« 前へ次へ »
“To friendship didst thou trust thy fame,
A surer blow?
“Live !—and repine not o'er his loss,
For friendship's gold.
“Seek the true treasure, seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.
“Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the fair one faithless prove? Hath she betrayed thee with her smile,
And sold thy love?
“Live !_’T was a false bewildering fire :
But kills the heart !
“ Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening Beauty's eye! To ask,—and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply!
“A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
In woman's love.
“ Whate'er thy lot,-- whoe'er thou be, -
The hand of GOD.
“ A bruised reed He will not break;
He wounds to heal !
“Humbled beneath His mighty hand, Prostrate, His providence adore : 'T is done !-Arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more.
“Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.
“ There is a calm for those who weep,
Low in the ground,
“The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day!
“The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die!"
"Ah! who would love the lyre !"_W. B. STEVENS.
WHERE the roving rill meandered
Down the green retiring vale,
Pale with thought, serenely pale :
Breathed a melancholy grace,
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
While at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon, And all the stars around his head, Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed :
“Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart !
We must ever, ever part :
Woos in vain thine heavenly strings ;
“That which Alexander sighed for,
That which Cæsar's soul possessed,
Glory !- animates my breast :
Pour their death-defying notes : 'To arms !' they call : to arms fly, Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die !
“ Soft!-the blood of murdered legions
Sunimons vengeance from the skies;
All in awful judgment rise !-
I will wrestle with the wave;
“Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore,
Indian realms their treasures pour ;
Rich in honesty and wealth,
"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing :
I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand ;--
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sighed to every passing breeze,
Of the patriarch of trees ;
Now no more to rapture strung ;
Lightly touched by fairy fingers,
Hark! the Lyre enchants the wind;
Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstacies expire ;
Poor Alcæus grasps the Lyre !
In a tempest o'er the strings ; He strikes the chord so quick, so loud, ’T is Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud !
“Lyre ! O Lyre ! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
We will never, never part !
Tempt me to the field, the main ;
“What though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine ?
Heaven—that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed,— Heaven gave this Lyre !—and thus decreed, • Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed !'”
REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER.
AH! why, unfeeling Winter! why
Still flags thy torpid wing ?
And yield the year to Spring.
An exile in disgrace,
Nor finds a resting-place.
Alights her fairy form,
Around her rolls the storm.
If to the valley she repair
For shelter and defence,
And drives her, weeping, thence.
Of her unmindful grown,
And lingers into stone.
She woes her embryo-flowers in vain
To rear their infant heads ;-
Enchanted in their beds.
In vain she bids the trees expand
Their green luxuriant charms ;-