Such now bedew my cheek-but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love,
That mingle human with divine,
The gift below, its source above.
How exquisitely dear thou art
Can only be by tears expressed,
And the fond thrillings of my heart,
While thus I clasp thee to my breast!
New Monthly Magazine.
THOU art not lost.-Thy spirit giveth
Immortal peace, and high it liveth!
Thou art not mute. With angels' blending,
Thy voice is still to me descending!
Thou art not absent.-Sweetly smiling,
I see thee yet, my griefs beguiling!
Soft, o'er my slumbers, art thou beaming,
The sunny spirit of my dreaming!
Thine eyelids seem not yet concealing
In death their orbs of matchless feeling;
Their living charms my heart still numbers ;—
Ah! sure they do but veil thy slumbers!
As kind thou art ;-for still thou'rt meeting
This breast which gives the tender greeting!
And shall I deem thee altered ?-Never!
Thou'rt with me waking-dreaming-ever!
FAREWELL!You have banished me then From my home, and the language of men Must come foreign and chill to my heart!— But you scorned-and 'twas time to depart.
I go, like the shadow that flies,
When night and her darknesses rise,
And there is not a star in the sky,
To light me on-even to die.
You have slighted me, cruel, and yet
I cannot disdain or forget,
For in hate you still keep your control,
And it lies like a chain on my soul.
And now for the storm and the breeze,
And the music that lives on the seas,
And the ever-green valleys that lie
('Midst the Alps) in the smile of the sky!
I shall stand on the mountain, and shout
To the stars as they wander about,
And perhaps THEY may stop at my call-
But thou wilt be brighter than all.
Oh! then why do I strive to remove
Thee? I lived on the thought of thy love
Once, and ever must think ('tis my fate)
Of Thee-though I think of thy hate.
Farewell! Thou hast struck in thy pride
A heart that for Thee would have died!
Yet I bear the reproach, as I go,
Of filling thy bosom with woe.
No matter! I have, and 'tis well,
A spirit that nothing shall quell !
And I know that, whatever my doom,
The laurel must spring from my tomb.
Literary Gazette.
BROUGHT FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
AND was thy home, pale withered thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky!
Wert thou a nursling of the Spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns, in golden light, e'en now,
Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave!
Those winds are breathing soft, but Thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave!
The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow
May cluster in their purple bloom;
But, on the mantling ivy-bough,
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.
Thy place is void!-Oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave, when they part their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf ere now hath sprung
On the green stem which once was thine ;-
When shall another strain be sung
Like his, whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ! Literary Gazette.
WHEN youth its fairy reign began,
Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man;
While peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely prospect smiled;
Then, Mary, 'mid my lightsome glee,
I heaved a painless sigh for thee!
When tossed upon the waves of woe, My harassed heart was doomed to know The frantic burst, the outrage keen, And the slow pang that gnaws unseen; Then, shipwrecked on life's stormy sea, I heaved an anguished sigh for thee.
But soon Reflection's power impressed,
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly hope with waning eye,
Was well content to droop and die;
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid sigh for thee.
And though in distant climes to roam, A wanderer from my native home, I fain would soothe the sense of care, And lull to sleep the joys that were! Thine image may not banished be, Still, Mary, still I sigh for thee! 1794.
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,—
Greek sculpture ;-in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled, overflowed it;
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing, unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees-discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down, admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a maid a-Maying.
The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approached
The hour for stir and village gossip there,
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and, lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared,—
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.
At length there came the loveliest of them all,
Her little brother dancing down before her;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there
She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink ;
* Near Mola di Gaeta, in the kingdom of Naples.
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