« 前へ次へ »
But every feather of thy wing
Be quickened where it lies, And at the soft return of spring,
A fragrant cowslip rise !
Few were thy days, thy pleasures few,
Simple and unconfined;
Nor left a care behind.
In spring to build thy curious nest,
And woo thy merry bride,
Was all thy humble pride.
Happy beyond the lot of kings,
Thy bosom knew no smart,
From thy dissevered heart.
When late, to secret griefs a prey,
I wandered slowly here,
Like magic, won mine ear.
Perhaps 't was thy last evening song,
That exquisitely stole
And harmonized my soul.
Now, blithe musician ! now no more
Thy mellow pipe resounds,
And yonder howl the hounds :
The hounds, that through the echoing wood
The panting hare pursue ;
-The voice of glory too !
Here at my feet thy frail remains,
Unwept, unburied lie,
Yet could the muse, whose strains rehearse
Thine unregarded doom, Enshrine thee in immortal verse,
Kings should not scorn thy tomb.
Though brief as thine my tunesul date,
When wandering near this spot, The sad memorials of thy fate
Shall never be forgot.
While doomed the lingering pangs to feel
Of many a nameless fear,
And drop one willing tear.
A MIDNIGHT THOUGHT.
In a land of strange delight,
My transported spirit strayed, I awake where all is night,
Silence, solitude, and shade.
Is the dream of Nature flown?
Is the universe destroyed, Man extinct, and I alone
Breathing through the formless void ?
No :—my soul, in God rejoice ;
Through the gloom His light I see, In the silence hear His voice,
And His hand is over me.
When I slumber in the tomb,
He will guard my resting-place; Fearless in the day of doom,
May I stand before His face !
Night is the time for rest ;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed !
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
Mix in fantastic strife;
Night is the time for toil ;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
The joys of other years;
Night is the time to watch ;
O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, ʼmidst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.
Night is the time to think ;
When, from the eye, the soul
Of yonder starry pole,
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew
So will His followers do,
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
From sin and suffering cease,
Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet,
Thou dust that once hadst breath!
In this small hill of death?
The Mole, that scoops with curious toil
Her subterranean bed,
And mines among the dead.
But, oh! where'er she turns the ground,
My kindred earth I see;
Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.
Like me, these elder-born of clay
Enjoyed the cheerful light,
Far in the regions of the morn
The rising sun surveys Palmyra's palaces forlorn,
Empurpled with his rays.
The spirits of the desert dwell
Where Eastern grandeur shone, And vultures scream, hyænas yell
Round Beauty's mouldering throne.
There the pale pilgrim, as he stands,
Sees, from the broken wall,
Ere the loose fragment fall.
Destruction joys, amid those scenes,
To watch the sport of Fate,
And bows them with his weight.
But towers and temples crushed by Time,
Stupendous wrecks! appear To me less mournfully sublime Than the poor Molehill here.
Through all this hillock's crumbling mould
Once the warm life-blood ran; Here thine original behold,
And here thy ruins, Man!
Methinks this dust yet heaves with breath:
Ten thousand pulses beat ;
How many mortals meet ?
By wafting winds and flooding rains
From ocean, earth, and sky, Collected here, the frail remains
Of slumbering millions lie.
What scene of terror and amaze
Breaks through the twilight gloom?