Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast- Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, To rise before me-rise, O ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! COLERIDGE. CASABIANCA. THE boy stood on the burning deck, The flame that lit the battle wreck, Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A creature of heroic blood, The flames roll'd on-he would not go, He called aloud,-" Say, father, say, 'If I may yet be gone! And"-but the booming shots replied, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And looked, from that lone post of death, And shouted but once more aloud, My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud, They wrapped the ship in splendour wild; Then came a burst of thundering sound- Ask of the winds that far around With mast and helm, and pennon fair, Was that young faithful heart. MRS. HEMANS. CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well, Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, Or whence this secret dread and inward horror 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter Eternity! thou pleasing dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; Through all her works), he must delight in virtue, But when, or where? This world was made for Cæsar. The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. ADIEU! adieu! My native shore Yon sun that sets upon the sea, A few short hours, and he will rise Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ADDISON. Come hither, hither, my little page, But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, "Am sorrowful in mind; "For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, "And have no friend save these alone, "But thee-and One above. "My father bless'd me fervently, "Yet did not much complain; "But sorely will my mother sigh, Till I come back again." 66 Enough, enough, my little lad, Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Or dost thou dread a French foeman, Will blanch a faithful cheek. "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Enough, enough, my yeoman good, For who would trust the seeming sighs Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, For pleasures past I do not grieve, And now I'm in the world alone, Perchance my dog will whine in vain, With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land-good night! GERTRUDE VON DER WART. BYRON. She is supposed to be standing near the rack on which her husband is perishing. HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, Up to the fearful wheel she gazed— All that she loved was there. |