« ПредишнаНапред »
The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part, And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.
When the flame of love is kindled first,
'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.
Or if, at times, its beams
Like shadows in our dreams.
But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,
That fell in its first warm hour, 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head,
Whose task is to destroy ; 'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,
Whose light is not of joy!
Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
The infant buds of Love,
Ere 'tis dark in clouds above ;
To shade thy future years,
Quenched only with thy tears.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
BYRON. There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes
away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's
dull decay. 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,
which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of
happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt on oceans of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in
vain, The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never
Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself
comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it may not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And, though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the
Tbough wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis
tract the breast, Though midnight hours thal yield no more their former
hope of rest ;
'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey
Oh I could I feel as I have felt-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish
though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would
flow to me.
L. E. LANDON.
Rushing, like uncurbed passion, through the rocks
When last I gazed, fair Tivoli,
I've smiled to see her sweet lips move,
How often have we past the noon
So very fair, oh! how I blest
Again her clear brow turned too clear ;
Long years have past, and toil and care
I stood here in my happy days,
Fair Tivoli, to me the scene
There is a change come o'er thy hills,
Back to the stirring world again,
Yes, thou art lovely, but, alas !
Long ago! oh, long ago!
Do not those words recall past years, And, scarcely kuowing why they flow,
Force to the eyes unbidden tears?