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When they have been too often crush'd to
earth. 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,— And this is all what time will ever bring. —And that fair girl,—what can the heart
foresee Of her young love, and of its deatiny? There is • white cloud o'er the moon, its
form la very light, and yet there sleeps the storm; It ia an omen, it may tell the fate Of love known all too soon, repented all too
Turn fled,—for there waa for the brave
Left only a dishonour'd grave.
The day was lost; and his red hand
Waa 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 lie 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 !—His not the wind deceives, There ia a step among the leaves:
Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
The dying chief sprang to his knee,
THE FAIRY-QUEEN SLEETING.
She lav upon ■ basic, the favourite hannt
We have been o'er land and sen,
Then again be woo'd and won
THE ORIENTAL NOSEGAY.
Through the light curtains came the perfumed air, And flung them back and show'd a garden,
where The eye could just catch glimpses of those
trees 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 lit 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 loye they have but dream'd
as yet;— But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be A happiness but made for phantasic! 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 ape 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 rail? A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are then That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower. Whose dim blue colour speak* an absent hoar; 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 ranrht A summer - evening's shade of pensu
thought, As if these large soft eyes knew all their fat'. 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, n
bright, So clear as if their very tears -were light— They tell that destiny;—art thou not oat To whom love will be like the summer-tin That feeds the diamond in the secret nu'ir. Then calls it from its solitude to shine. And piece by piece be broken? Watch tht
And mark its fading to an early tomb.
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.
And there the island lay, the waves around
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 blurt iolets. 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 winp Shone like a meteor on the stream: around. Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, And shells of many colours, and sea-weeds. Whoso foliage caught and chain'd the
Nautilus, Where lay they as at anchor. On each side Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps Of the green marble; and a lovely light, Like- tlie far radiance of a thousand lamps, Hiilf-shinc, half-shadow, or the glorious
track Of a departing star hut 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 rivals1 golden wealth. —Amid those arches floated starry shapes, Just indistinct enough to make the eye Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front, Home 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
She 'was the daughter of a king, and loved By a young Ocean-Spirit from her birth,— He hover'd o'er her in her infancy, And bade the rose grow near her, that her
cheek Might catch its colour, — lighted up her
dreams With fairy-wonders, and made harmony The element in which she moved; at last, When that she turn'd away from earthly love, Knamour'd of her visions, he became Visible with his radiant wings, and bore His bride to the fair island.
FAIRIES ON THE SEA-SHORE.
My home and haunt are in every leaf, Whose life is a summer-day, bright and
brief,— I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, I wear a wreath of the cistus-llower, 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,
Who will come dwell with flower and me?
CRORITS OF FAIRIES.
Dance we our round, 'tis a summer-night, And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.
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?
Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer-rose is singing.
I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute,
Hail to the summer-night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.
My palace is in the coral-rave
Set with spars by the ocean-wave;
Would ye have gems,thcn seek them there,—
There found I the pearls that bind my hair.
I and the wind together can mam
Over the green waves and their white foam,—
Sec, 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.
Our noontide-sleep is on leaf and flower,
A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE FROM A HAWK.
Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,
Ay, screen it if yon may,—
Will scare the hawk away.
That dove will die, that child will weep,—
Is this their destinie?
Some evil thing must he.
Ay, moralize,—is it not thus
We 've mourn'd our hope and love?
Alas! there 's tears for every eye,
CUPID AND SWALLOWS FLYING FROM WINTER.
Away, away, o'er land and sea,
Where are the sweet gales whose song
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.
Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Oh! for those lime-scented grovea
LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE
BY W. 1. THOMSON.
Ay, surely it is here that Love should i
Young Love, thou art belied: they spetl
of thee. And couple with thy mention misery; Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom. The spirit blighted, and the early tomb; 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 T How can they hope that ever links will lioli! Form'd, as they form them now, of the harth
gold? Or worse than even this, now can they thinV 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 '•
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 imagining Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;
Where, think or feel, you are forcdoom'd
to be A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none mast wander from the beaten
road,— AU alike champ the hit, and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away To where the green earth laugha 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, W here only swans the diamond-waters break, Where the pines hang in silence o'er the tide And the stream gushes from the mountainside; These, Love, are haunts for thee; where
canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude?
A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS.
Shk was just risen from her bended knee, But yet peace seem'd not with her piety; For there was paleness upon her young
cheek, And thoughts upon the lips which never
speak, But wring the heart that at the last they
break. Alas! how much of misery may be read In that wan forehead, and that bow'd-down
head;— Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever Love should thus struggle with a vain
endeavour Against itself: it is a common tale, And ever will be while earth-soils prevail Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove With silent, secret, unrequited love.
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. A 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
"Tis strange to think if we con 1*1 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 undrcam'd, unsought
The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,
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 WBSTMACOTT.
And the summer-sun shone in the sky,
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 Psychb 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 her golden hair from its braided yoke Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke: And instead, fair hoy, 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.