To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung Heaven and earth and sea! And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know With but one sense the soul may overflow. TO A STOLEN RING. OH for thy history now! Hadst thou a tongue Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear, As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast. I am impatient as I gaze on thee, Thou inarticulate jewel! Thou hast heard Lying beside her, trembled on her lip, And the warm tear that from her eye stole out As the soft lash fell over it, has lain, Amid thy shining jewels like a star. TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APPENINES. "Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst PHILIP SLINGSBY. 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on— The East is fleck'd with cloudy bars, And, gliding through them one by one, The light upon her placid brow Borrowed of fountains unseen now. |