Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

What happy dreams, fair child, are given

To cast their sunshine o'er thee?

What cord unites that soul to Heaven?

What visions glide before thee? — For wandering smiles of cloudless mirth O'er thy glad features beaming,

Say, not a thought, a form of earth

[ocr errors]

Alloys thine hour of dreaming.

Mayhap, afar on viewless wings

Thy sinless spirit soaring,

Now hears the burst from golden strings

Where angels are adoring;

And with the pure heliacal throng,
Around their Maker praising,

Thy joyous heart may join the song
Ten thousand tongues are raising!

Sleep, lovely babe! - for time's cold touch

Will make these visions wither;

-

Youth, and the dreams that charm so much,

Shall fade and fly together.

Then, sleep, while sleep is pure and mild,

[ocr errors]

Ere earthly ties grow stronger,

When thou shalt be no more a child,

And dream of Heaven no longer.

LEIGH HUNT.

THOUGHT AND DEED.

FULL many a light thought man may cherish,
Full many an idle deed may do;

Yet not a deed or thought shall perish,
Not one but he shall bless or rue.

When by the wind the tree is shaken,
There's not a bough or leaf can fall,

But of its falling heed is taken

By One who sees, and governs all.

The tree may fall, and be forgotten,
And buried in the earth remain;

Yet, from its juices rank and rotten,
Springs vegetating life again.

The world is with creation teeming,
And nothing ever wholly dies;

And things that are destroyed in seeming,
In other shapes and forms arise.

And nature still unfolds the tissue,

Of works unseen, by spirit wrought;

And not a work but hath its issue

With blessings or with evil fraught.

Thou now may'st seem to leave behind thee All memory of the sinful past;

Yet, oh! be sure, thy sin shall find thee,

And thou shalt know its fruits at last.

ANONYMOUS.

THE WEEPER DEMENTED.

SAW ye the mourner, reclining

Where the damp earth was her bed,

Where the young ivy-vines twining,

Mantled the house of the dead?

Heard ye the voice of the weeper
Rise with the herald of day,

Calling aloud to the sleeper,-
Bidding him hasten away?

Felt ye her wild notes of sorrow
Thrilling the bosom to pain?

Dark is the wanderer's morrow,

Soon she'll be sleeping again. Dim is her life's glimmering taper; Fast is she sinking to rest!

Soon will the chill evening vapor

Gather, unfelt, o'er her breast.

« ПредишнаНапред »