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POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.

When they have been too often crush'd to earth,

523

| Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
It is their fiercest enemy;

For further blindness to their little worth,-
When fond illusions have dropt one by one,
Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none
Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,—She flung her down in her despair!
And this is all what time will ever bring.
-And that fair girl,-what can the heart
foresee

He of the charm'd and deadly steel,
Whose stroke was never known to heal,-
He of the sword sworn not to spare,—

Of her young love, and of its destiny?
There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its

form

Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm;
It is an omen, it may tell the fate
Of love known all too soon, repented all too

late.

The dying chief sprang to his knee,
And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully;
But his gash'd arm, what is it now?
Livid his lip, and black his brow,
While over him the slayer stood,
As if he almost scorn'd the blood

That cost so little to be won,

He strikes, the work of death is done!

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THEY fled, for there was for the brave
Left only a dishonour'd grave.
The day was lost; and his red hand
Was now upon a broken brand,
The foes were in his native town,

The gates were forced, the walls were down,
The burning city lit the sky,—
What had he then to do but fly;
Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet
Revenge might strike, or peace forget!

They fled, for she was by his side,
Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,—
Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone,
Or linger'd only with that one.
They hasten'd by the lonely way
That through the winding forest lay,
Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind,
And shout and shriek came on the wind;
And twice the warrior turn'd again
And cursed the arm that now in vain,
Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp
The sword that trembled in its clasp.

At last they reach'd a secret shade
Which seem'd as for their safety made;
And there they paused, for the warm tide
Burst in red gushes from his side,
And hung the drops on brow and cheek,
And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak.
She took her long dark hair, and bound
The cool moss on each gaping wound,
And in her closed-up hands she brought
The water which his hot lip sought,—
And anxious gazed upon his eye,
As asking, shall we live or die?
Almost as if she thought his breath
Had power o'er his own life and death.

But, hark!—'tis not the wind deceives, There is a step among the leaves:

THE FAIRY-QUEEN SLEEPING.

BY STOTHARD.

She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt
Of the spring-wind in its first sunshine-hour,
For the luxuriant strawberry-blossoms spread
Like a snow-shower there, and violets
Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume
About her pillow,-link'd in a gay band
Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards,
Her lithe and rainbow elves.

We have been o'er land and sea,
Seeking lovely dreams for thee,-
Where is there we have not been
Gathering gifts for our sweet queen?
We are come with sound and sight
Fit for fairy's sleep to-night;-
First around thy couch shall sweep
Odours, such as roses weep
When the earliest spring-rain
Calls them into life again;
Next upon thine ear shall float
Many a low and silver note,
Stolen from a dark-eyed maid
When her lover's serenade,
Rising as the stars grew dim,
Waken'd her from thoughts of him;
There shall steal o'er lip and cheek
Gales, but all too light to break
Thy soft rest, such gales as hide
All day orange-flowers inside,
Or that, while hot noontide, dwell
And before thy sleeping eyes
In the purple hyacinth-bell;
Shall come glorious pageantries,—
Palaces of gems and gold,
Such as dazzle to behold,-
Gardens, in which every tree
Seems a world of bloom to be,-
Fountains, whose clear waters show
The white pearls that lie below.—
During slumber's magic reign
Other times shall live again;
First thou shalt be young and free
In thy days of liberty,—

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Which send sweet messages upon the breeze
To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek,
When inward thoughts in outward blushes
speak.

Beneath 's a silken couch, just fit to be
A snowy shrine for some fair deity;
And there a beauty rests, lovely as those
Enchanted visions haunting the repose
Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut
To dream that love they have but dream'd
as yet;-

But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be
A happiness but made for phantasie!
And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye
Seems as it read in them her destiny.
She knew whose hand had gather'd them,
she knew

Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and hue.

Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own,
But only to the spring and summer known.
Ah! little marvel in such clime and age
As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage,
That we should daily hear that love is fled,
And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings
dead.

Not for the cold, the careless to impart,
By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart:
But surely in the countries where the sun
Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,-
Where love is as a mystery and a dream,
One single flower upon life's troubled stream;
There, there, perchance, may the young
bosom thrill,

Feeling and fancy linger with love still.

She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are there That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour; Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow: For there are hope and constancy beside, And are not these to happiness allied? And yet upon that maiden's cheek is caught A summer - evening's shade of pensive thought, As if these large soft eyes knew all their fate, How the heart would its destiny create,— At once too tender, and too passionate;Too made for happiness to be happy here, An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.And those dark eyes, so large, so soft, so bright,

So clear as if their very tears were light-
They tell that destiny;-art thou not one
To whom love will be like the summer-sun
That feeds the diamond in the secret mine,
Then calls it from its solitude to shine,
And piece by piece be broken? Watch the
bloom,

And mark its fading to an early tomb,
And read in the decay upon it stealing
Of thy own wasted hope and wither'd
feeling ;-

Ay, fitting messengers for love! as fair,
As quickly past as his own visions are;-
Fling, fling the flowers away!

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

BY DANBY.

AND there the island lay, the waves around Had never known a storm; for the northwind

Was charm'd from coming, and the only airs That blew brought sunshine on their azure wings,

Or tones of music from the sparry caves, Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink conch.

These were sea-breezes,—those that swept the land

Brought other gifts,—sighs from blueviolets, Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright

rose,

Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face
Was but a single ripple that was made
By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings
Shone like a meteor on the stream: around,
Upon the golden sands, were coral plants,
And shells of many colours, and sea-weeds,
Whose foliage caught and chain'd the
Nautilus,

Where lay they as at anchor. On each side
Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps

POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.

Of the green marble; and a lovely light, Like the far radiance of a thousand lamps, Half-shine, half-shadow, or the glorious track

Of a departing star but faintly seen In the dim distance, through those caverns shone,

And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'd to hide

Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft bells

To call the bees from the anemone,
Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth.
-Amid those arches floated starry shapes,
Just indistinct enough to make the eye
Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front,
Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans,
There lay a lovely figure,-she was queen
Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised
From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her:
And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea,
The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves.

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I live in the depths of the tulip's bower,
I wear a wreath of the cistus-flower,
I drink the dew of the blue harebell,
I know the breath of the violet well,-
The white and the azure violet,

But I know not which is the sweetest yet,—

I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose,

I have watch'd the lily unclose,

My silver mine is the almond-tree,

SECOND FAIRY.

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My dwelling is in the serpentine
Of the rainbow's colour'd line,—
See how its rose and amber clings
To the many hues of my radiant wings;
Mine is the step that bids the earth
Give to the iris-flower its birth,
And mine the golden cup to hide,
Where the last faint hue of the rainbow
died.

Search the depths of an Indian mine,
Where are the colours to match with mine?

CHORUS.

Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer-rose is singing.

THIRD FAIRY.

I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute,
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute,
Linger I over the tones that swell
From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-
shell;

I love the sky-lark's morning-hymn,
Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain's melody,-
These, oh! these are the spells for me!

CHORUS.

Hail to the summer-night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.

FOURTH FAIRY.

My palace is in the coral-cave
Set with spars by the ocean-wave;
Would ye have gems, then seek them there,—
There found I the pearls that bind my hair.
I and the wind together can roam
Over the green waves and their white foam,-
See, I have got this silver shell,
Mark how my breath will its smallness swell,
For the Nautilus is my boat

In which I over the waters float,-
The moon is shining over the sea,
Who is there will come sail with me?

CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Who will come dwell with flower and me? Our noontide-sleep is on leaf and flower,

CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Dance we our round, 'tis a summer-night, And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.

Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,-
What is there sweet, what is there fair,
And we are not the dwellers there?
Dance we round, for the morning-light,
Will put us and our glow-worm-lamps to

flight!

A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE FROM | Isles of cinnamon and spice,

A HAWK.

BY STEWARDSON.

Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,

Ay, screen it if you may,

Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand
Will scare the hawk away.

Shadow each of Paradise,

Where the flowers shine with dyes,
Tinted bright from the sun-rise,—
Where the birds which drink their dew,
Wave wings of yet brighter hue,
And each river's course is roll'd
Over bed of pearl and gold!

Oh! for those lime-scented groves

That dove will die, that child will weep,- Where the Spanish lover roves,

Is this their destinie?

Ever amid the sweets of life

Some evil thing must be.

Ay, moralize,-is it not thus

We 've mourn'd our hope and love? Alas! there's tears for every eye, A hawk for every dove!

CUPID AND SWALLOWS FLYING FROM WINTER.

BY DAGLEY.

AWAY, away, o'er land and sea,
This is now no home for me;
My light wings may never bear
Northern cloud or winter-air.
Murky shades are gathering fast,
Sleet and snow are on the blast;
Trees from which the leaves are fled,
Flowers whose very roots are dead,
Grass of its green blade bereft,
These are all that now are left.
-Linger here another day,
I shall be as sad as they;

My companions fly with spring,

I too must be on the wing.

Tuning to the western star,

His soft song and light guitar,—
Where the dark-hair'd girls are dancing,
Fairies in the moonlight glancing,
With pencill'd brows, and radiant eyes,
Like their planet-lighted skies!
Or those clear Italian lakes
Where the silver cygnet makes
Its soft nest of leaf and flower,
A white lily for its bower!
Each of these a home would be,
Fit for beauty and for me:

I must seek their happier sphere
While the Winter lords it here.

LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE.

BY W. J. THOMSON.

Ay, surely it is here that Love should come, And find (if he may find on earth) a home; Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame That cling like shadows to his very name

Young Love, thou art belied: they speak
of thee,

And couple with thy mention misery;
Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom,

Where are the sweet gales whose song The spirit blighted, and the early tomb;

Wont to waft my darts along?
Scented airs! oh, not like these,
Rough as they which sweep the seas;
But those sighs of rose which bring
Incense from their wandering.
Where are the bright flowers that kept
Guard around me while I slept?
Where the sunny eyes whose beams
Waken'd me from my soft dreams ?—
These are with the swallows gone,-
Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.

Oh! for some sweet southern clime, Where 'tis ever summer-time,Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb Is amid new birth of bloom,Where green leaves are ever springing, Where the lark is always singing,One of those bright isles which lie Fair beneath an azure sky,

As if these waited on thy golden lot,They blame thee for the faults which thou hast not.

Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee The soil and weight of their mortality? How can they hope that ever links will hold Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold?

Or worse than even this, how can they think That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air? Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate,

And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain,

And nought of life is real but its pain; Where the young spirit's high imaginings Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;

POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.

Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be

A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none must wander from the beaten road,

All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad.
It is not made for thee, young Love! away
To where the green earth laughs to the
clear day,

To the deep valley, where a thousand trees
Keep a green court for fairy-revelries,—
To some small island on a lonely lake,
Where only swans the diamond-waters break,
Where the pines hang in silence o'er the tide
And the stream gushes from the mountain-
side;

These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude?

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It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content, Hopeless, for love is its own element,Requiring nothing so that it may be The martyr of its fond fidelity.

▲ mystery art thou, thou mighty one! We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs

Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs, And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; Yet all deny their master,-who will own His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?

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'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside The masque and mantle that love wears from pride,

How much would be, we now so little guess, Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought

recess.

The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,
The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,—
And for a cloak what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow,
But rainbow-words,light laugh, and thought-
less jest,

These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form
Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's
storm,

Has hidden well her wound,-now none are nigh To mock with curious or with careless eye, (For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes, Strikes at the root of its best happiness, And mockery is worm-wood) she may dwell On feelings which that picture may not tell.

NYMPH AND ZEPHYR.

A STATUARY GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT.

AND the summer-sun shone in the sky,
And the rose's whole life was in its sigh,
When her eyelids were kiss'd by a morning-
beam,

And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit dream;

For she had watch'd the midnight-hour Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping flower;

But now she had waken'd, and light and dew Gave her morning-freshness and morninghue,

Up she sprang, and away she fled O'er the lithe grass-stem and the blossom's head,

From the lilies' bells she dash'd not the spray, For her feet were as light and as white as they.

Sudden upon her arm there shone
A gem with the hues of an Indian stone,
And she knew the insect-bird whose wing
Is sacred to PSYCHE and to Spring;
But scarce had her touch its captive prest,
Ere another prisoner was on her breast,
And the Zephyr sought his prize again,—
No, said the Nymph, thy search is vain:
And hér golden hair from its braided yoke
Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke:
And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize
Over the pleasure that from thee flies;
Then it is pleasure,- for we possess
But in the search, not in the success.

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