« 前へ次へ »
I've heard the myriad-voiced rills,
All Nature ministers to Hope.
for their lawless willAll prophesy of good. The hungry trill Of the lone birdie, cowering close below The dripping eaves-it hath a kindly feeling, And cheers the life that lives for milder hours. Why, then, since Nature still is busy healing, And Time, the waster, his own work concealing, Decks every grave with verdure and with flowers,— Why should Despair oppress immortal powers ?
BY A FRIEND.
I HAVE heard thy sweet voice in the song,
And listen'd with delight;
The fairest 'midst the bright:
And envied them the lot,
Alone regarded not.
Oh, Lady! it were vain, I own,
To hope for charms like thine !
Will frown on love like mine :
of sweetest hue, Were form'd some kingly throne to grace,
And not for me to sue.
Yet, though forbidden by despair
The dream of happier hours-
With Summer's brightest flowers
I 'll follow still, with love unseen,
Thy smile, thy voice's tone;
But worship thee alone.
No hope have I to live a deathless name,
A power immortal in the world of mind, A sun to light with intellectual flame
The universal soul of human kind.
Not mine the skill in memorable phrase,
The hidden truths of passion to reveal, To bring to light the intermingling ways,
By which unconscious motives darkling steal ;
To show how forms the sentient heart affect,
How thoughts and feelings mutually combine, How oft the pure, impassive intellect
Shares the mischances of his mortal shrine.
Nor can I summon from the dark abyss
Of time, the spirit of forgotten things, Bestow unfading life on transient bliss,
Bid memory live with "healing on its wings,"
Or give a substance to the haunting shades,
Whose visitation shames the vulgar earth, Before whose light the ray of morning fades,
And hollow yearning chills the soul of mirth.
I have no charm to renovate the youth
Of old authentic dictates of the heart,-
And out of Nature form creative Art.
Divinest Poesy !—'tis thine to make
Age young-youth old—to bafile tyrant Time, From antique strains the hoåry dust to shake,
And with familiar grace to crown new rhyme.
Long have I loved thee-long have loved in vain,
Yet large the debt my spirit owes to thee, Thou wreath’dst my first hours in a rosy chain,
Rocking the cradle of my infancy.
The lovely images of earth and sky
From thee I learn'd within my soul to treasure ; And the strong magic of thy minstrelsy
Charms the world's tempest to a sweet, sad measure.
Nor Fortune's spite, nor hopes that once have been
Hopes which no power of Fate can give again,Not the sad sentence, that my life must wean From dear domestic joys,—nor all the train
Of pregnant ills, and penitential harms
That dog the rear of youth unwisely wasted, Can dim the lustre of thy stainless charms,
Or sour the sweetness that in thee I tasted.
Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.
The birds piped mournfully; the dark green leaves
reckless ear received, And hearing, heard not,-—while my spirit grieved, Loving its grief, and feeding its disease. A mournful strain I conn'd-when she for whom I vext my soul, because she was conceal’d, Shone forth on high, to wondering sense reveald :“ Why ever thus,” said she, “ thy days consume ? Dying, I live,-and when I closed my eyes They open'd to the light of Paradise.”