayde came bye,
And a gentil youth was nyghe,
And he breathed manie a syghe

And a vowe,
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the thorne ;

No more a youth was there,
But a maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sadde despaire,

“ That I was borne!”
As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the birde as she sat upon the briar ;

There came a lovely childe,
And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joyously he smiled

On his sire ;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a cherub mote admire.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the birde as it perch'd upon a bier;

That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan
As the downe upon the swan

Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flow'd the tear!
As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
O merrie sang that birde as it glitter'd on her breast ;

With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
While soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise,

As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :-

“Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay," —
'Twas so she seem'd to saye,


(Written on the death of an infant danghter.)

THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But bas one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachael, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted.
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions.

Not from the ground arise ;
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,

May be Heaven's distant lamps.
There is no death! What seems so in transition ;

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb to the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead—the child of our affection-

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day, we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, but tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child :
But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion,

And anguish long suppress’d,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest,
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.


There is many a mother among our readers, and there is not one of them whose heart will not respond to the beautiful lines of our most gifted poetess, Mrs. NORTON, on her three children. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy and fond,

My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ;

Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,

And natural piety that lean'd to Heav'n;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Obedient-easy to be reconciled
And meekly-cheerful—such wert thou, my child !
Not willing to be left; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ;Norl eaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.
O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fade, --

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower, Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind !

Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee,

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Did come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!
Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy !

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And many a mirtbful jest and mock reply, Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

And thine was many a heart to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; The coaxing smile ;--the frequent soft caress ;

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming!
Again my heart a new affection found,
But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

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