No golden lot that fortune could draw for human | Away to the south the Jumna takes life, Its way through the melons' golden brakes, To us seem'd like a sailor's, 'mid the storm and Through gardens, cities, and crowded plainsstrife. Little, methinks, on its course it gains. Our talk was of fair vessels that swept before the breeze, Seas. Round are the woods of the ancient oak, And new discover'd countries amid the Southern And pines that scorn at the woodman's stroke; Within that lonely garden what happy hours While we fancied that around us spread foreign sea and sky. Ah! the dreaming and the distant no longer haunt the mind; We leave, in leaving childhood, life's fairy land behind. There is not of that garden a single tree or flower; They have plough'd its long green grasses, and cut down the lime tree bower. Where are the Guelder roses, whose silver used to bring, With the gold of the laburnums, their tribute to the Spring? They have vanish'd with the childhood that with their treasures play'd; The life that cometh after dwells in a darker shade. Yet the name of that sea captain, it cannot but recall How much we loved his dangers, and how we mourn'd his fall. THE ABBEY, NEAR MUSSOOREE. THE SEAT OF J. C. GLYN, ESQ. "On the brow of a rugged mountain, it is quite isolated from any other dwelling; and during the rainy season, when dense clouds are floating about, it has the appear. ance of an island in a sea of vapour." ALONE, alone, on the mountain brow, Your comrades the clouds, with the driving rain Loud on its way, as a forest blast, The eagle that dwells at your side sweeps past; White with the snow of a thousand years, They have open'd the quarries of lime and stone; Ye old and ye stately solitudes, Or the voice of the torrent adown the hill. Wo on our wretched and busy race, THE CHURCH OF ST. JOHN, AND THE FORMERLY BELONGING TO THE TEMPLARS. On the dark heights that overlook the Rhine, Flinging long shadows on the watery plains, Crown'd with gray towers, and girdled by the vine How little of the warlike past remains! The castle walls are shatter'd, and wild flowers Their forts are perish'd-but not so their shrine. Like Memory veil'd, Tradition sits and tells Her twilight histories of the olden time. Of Europe's childhood was the feudal age, Ill suited empire with a human hand; Authority needs rule, restraint, and awe; A few great minds appear, and by their light The many find their way; truth after truth Rise starlike on the depths of moral night, Though even now is knowledge in its youth. Still as those ancient heights, which only bore The iron harvest of the sword and spear, Are now with purple vineyards cover'd o'er, While corn-fields fill the fertile valleys near. Our moral progress has a glorious scope, Much has the past by thought and labour done; Knowledge and Peace pursue the steps of Hope, Whose noblest victories are yet unwon. DEATH OF THE LION AMONG THE All night long, a sullen roar, Girdled by the watch-fire's ray Dark the towering palm was spread, Long green bough and flowery spray By the aqueduct of old, THE IONIAN CAPTIVE. SADLY the captive o'er her flowers is bending, While her soft eye with sudden sorrow fills: They are not those that grew beneath her tending In the green valley of her native hills. There is the violet-not from the meadow Where wander'd carelessly her childish feet; There is the rose-it grew not in the shadow Of her old home-it cannot be so sweet. And yet she loves them-for those flowers are bringing Dreams of the home that she will see no more; The languid perfumes are around her, flinging What almost for the moment they restore. She hears her mother's wheel, that, slowly turning, Murmur'd unceasingly the summer day; And the same murmur, when the pine boughs burning Told that the summer hours had passed away. She hears her young companions sadly singing A song they loved-an old complaining tune; Then comes a gayer sound-the laugh is ringing Of the young children-hurrying in at noon. By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister, Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow, What are the glittering trifles that surround her chain? Would she could break the fetters that have bound her, And see her household and her hills again! THE CEDARS OF LEBANON. YE ancients of the earth, beneath whose shade Swept the fierce banners of earth's mightiest kings, When millions for a battle were array'd, And the sky darken'd with the vulture's wings. Long silence follow'd on the battle-cries; First the bones whiten'd, then were seen no more; The summer grasses sprang for summer skies, And dim tradition told no tales of yore. The works of peace succeeded those first wars, Men left the desert tents for marble walls; Then rose the towers from whence they watch'd the stars, And the vast wonders of their kingly halls. And they are perish'd-those imperial towers Read not amid the midnight stars their doom; The pomp and art of all their glorious hours Lie hidden in the sands that are their tomb. And ye, ancestral trees! are somewhat shorn But still ye stand, stately and tempest-worn, Much have ye witness'd-but yet more remains; Will not your giant columns yet behold The world's old age, enlighten'd, calm, and free; More glorious than the glories known of old— The spirit's placid rule o'er land and sea. All that the past has taught is not in vain- RYDAL WATER AND GRASMERE LAKE, THE RESIDENCE OF WORDSWORTH. Nor for the glory on their heads Those stately hill-tops wear, Although the summer sunset sheds Its constant crimson there. Half dusky and half fair, The influence of a moral spell Is found around the scene, Giving new shadows to the dell, New verdure to the green. His home-our English poet's home- On all things is his memory cast, Great poet, if I dare to throw "Tis thankfulness for hours which thou Unworthy, and yet meet, Until thy hand unlock'd its store, What glorious music slept! Music that can be hush'd no more Was from our knowledge kept. But the great Mother gave to thee The poet's universal key, And forth the fountains sweptA gushing melody forever, The witness of thy high endeavour. Rough is the road which we are sent, Rough with long toil and pain; And when upon the steep ascent, A little way we gain, Vex'd with our own perpetual care, Little we heed what sweet things are Around our pathway blent; With anxious steps we hurry on, The very sense of pleasure gone. But thou dost in this feverish dream With voices from the mountain stream, By memories sweet with other years, With eyes yet undefiled. By all the glitter and the glare Exalted, and yet mild, Conscious of those diviner powers Brought from a better world than ours. Thou hast not chosen to rehearse The old heroic themes; The heart's impassion'd dreams. CAN you forget me?—I who have so cherish'd COME, up with the banner, and on with the You took them in their scentless beauty stooping sword, My father's first-born of his castle is lord; No knight, I will say, that e'er belted a brand, From the warm shelter of the garden wall; Ring the horns through the forest that girdles our Can you forget me? I am not relying hall, On plighted vows-alas! I know their worth: Let the glades of the green oaks re-echo the Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying call; And many a morning with dew on the plain, Fill up the clear wine cup that dances in light, Upon the very breath that gave it birth When, if the heart had truth, it spoke it then, When thoughts would sometimes take a tone of sadness, And then unconsciously grow glad again. |