Obrazy na stronie

Sweet nuptial-flowers her brow entwine,
From all she is about to sever.

"Again another star outshines,
Sparkles and shines, and falls for ever."

My child! the course of this is short,

Some haughty lordling newly-born, The empty cradle which he leaves

With gold and purple they adorn; The flattering lie, the abject whine,

The food on which he'd fatten ever. -" Again another star outshines,

Sparkles and shines, and drops for ever.”

Yes, child, and what a lurid light!

A minister who thought it great, When favourite of a king, to laugh

At the sore evils of the State; His portrait even now they hide,

Poor fragile god! ’gain thought of never ! - “ Again another star outshines,

Sparkles and shines, and drops for ever."

My child! hot tears should stain our cheek;

One rich, who loved his poorer brothers,
Now dies. Want there full harvest made,

Yet glean'd but scantily with others;
Sure of a home, this very eve
A poor man sought the generous giver.

“ Again another star outshines, Sparkles and shines, then drops for ever.” Some mighty monarch leaves his land;

Go, son, your innocence preserve, So that if neither bright nor grand

Your star, from virtue you ne'er swerve, If else, you uselessly but shine ;

And when thou diest, though great, rich, clever, They'll say 'twas but a falling star,

Which sparkled, shone, and fell for ever!

A passage in LONGFELLOW's Golden Legend.
How sad the grim old castle looks!
O’erhead, the unmolested rooks,
Upon the turret's windy top,
Sit, talking of the farmer's crop;
Here in the court-yard springs the grass,
So few are now the feet that pass;
The stately peacocks, bolder grown,
Come hopping down the steps of stone,
As if the castle were their own;
And I, the poor old seneschal,
Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-ball.
Alas! the merry guests no more
Crowd through the hospitable door;
No eyes with youth and passion shine;
No cheeks grow redder than the wine;
No song, no laugh, no jovial dim
Of drinking wassail to the pin ;
But all is silent, sad and drear,
And now the only sounds I hear
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls,
And horses stamping in their stalls.


From Poems, by A. (Fellowes.) YES ; in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild

We mortal millions live alone, The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights,

And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,

The nightingales divinely sing ;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour ;

Oh! then a longing like despair

Is to their farthest caverns sent ;
For surely once, they feel we were

Parts of a single continent.
Now round us spread the watery plain-
Ob! might our marges meet again!

Who order'd that their longing's fire

Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? Who renders vain their deep desire ?

A God, a God, their severance ruled :
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea.


By EBENEZER ELLIOTT. Oh, bear him where the rain can fall,

And where the winds can blow!
And let the sun weep o'er his pall,

As to the grave ye go.
And in some little lone churchyard,

Beside the growing corn,
Lay gentle Nature's stern prose-bard,

Her mightiest peasant-born!

Yes, let the wild flower wed his grave,

That bees may murmur near,
When o'er his last home bend the brave,

And say, "A man lies here."
For Briton's honour Cobbett's name,

Though rashly oft he spoke;
And none can scorn, and few will blame,

The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see,

E'en factious bate consents
To reverence, in the fallen tree,

His British lineaments !

Though gnarl'd the storm-toss'd boughs that braved

The thunder's gather'd scowl,
Not always through his darkness raved

The storm-winds of the soul.

Oh, no! in hours of golden calm,

Morn met his forehead bold; And breezy evening sung her psalm

Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold.

The wren its crest of fibred fire

With his rich bronze compared, While many a youngling's songful sire

His acorn twiglets shared.

The lark above sweet tribute paid,

Where clouds with light were riven;
And true love sought his blue-belled shade,

“ To bless the hour of heaven."

E'en when his stormy voice was loud,

And guilt quaked at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud,

The poor a shelter found.

Dead oak, thou liv'st! Thy smitten hands,

The thunder of thy brow,
Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands,

And tyrants hear thee now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,

Inspired by thy renown,
Shall future patriots rise to fame,

And many a sun go down.

OCTOBER Taken from The Farmer's Almanac, where it appeared anonymously.

The wind it singeth loudly,

The wind it singeth long,
Of the far away blue mountain,

And the storm-cloud in its song.

It telleth of the ice and snow

On Hecla's rugged mound,
It boasteth of the wave it raised,

As it sped the wide world round.

Where it listeth, there it bloweth,

The wilful, wayward wind :
Whence it cometh, where it goeth,

And its dwelling who shall find ?

It whistleth, it crieth,

As begging it would say,
“Oh! let me in to rest my wing

Ere I haste upon my way.”
“Away! I cannot let thee in,

Thou weary, wailing child ;
Seek thy father, seek thy mother,

Seek thy home upon the wild."
“I have no home, I have no sire,

I am a lonely thing;
Let me in, I'll rouse your drowsy fire,

Or strike your wild harp string."
“No, no! the night is dark and cold,

The snow-drift's at the door ;
Away, away! thou art too bold,

Go chase the wide world o'er."

Where it listeth, there it bloweth,

The wilful, wayward wind;
Whence it cometh, where it goeth,

And its dwelling who shall find ?

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