« AnteriorContinua »
THE THRUSH'S NEST.
I. Clare. WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a mole hill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the
sound With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day, How true she wrapped the moss to form her
nest, And modelled it within with wool and clay. And by-and-by, like heath bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as
flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;
And there I witnessed in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
TO THOSE DEPARTED.
That shuts the rose.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
WRITTEN ON A TOMBSTONE IN
இரா. Yes, they are still the same-the eternal sky, The circling hills that bound my native vale, The old familiar trees, the southern gale That steals from ocean's breast the rising sigh ; The winding stream whose murmuring lullaby Should woo my soul to peace; the joyful song Of close secluded bird, that all day long Pours forth his tender burst of minstrelsy; But oh! ye dear companions of my youth, Where are ye fed? I call—but to my voice Ye make no answer.-Melancholy truth! That nature should be changeless, but the joys That follow life so soon should pass away, While things so 'fair and sweet,' do bid them
ON READING THE LIFE OF MILTON.
So goes the world—some with a pen of iron
COMPOSED FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED
TO HER BROTHER.]
How many blessed groups this hour are
bending, Through England's primrose meadow paths,
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy
elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hal
low'd day! The Halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft
winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish
bed Of sickness bound. Yet, oh, my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath
hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings
still'd To one deep calm, of lowliest thankfulness.
Within thy airy shell,
Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcisssus are ?
Oh ! if thou have
Tell me but where
Byron. BETWEEN two worlds, life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's
verge. How little do we know that which we are,