Those songs ;—but she looked up to him with all
Youth's deep and passionate idolatry ;-
Love was her heart's sole universe—he was
To her, Hope, Genius, Energy,—the God
Her inmost spirit worshipped,—in whose smile
Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious ; praise
Was prized but as the echo of his own.
But other times and other feelings came :-
Hope is love's element, and love with her
Sickened of its own vanity.-She lived
Mid bright realities and brighter dreams,
Those strange but exquisite imaginings
That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts ;
And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path;
And strangers heard her

that never
Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her.
Her first love never wholly lost its power,
But, like rich incense shed, although no trace
Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness
Mingled with every feeling, and it gave
That soft and melancholy tenderness
Which was the magic of her song.–That Youth
Who knelt before her was so like the shape
That haunted her spring dreams the same dark eyes,
Whose light had once been as the light of heaven !
Others breathed winning flatteries, she turned
A careless hearing ;--but when Phaon spoke,
Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light
Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer.-
She loved with all the ardour of a heart
Which lives but in itself; her life had passed
Amid the grand creations of the thought.
Love was to her a vision ;-it was now
Heightened into devotion.-But a soul
So gifted and so passionate as her's
Will seek companionship in vain, and find
Its feelings solitary.-Phaon soon
Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ;

name, and


And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame,
May not soothe slighted love.

There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea;
'Twas there love's last song echoed :-there She sleeps,
Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name
Will be remembered long as Love or Song

Are sacred—the devoted Sappho !
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.


FAREWELL, my Lute!-and would that I

Had never waked thy burning chords !
Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame

Thy power, thy spell, my gentle lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,

Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ;
It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song.

If song be past, and hope undone,

And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one !

But, no! I will not name thy name!

Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vowed to thee!

Long be their light upon my grave-
My glorious grave.

Yon deep blue sea !
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!

L. E. L.



Pomp of Egypt's elder day,
Shade of the mighty passed away,
(Whose giant works still frown sublime
Mid the twilight shades of Time,)
Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude,
That strew the sandy solitude,
Lo! before our startled eyes,
As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,
Glimmering larger through the gloom !
While on the secrets of the tomb,
Rapt in other times, we gaze,
The Mother. Queen of ancient days,
Her mystic symbol in her hand,
Great Iris, seems herself to stand.

From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim,
Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn ?
And saw ye not in order dread
The long procession of the dead ?
Forms that the night of years concealed,
As by a flash, are here revealed ;
Chiefs who sang the victor song,
Sceptred Kings,ếa shadowy throng,—
From slumber of three thousand years
Each, as in light and life, appears,
Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast,
Three thousand years have silent passed,
Suns of Empire risen and set
(Whose story Time can ne'er forget,)
Time, in the morning of her pride,
Immense, along the Nile's green side,
The City* of the Sun appeared,
And her gigantic image reared.


As Memnon, like a trembling string
When the Sun, with rising ray
Streaked the lonely desert grey,
Sent forth its magic murmuring,
That just was heard,—then died away ;
So passed, oh! Thebes! thy morning pride !
Thy glory was the sound that died !
Dark city of the desolate,
Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great !
This busy-peopled isle was then
A waste, or roamed by savage men
Whose gay descendants now appear
To mark thy wreck of glory here.

Phantom of that city old,
Whose mystic spoils I now behold,
A kingdom's sepulchre,—oh say,
Shall Albion's own illustrious day,
Thus darkly close ? Her power, her fame
Thus pass away, a shade, a name ?-
The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke ;
A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke ;
It answered not, but pointed as it fled
To the black carcase of the sightless dead.
Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife,

And the streets ringing to the stir of life.
Literary Gazette.


I saw a falling leaf soon strew

The soil to which it owed its birth :
I saw a bright star falling too

But never reach the quiet earth.
Such is the lowly portion blest,

Such is ambition's foiled endeavour ;
The falling leaf is soon at rest,

While stars that fall, fall on for ever! HELVELLYN.


HELVELLYN! blue Helvellyn! Hill of hills !
Giant amongst the giants ! Lift thy head
Broad in the sun-light! no loose vapour dims
Thy barren grandeur; but, with front severe,
Calm, proud, and unabashed, thou look’st upon
The heights around—the lake and meadows green,
Whereon the herded cattle, tiny things,
Like flowers upon the sunny landscape lie ;
Behind thee cometh quick the evening pale,
Whilst in the west an amphitheatre
Of crags (such as the Deluge might have washed
In vain,) against the golden face of heaven
Turns its dark shoulder, and insults the day.

With no imposing air, no needless state,
Thou risest, blue Helvellyn ;—no strange point
Lends thee distinction, no fantastic shape
Marks thee a thing whereon the mind must rest ;
But in thine own broad height, peerless and vast,
Leviathan of mountains ! thou art seen
Fairly ascending, amidst crags and hills
The mightiest one,-associate of the sky !

I see thee again, from these bleak sullen moors,
Boundless and bare,_long, dreary, wintry wastes,
Where the red waters lie stagnant, amidst
Black rocks, and treacherous moss, and rushes white
With age, or withered by the bitter blast
Thou lookest out on thy huge limbs that lie
Sleeping far, far beneath; and on the plains
Below, and heaven which scarcely o'er thy head
Lifts its blue arch; and on the driven clouds
That loiter round thee, or impetuous burst
About thy summit with their stormy showers.

« 前へ次へ »