Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

THE POET'S DEATHBED.

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

Oh, alas, and alas!

Green grows the grass!

Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass.

YE tell me 'tis the opening hour;-then ere the day be flown

The casement ope, that I may see my last of suns go

down.

With beams as beautiful he'll rise to gladden earth

again,

And wake the world with life and light,-but shine for me in vain.

Yes-of the azure sky above, and the green earth below,

I yet would take a last farewell to cheer me as I go; And I will deem the light that glows along the verge

of even',

And plays upon my faded cheek, the smile of opening heaven.

And let my fainting heart inhale sweet Nature's fragrant breath,

That wafts a message from the bowers to soothe the bed of death;

That bears a whisper from the woods, a farewell from the spring,

A tale of open leaf and bud-while I am withering.

And let me hear the small birds sing among the garden

bowers

Their evening hymn, that wont to bless my solitary hours:

190

THE POET'S DEATH BED.

That choral anthem, warbled wild upon the leafy spray, Will glad this ear, that to the strain must soon be deaf for aye.

And blame me not, that, called away unto a land of bliss,

I fondly linger on the shore of such a world as this; And better love, than ought I know of bright immortal spheres,

This earth, so lovely in her woe, so beautiful in tears.

SONG.

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine
To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,
Should e're the hallowed cup profane;
And thus I broke a heart that poured
Its tide of feeling out for thee,
In draughts, by after-times deplored,
Yet dear to memory.

But still the old impassioned ways
And habits of my mind remain,
And still unhappy light displays
Thine image chambered in my brain.
And still it looks as when the hours
Went by like flights of singing birds,
On that soft chain of spoken flowers,
And airy gems, thy words.

THE CORAL GROVE.

BY JAMES PERCIVAL.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and grassy brine.
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow:
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;
There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the wave his own;
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore :
Then far below, in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly

Through the bending twigs of the Coral Grove.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

My mother's grave, my mother's grave! Oh! dreamless is her slumber there, And drowsily the banners wave

O'er her that was so chaste and fair Yea! love is dead, and memory faded! But when the dew is on the brake, And silence sleeps on earth and sea, And mourners weep, and ghosts awake, Oh! then she cometh back to me, In her cold beauty darkly shaded !

I cannot guess her face or form ;
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm

To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eyes or trailing tresses!
I only feel that she is here,

And that we meet, and that we part; And that I drink within mine ear, And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet, still voice, and soft caresses!

Not in the waking thought by day,
Not in the sightless dream by night,
To the mild tones and glances play

Of her who was my cradle's light!
But in some twilight of calm weather,
She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,
And all the passion of a dream,
Linked in the golden spell together!

ON A PICTURE.

How may this little tablet feign the features of a face, Which o'er-informs with loveliness its proper share of space;

Or human hands on ivory enable us to see

The charms, that all must wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee.

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories tells,

And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded crystal wells;

Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sky.

They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fair,

As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air ; But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought,

That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought.

The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now a memory to me, Who have upon life's frozen sea just reached the icy

spot,

Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot.

The sportive hopes that used to chase their shifting shadows on,

Like children playing in the sun, are gone for ever

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]
« ПредишнаНапред »