Angel! where from her throne above,
She looks upon her cell below,
'Twould break her bliss,-'twould wound her love,
To see us thus desponding ;-no!
We'll bear it all,
-as 'neath her eye
That now regards us from the sky.
And if some bursting tear should stray
Down our pale cheek,- —some struggling sigh
Break forth, we'll wipe that tear away,
That sigh subdue, and smilingly
Look up to Heaven, and feel we share
The bliss unutterable there!
Thou gentle spirit !—in thy course
There were no rocks, no ruggedness,
Nor strife, nor sorrow, nor remorse;
But all was pleasantness and peace,
For all was calmest virtue !-Thou
Ne'er gav'st one heart a grief till now.
Not long ago thy blue eyes met
The fading sun when evening spread
Its lines of light; he never set
More calmly than upon thy bed
Of death,-
‚—as waning when the even
Waned,―thy young spirit flew to heaven.
The autumnal flowers look smiling on,―
There's life and joy in field and wood;
Yet she who waked their smiles is gone ;-
We wander forth in solitude.
Mock not our woes, sweet flowers, but share
And sympathise with our despair!
Despair!-oh, no! 'tis thoughtless, vain ;
On every field, and flower, and tree,
We'll trace that lovely smile again,
Which beamed upon them, saint! from thee: Yes! stars, and flowers, and all that's fair Thine image holds-thy name shall bear.
Some star that's brighter than the rest,
Some flower whose fragrance never dies,
Shall blend them with thy memory blest,
Shall consecrate thy obsequies;
And hourly as we think of thee,
These shall thy sweet memorial be.
Written in the Livre des Etrangers of the Union Hotel at Chamouni.
How many numbered, and how few agreed
In age, in clime, in character, or creed!
Here wandering Genius leaves an unknown name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same;
Italian treachery, and English pride,
Dutch craft, and German dullness, side by side;
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as the breezes blow.
Knew we the objects of this varied crew-
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here nature's child, ecstatic from her school,
And travelling problems that admire by rule;
The timorous poet woos his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he 's safe from all reviews;
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before;
Here critics too (for where's the happy spot
So blessed by nature as to have them not!)
232 LINES BY THE LATE LORD BYRON.
Spit their vile slaver o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise,—
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast ;—
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men
If Jeffrey's soul had perched on Gifford's pen!
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Joined in one act of wonder when they came;
Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock—
The incarnate fancy and the breathing block—
Sees the white giant in his robe of light
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, when hastening to the blest remains
And hidden beauties of more classic plains:
And here whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And looks and wonders on his way-to die!
But he, the author of these idle lines,
What passion leads him and what tie confines ?
For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms?
What joy elates him, or what grief consumes?
Impassioned, senseless, vigorous, or old,
What matters ?-bootless were his story told.
Some praise at least one act of sense may claim—
He wrote these verses but he veiled his name.
BY T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ.
ABOVE all the islands in the Lakes of Killarney, give me Innisfallen-"sweet Innisfallen," as the melodious Moore calls it. It is in truth a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people of late have grown so sceptical, that they only smile at my stories and doubt them.
However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its walls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called monks. A very pleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and I am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after dinner :-the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.
Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow
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