Imatges de pàgina

When we reckon up the literary honours of a country, how large and conspicuous a share is divided amongst the poets : Let us turn either to the ancients or to the moderns, and the truth of this remark will be sufficiently obvious.


WHEN o'er this glimmering land of dreams
Life's morning meteors brightly play,
And hope's and fancy's blending beams
With hues celestial light the way,
How rich the varied prospect seems :
How like Enchantment's fair array !

Alas! full soon those glories fade,
Like rays that orient skies adorn,
As clouds on clouds in lurid shade
O'er all their azure depths are borne, \
And leave Life's traveller, spell-betrayed,
A darkened path—a heart forlorn 1

Ah, yes! though brightly Fancy glows,
And fair the light by young Hope shed,
More true though sad, the soul's repose
When o'er the past, by Memory led,
We greet each scene she fondly shows,
And see the faces of the dead


Close on the green marge of a lonely river Fed by the mountain torrent heard afar At hush of eve, a small white human nest, Half-buried in a wilderness of bowers, And but with broken sun-beams thinly specked, 'Neath Summer's brightest sky, like a faint light Piercing the gloom umbrageous, shineth pale, And on the cold wave's tremulous mirror throws A dream-like shadow dim. That silent shed As kindred to the sylvan landscape seems As the green covert where the timid deer Slumbers at noon, or clover-covered cell Where wearied e'en of sunshine and of song The skylark folds his wing. Its aspect wild Would charm a hermit's soul, and scarce recalls When the chance wanderer breaks the solitude A dream of social life There MAGDALINE, Fled from the false world’s glare, unsuited ever To grief's dark night, as radiance to the tomb, Her lone and widowed heart no longer stirred With one sweet joy domestic, day by day, Beneath its ivied porch, broods mournfully O'er happier hours departed. Oft she sighs To think how heavily and slow must fall Her last few sands of life. Though three fair youths Are mirrored still in her maternal breast, These all are far away! In foreign lands

They seek what fate denied them in their own.

* Suggested by a German story.

But life is fraught with change;—the stillest pool
Is sometimes ruffled by the gentle play
Of wandering zephyrs wild. So fortune's breath
May stir the sullen waters of despair,
'Till the dull surface dimple into smiles'
Though hope was shrouded like a Lapland sun,
And day seemed gone from earth, the mourner's soul
At last was touched with light ! One summer's eve,
Late lingering on her long-accustomed seat
Beneath the shaded threshold, tranquil thoughts,
Accordant with the landscape and the time,
Fell on her withering heart like holy dew ;
For Nature's tenderest influence benign
To that soft mood was ministrant. The scene
Might well have calmed a spirit ruder far,
And soothed less gentle sorrow. Fleecy clouds
Like white-robed phantoms fair, in radiant ranks
Close thronged the vault of heaven, whose azure tints
Gleamed out between like blue meandering veins
Of delicate marble. Fitfully the moon
Her beauty veiled, then gliding proudly forth
Again her glorious countenance revealed
To charm a subject world !

At such an hour
How strangely dissonant or unusual sounds
Flutter the dreaming soul . The silence deep
Was broken, as when frighted birds arise
From some still forest bower. A steed's quick tramp
Rang through the rural solitude around,
And MAGDALINE, up-starting with surprise,
Her pale hands folded on her heaving breast,
Peered through the verdant vista, lone and dim

That fronts her Cottage-home; when swift as thought,

Her strained eyes met the well-remembered form
Of him whose childhood's charms first taught her heart
A mother's transport Motionless awhile,
Spell-bound, she stood, struck mute with sudden joy!
Till as he knelt before her, a faint sigh,
And one full burst of tears, her brief trance broke,
And while serener rapture thrilled her frame
She sunk upon his breast.
“Kind Heaven,” she cried,
“Hath blessed my midnight dream, my daily prayer,
And not in cold neglect and solitude
I now shall journey onward to my grave.
But soothed and cherished by the light of love
E’en age may wear a charm ‘’’ And gently then
Her eldest born, the favored EBERT, spake—
“Fortune rewards my travel and my toil,
And fondly would my true heart now repay
The love maternal lavished on my life
Till youth was merged in manhood. Oh! no more
Echo the drear sighs of these river reeds,
Or the wild music of these mournful boughs,
That moan at every breezel Oh! quickly leave
This melancholy hermitage austere,
And share a social home !” With grateful heart
Glad MAGDALINE consents, and soon she smiles
Beneath a brighter roof. But not long there
Dwelt that shy guest, domestic happiness |
In EBERT's soul, with subtle poison fired,
Inebriate with a love far less divine,
The filial tie was loosened ; and his fate
In hour unblest was linked to one whose charms
Of outward form and feature, were the spell
That wrought his ruin. As a bright-hued cloud

May bear the brooding spirit of the storm,
His beauteous bride, alas! a soul betrayed
Unworthy of its radiant tenement;-
And poor insulted MAGDALINE returned
To the lone Cottage by the mountain stream.
That home was like her heart, almost a ruin,
And desolate as her doom. Dark moss had grown
O'er the discolored walls, and all around
Was rank luxuriance or drear decay.
In a forlorn monotony severe
The dull days passed. At length her younger boy,
BERTHold returned; a formal visit paid
And proffered gold, but not the filial love
More dear than precious gems. “Alas!” she cried,
“The bitter mockery of a mother's name,
But not one bliss maternal, now is mine;
My sole fair hope seems fading like a cloud
Above the setting sun. My darkened heart
Forbodes that HENRIC on the field of fame
Hath proudly breathed his last !” A dream confirmed
This mournful fear; a warrior on the ground
Lay bathed in blood and gazing on his face,
She saw—her son “Farewell! farewell !” she said,
Awaking wild, “at least thou hast not scorned
The grey hairs of thy parent.”

- Sorrow now
Wasted her aged form. At last e'er Fate
Had quenched life's tremulous flame, her HENRIC dear,
To make her dark dreams fade like morning mist,
Returned,—an honored soldier, one whose fame
Had raised his soul, but hardened not his heart.
With filial reverence he kissed her brow,
And when upon the broad light of his joy


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