« 前へ次へ »
The anguish, whose convulsive start
Still mocked and murdered struggling sleep.
Beleaguered Nature's strife to view,
And every pang so keenly share, That pity even from me was due,
Who lay the wretch of wretches there.
In that dark hour, when every tie,
When life itself was all but riven, Thou stood'st a guardian angel by.
That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven.
Or, with unwearied labour, prest
The nerve where agonies were born,' Soothing my midnights—not of rest
Nor anxious for relief at morn.
And she-one other not less dear,
Oh! can her love forgotten be!
Shared all thy toils and tears for me.
Like chords in music's holiest mood,
Mingling, but sweeter from controul, Twin forms of mercy! there ye stood,
Breathing one fond, devoted soul !
Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath,
And scarcely aught in heaven above, Can match the purity, the faith,
The blessing, of a sister's love!
Take, thou, the fond return of mine,
'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give, Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine,
And life itself it must outlive.
A DRINKING SONG.
BY LORD BYRON.
Fill the goblet again, for I never before
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ;
In the bright days of youth-when the heart's in its spring,
The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange ;
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Then the season of Youth and its jollities past,
When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth,
Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown,
ON JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
If ever lot was prosperously cast,
If ever life was like the lengthened flow
'Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below.
The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles;
And stirs its languid surface into smiles ;
Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;
The happy grateful spirit that improves,
And brightens every gift by fortune given,
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven.
All these were his.--Oh! thou who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
That ye, like him may live, like him may die.
BY J. MOIR, ESQ.
She was a thing of morn—with the soft calm
Where no rude breath of passion came to chase,
As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,
A brighter hue the lingering wild flowers wore,
Then came Consumption with her languid moods,
The words of Hope, even while she passed away
She died in the bud of Being,~in the spring,
The loved of Heaven, ere yet the hand of Care
They fade away and scape what others feel,-
They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead,
Like evening's rose-light when the summer day
INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MATTHIAS.
BY THE REV. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.
HERE in these groves, of every Muse the haunt,
By life's rough tempests shattered and opprest,
Torquato from his toils aspired to rest,
Still, the sweet Sirens hold; and, by the side
Of echoing streams, the swan in stately pride
Then, Stranger, whether from the icy pole
Buoyant of heart-or where the blazing noon
Scorches swart Afric's race, thou sojourn'st here,
And o'er the bust of Sebeth's glorious son
Strew pious flowers, and shed the holy tear. Literary Museum.