ページの画像
PDF
ePub

And now the polish'd, modern squire,
And his gay train appear,

Who duly to the Hall retire,

A season every year;

And fill the seats with belle and beau,
As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest,
Another and another guest.

The feather'd hearse and sable train,

In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,

And stand before the gate;
Brought many a distant country through,

To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray

Shine gaily o'er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,

Shall fill the squire's respected pew.

Death and Burial of a Child at Sea.

My boy refused his food, forgot to play,

And sicken'd on the waters, day by day; He smiled more seldom on his mother's smilc, He prattled less, in accents void of guile,

Death and Burial of a Child at Sea.

Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave
Where I, not he, was doom'd to be a slave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue:
Pale mourn'd the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,
Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I pass'd
O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Droop'd wan dejection, like a fading flower.
At length my boy seem'd better, and I slept-
Oh, soundly !—but, methought, my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep, and weep in vain
For one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to woe-
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again!”
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she cross'd,
And bending, kiss'd me with her lip of frost.
I waked; and at my side-oh! still and cold!—
Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?
Eager I snatch'd him from his swinging bed,
His limbs were stiff-he moved not-he was dead!
Oh! let me weep,-what mother would not weep,
To see her child committed to the deep?

No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid,
Nor pink, nor rose, droop'd on his breast display'd;
Nor half-blown daisy in his little hand :

Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land.

ΙΟΙ

amour'd death, with sweetly pensive grace, Was awful beauty to his silent face.

No more his sad eye look'd me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But which, though pale, seem'd half unclosed to speak,
Loiter'd a smile, like moonlight on the snow.

I gazed upon him still-not wild with fears—
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But as I gazed, a little lock of hair,

Stirr'd by the breeze, play'd trembling on his cheek;
O God! my heart !—I thought life still was there.
But to commit him to the watery grave,
O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave—
One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay,
Upraised the body; thrice I bade him stay;
For still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint :
While that stern weeper lower'd into the sea
My ill-starr'd boy! deep-buried deep, he slept.
And then I look'd to heaven in agony,

And pray'd to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!

Oh! had he lived to reach this wretched land,

And then expired, I would have bless'd the strand!
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;

I cannot come with broken heart to sigh

O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf;
His pillow hath no cover but the surf;

I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave.

The Battle of Hastings.

103

LON

The Battle of Hastings.

ONG, wild, and bloody was the day,
The morn had shot its purple ray
On Harold's helm of gold;

The noon had seen it red with gore,
At eve it lay on Hastings' shore,
In dust and slaughter roll'd.

Night fell: yet still the trumpet rang,
Still rose the axe and armour's clang,
Still twang'd the British bow;
Still did their bands unbroken keep
The march by hill and forest deep,
Like lions, stern and slow.

Beneath the torch and cresset's flame,
Heavy and spent, the Norman came
From that scarce conquer'd field;
And came his haughty chivalry,
With weary limb, and drooping eye,
And shatter'd helm and shield.

The tents were pitch'd, the feast was spread,
Was crown'd the monarch's feverish head;
And lovely o'er the throng,

As victor-boast and joyous roar

Sank down like waves upon the shore,

Was heard the minstrel's song.

Sweet stole the Jongleur's ancient strain,
"Of ladies' frowns, and lovers' pain,"
Till e'en the monarch smiled;
And every lord to some sweet name,
His day-star on the path to fame,
The golden beaker fill'd.

The Jongleur paused, he backward flung
The locks that darkly o'er him hung-
Then dash'd his eager hand

Through the rich tumult of the wires,
Till rush'd the sounds, like living fires,
Among the warrior band.

"Woe to the lands !" the minstrel sang,
"That hear the Norman rider's clang,
Their bloody doom is seal'd ;
With eye of flame, and voice of fear,
He comes, the breaker of the spear,
The scorner of the shield!

"Where lies, proud Greek, thy crescent vane?

Its silver light is on the wane

Where, Venice, is thy barge?

Illustrious harlot of the deep,

No longer shall thy banner sweep

The Adria's purple marge.

"Thou mother, queen of nations, Rome,
What arrow tore thy eagle's plume,
Now proudest, last of all?

Health to the king!—his wreath is won,
The Norman sits on England's throne,
The sovereign of the ball."

« 前へ次へ »