ページの画像
PDF
ePub

LINES,

WRITTEN BY THE SEA SIDE.

BY WILLIAM JERDAN, ESQ.

HASTINGS, upon thy coast I stood,-
Still onward, onward rolled the flood:
'Tis trite, but who can see that strife
Of waves, nor think on human life?
Oh, awful likeness! how they pass,
A rippling undistinguished mass,
Fretting the surface, and no more,
Till lost upon the' oblivious shore.

And Fancy, how thou turn'st my brain!
I trace each billow of the main :
'Tis individual, and its span
Of being is like thine, O Man!

Mark ye that plumy-crested surge,
Its foaming courser forward urge;
Lashing the land, it spreads dismay,
The pebbles fly, the rocks give way:
That is the warrior fierce upreared,
Roaring to battle, ruthless, feared;
He's spent a whispering murmur all
That echoes his high-sounding fall.

Upon the sand that gentle wave
Delights in peaceful grace to lave,
The margin dents with flowing line,
While glittering planets o'er it shine :
That is the Bard, alas! to see
The impress of his harmony

And tuneful force, a moment's joy,

The next succeeding wave destroy.

Wearing and splashing through these rocks, Whose adamant the struggle mocks ;

In eddies whirled, in deep chasms lost,
Bubbling in straits, in spray up-tost;
Many an effort see they make,

And billows rise, and billows break :-
All worldlings these, who ceaseless boil
And labour on with noisy toil;
By difficulties some defied,

Die off the granite's reckless side;
While others, blest beyond desire,
Wind through, and on the shore expire!
Those burst, the haven ere they reach,
And these but perish on the beach.

How sweetly these round billows rise,
And undulate, while the breeze sighs
Above; their race seems youthful sport,
Flight and pursuit-they shun, they court-
Now parted, and to distance thrown,
And now commingled into one;

They swell but soon subside, and where
They were, a few small wavelets are;
Or sooth to say, they brawl and flee,
One seeks the land, one floats to sea :
How like is this to human love,

As the young passions swell and move;
Coy dalliance, union, fond embrace,
Proud bound, and then a nameless place—
Or severed fates, away they go,-

No matter where they froth or flow.

Far off a hoary head I view,
Dropping salt rheum; 'tis ages hue,
And life's last tears. The sea-bird's breast
Is on the neighbouring calm imprest-
Ah, spirit's emblem! can it be,

But one faint struggle more, and he

Shall seek Heaven's element, like thee?

How blest, if so; for lo the gale,
Increasing, flaps the shuddering sail,
Wild ocean bellows loud, and fierce

The tempest sweeps, the drear winds pierce
With dismal howl, the waters rave,-
Nothing can scape the yawning grave;
And every mortal, wrecked, may know
There is no safety here below.

Ah me! my dream of WAVES is o'er ;
Another reflux bares the shore,

Another influx comes again,

And new each shape in, on, the main

My heroes, lovers, bards, all fled,

Forgotten, traceless, vanished.

And Man, whence springs thy senseless pride? 'Tis but a CENTURY or a TIDE?

Literary Gazette.

COMPARISON.

THE lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand
The little billows hastened silently

Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band,
Soon as they touched the shore all doomed to die.
I gazed upon them with a pensive eye,

For, on that dim and melancholy strand,

I saw the image of Man's destiny,

So hurry we right onwards thoughtlessly, Unto the coast of that Eternal Land.

Where, like the worthless billows in their glee,
The first faint touch unable to withstand,
We melt at once into eternity.

O Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand,
My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in thee.

Blackwood's Magazine.

ON A NEW-MADE GRAVE,

NEAR BOLTON PRIORY.

SWEET be thy rest! near holy shrine
A purer relic never lay:
A grave of blessedness is thine,

More rich than piles of sculptured clay.

For softly on these peaceful knolls
The feet of happy wanderers tread;
While Wharf his silver chariot rolls
In music oe'r his ample bed.

And none are here but those who come
In gentle indolence to roam,

Or feed in Bolton's holy gloom

Sweet memories of a distant home.

Sweet be thy rest!—the toils and woes
Of man, have left this magic bound,
Since Beauty's awful genius chose,

And breathed upon the sacred ground.

Those cliffs where purple shadows creep,
The stream scarce gleaming through the dell,
These giant groves that guard its sleep,
The present power of Beauty tell.

The crosier's place, the altar-stone,
Now echo gentle wisdom's speech;
And those dim cloisters, mute and lone,
Their meek and holy moral teach.

The shrine, the mitred Abbot's niche,
Where once unheeded incense spread,
Now with the woodbine's wreath is rich,

And sweets from vagrant roses shed.

Changed to a bounteous Baron's hall,

His gateway greets the wandering guest, And only on its arrased wall

The frowning warrior lifts his crest.

Where by a lonely taper's light

The cowled and captive bigot knelt, Now summer-suns beam cheerly bright, And evening's softest shadows melt.

Where once the yelling torrent's jaws
Death to the youthful hunter gave,
Scarce frolic beauty feigns a pause,

Then trusts her light foot to the wave.

Emblem of passion's changeful tide!

The flood that wrecked the heedless boy In after years is taught to glide

Through sheltering bowers of social joy.

For such a tomb of sweets and flowers,
By social gladness sacred made,
Midst warbling streams and golden bowers,
The priest of Persia's Eden prayed.

But far from thee shall be the torch
Of frantic mirth and impious rite;
A Christian Hafiz guards the porch,
And decks the Garden of Delight.

And only kindred hearts can bear

The smiling peace that slumbers here;

None but the pure in spirit dare

Gaze on a scene to heaven so near.

European Magazine.

« 前へ次へ »