« 前へ次へ »
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. From COLERIDGE we gather a little gem composed in his most poetical mood. What a description of a tiny fountain! How many and beautiful the images it suggests to him.
This sycamore, oft musical with bees,-
TIMES GO BY TURNS. Tarning the thoughts back to the poets of old times, memory lights on a powerful composition by ROBERT SOUTHWELL. The singular condensation of language and ideas in the following poem will strike the least attentive reader. It would be well if, in this respect, our modern authors would follow the example of their predecessors. Writers of the present day are as diffuse as those of the Elizabethian age were sententious. The latter had more thoughts than words—the former have more words than thoughts—the one condensed an original idea into a single line-the others spread a single idea over a page.
The lopped tree in time may grow again ;
The sea of fortune doth not ever flow
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring-
A chance may win what by mischance was lost;
In a lighter strain, and for variety's sake, we introduce a short lyric by Mary HOWITT. We love it, because it is so simple and natural. There is no attempt to be fine or profound. The style befits the subject, and the verse is just that which such a scene would inspire. Therefore it is good poetry.
Long trails of cistus flowers
Creep on the rocky hill;
Grow round about the mill;
As peaceful as a dream,
Foams down the wild mill-stream!
In merriment away,
So busy all the day !
Into the mad mill-stream
The mountain roses fall;
Grow on the old mill-wall.
Where not a leaf doth grow ;
Down to the sea below;
The red trout groweth prime,
To angle when they've time.
That turns the mountain mill,
That windeth up the hill !
And to his old grey mare,
In storm as well as fair!
And good luck to the miller
And to the miller's son ;
While mountain waters run!
THE THREE SONS.
The author of this exquisite poem is the Rev. THOMAS MOULTRIE, and it was, we believe, a contribution to one of the annuals many years ago. It has been often reprinted in collections of fugitive poetry, and probably few or none of our readers are unacquainted with it. Most certainly it is entitled to a place among BEAUTIFUL POETRY, for few things more beautiful exist in our language. The conception of the poem is quite original ; the description of the three little boys is a picture for a painter ; the sentiment is extremely touching. Few who are parents could read it without a sympathetic sob. The simplicity of the language assorts well with the simplicity of the idea, and the pare spirit of pious resignation which it breathes-the consolation found by the Christian in the promises of his faith-is the poetry of religion. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle
mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish
years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency; But that which others most admire is the thought which
fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth
find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together
walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children
talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or
ball. But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext
the next; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to
pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words
which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years,
like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful
brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now ! I have a son-a second son-a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features beHow silver-sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my
knee. I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever
been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender
feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love
revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in
the street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and
sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone Will sing his little songs of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and
hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may
prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly
And if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell,