ΤΟ Lord Byron, WHEN all around grew drear and dark, In that deep midnight of the mind, When fortune changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star Which rose and set not to the last. Oh! blest be thine unbroken light! And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray Then purer spread its gentle flame, And dashed the darkness all away. Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke, Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely treè, Its boughs above a monament. The winds might rend-the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. But thou and thine shall know no blight, For heaven in sunshine will requite Then let the ties of baffled love Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. And these, when all was lost beside, Were found and still are fixed in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried, Earth is no desert-ev'n to me. I SAW FROM THE BEACH. T. Moore. I saw from the beach when the morning was shining, I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us at eve, on the blank shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light. Oh who would not welcome that moment's returning, FRAGMENT. S. T. Coleridge, O LEAVE the lily on its stem, O leave the rose upon the spray, O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids, A cypress and a myrtle bough, This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fashioned mournfully, Its murmurs in the wind. And now a tale of love and woe, But most, my own dear Genevieve, Few sorrows hath she of her own, All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame O ever in my waking dreams, I dwell upon that happy hour, When midway on the Mount I sate, Beside the ruined Tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, She lean'd against the armed man,. I played a sad and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace,. For well she knew I could not chuse But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight who wore G |