« AnteriorContinua »
The Sick Child.
The mother, while its moan ascends,
Meanwhile, the little innocent
But who is there with aspect kind,
That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes,
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL
THOU! by whose expressive art
In union with the graces, start,
And sweeter by reflection please. In whose creative hand the hues,
Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine: I bless thee, Promethëan Muse,
And hail thee brightest of the Nine !
Possessing more than mortal power ;
Persuasive more than poet's tongue, Whose lineage in a raptured hour,
From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung: Does Hope her high possession meet ?
Is Joy triumphant ?-Sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.
But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear,
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart : Then for a beam of joy to light
In Memory's sad and wakeful eye; Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.
Shall Song its witching cadence roll,
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat ? That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat. What visions rise to charm, to melt !
The lost, the loved, the dead are near; Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt,
And cease that silence too severe.
But thou serenely silent art,
By Heaven and love both taught to lend A milder solace to the heart;
The sacred image of a friend; All is not lost if yet possess'd
For me that sweet memorial shine, If close and closer to my breast,
I hold the image all divine.
Or gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt over the departed form,
With life, and speech, and spirit warm;
Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or Glory's starry diadem.
Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid,
A treasure to my soul has given, When Beauty's canonised shade
Smiles through the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre form of pleasure fled,
Thy softening sweetening tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead,
Even in the loveliest form she wore.
Then bless'd be Nature's guardian Muse,
Whose hand her polish'd grace redeems; Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charm'd with gifts of thine, Shall bless thee, mutely eloquent,
And hail thee brightest of the Nine!
By Miss LANDON, (L. E. L.)
“ I know not which is the most fatal gift,
Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled
He was a lonely and neglected child:
His cheek was colourless, save when the flush Of strong emotion master'd its still whiteness : His dark eyes seem'd all heaviness and gloom, So rarely were they raised. His mother's love Was for her other children: they were fair, And had Health's morning hues and sunny looks. She had not seen him when he watch'd the sun Setting at eve, like an idolater, Until his cheek grew crimson in the light Of the so radiant heavens, and his eyes Were eloquently beautiful, all fill'd With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain's side Listening its low and melancholy song ; Or wander through the garden silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood : And there he dwelt, treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad