Imatges de pÓgina
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Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshen'd fields,

The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast

A thousand fathoms down !

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds its span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age

That first spoke peace to man.

Callao in 1747.

By W. HOWITT.

'HE watchman stood upon the topmost tower

As he was wont, at eventide ; and then,
Had he been told 'twas to an enemy,

The Mermaid Tavern.

177

He would have laugh’d; for he enjoy'd a joke,
And everything was peace.

The air, the earth,
The peopled town beneath him, and the sea
All slumber'd in the beautiful repose
Of a clear summer evening. But, in troth,
There was an enemy, though there seem'd none.
And such an enemy—that, to it, the might
Of banded armies is but as a breath.
The watchman, gazing on the quiet sea,
Saw it at once recoil, as in affright--
Far off :-'twas in a moment—then, as soon-
Upward it rear'd its huge and mountainous bulk,
And with a horrid roar it swept along
Towards the town. He saw the people run-
He heard one vast and agonising cry
Of“ Mercy! Mercy !”—and then all was still.
There were no people-neither town nor tower;
But a wide ocean rolling its black waves
With nothing to resist them.;—and a boat-
A single boat, the only visible thing,
Tossing beside him. He sprang into it ;-
And now no longer warder in Calláo,
Through the lone wilderness of waves he drives,
Seeking a home ; for his, and all his race,
Are in the bottom of the eternal flood.

The Mermaid Tavern.

BY JOHN KEATS.

SOULS

OULS of poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?

M

Have ye tippled drink more nine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison ? O generous food !
Dress'd as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and boose from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Song.

TEL

'ELL me, now that thou art mine,

Why thou wert not sooner so: Did thy bosom ne'er repine,

When thy lips had answer'd-no?

Old Familiar Faces.

179

When I call'd up visions bright

From the realms of hope and bliss,
Did thy fancy shun the sight?

Did thy wishes fly my kiss ?

What ! and wouldst thou have me tell

How my foolish heart was won ?
Wouldst thou have me break the spell,

Ere its whole sweet work is done ?
Many a year the same light chain

That has bound me now should last;
And I fear 'twould fall in twain,

Were a glance but on it cast.

aid Familiar faces.

BY CHARLES LAMB.

I

HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

a

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

The Sick Child.

BY JOHN STRUTHERS.

IP

PASS'D the cot but yesterday,

'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay, All pleased and pleasing, void of guile, Pursuing sport or healthful toil.

To-day the skies are far more bright;
The woods pour forth more wild delight,
The air seems all one living hum,
And every leaflet breathes perfume.
Then why is silence in the cot,
Its wonted industry forgot,
The fire untrimm'd, the floor unred,
The chairs with clothes and dishes spread,
While, all in woful dishabille,
Across the floor the children steal ?
Alas! these smother'd groans! these sighs!
Sick, sick the little darling lies;

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