'Neath skies where summer scarcely smiles, Around her form they sink to sleep; Then Hope for ever took her flight; In which their latest sun went down; All other secrets of their fate From darkness would the Muse redeem; Which fancy scarce may dare to dream. For them were wishes, longings, fears, Suns, seasons, as they roll away, Their tale a secret till the day When seas give up their dead. Literary Souvenir. ABJURATION. BY MISS BOWLES. THERE was a time-sweet time of youthful folly!- And like a lover, like a jealous lover, I hid mine idol with a miser's art, (Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover), Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart. And there I sought her-oft in secret sought her, From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play, To wear away, by some deep stilly water, In greenwood lone, the livelong summer day, Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden!) And then, I loved to haunt lone burial-places, To think of passing bells-of death and dyingMethought 't were sweet in early youth to die, So loved, lamented-in such sweet sleep lying, The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary Strewed o'er by loving hands!—But then 't would grieve me I could not bear the thought, to die and leave ye; And I have lived to prove that fading flowers Are life's best joys, and all we love and prizeWhat chilling rains succeed the summer showers, What bitter drops, wrung slow from elder eyes. And I have lived to look on Death and dying, To count the sinking pulse-the shortening breath,— To watch the last faint life-streak flying-flying, To stoop to start- to be alone with- Death. And I have lived to wear the smile of gladness, And now—and now, pale pining Melancholy! Away-avaunt! No longer now I call ye "Divinest Melancholy! mild, meek maid!" No longer may your siren spells enthral me, A willing captive in your baleful shade. Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter- So, in his desperate mood, the fool hath spoken- There's balm in Gilead yet. The very rod, If we but kiss it, as the stroke descendeth, Distilleth balm to allay the inflicted smart, Mine be that holy, humble tribulation No longer feigned distress-fantastic woe,— I know my griefs, but then my consolationMy trust, and my immortal hopes I know. Blackwood's Magazine. ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS. BY LEIGH HUNT. Ye dear companions of my silent hours, Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care, And the world's cold neglect, which surest kills, Unmurmuring, for my good perchance these evils are. Literary Examiner. THE CAPTIVE. WAKE not the waters with thine oar, The whispers of the wave and shore Lonely the night, and dark its sleep, But fix the mast, the sail unfurl, My gentle gondolier! The wind is soft-the calm waves curl The sentry cannot hear. And in this light, our little sail May well escape his ken; And we shall meet, ere dawning pale, Our long-lost countrymen. Long years the iron manacle, My gentle gondolier! Hath worn these limbs in death-damp cell, Till they are stiff and sere. Yet little heed I strengthless limb, Or think of anguish past, And heaven is overcast. "Hark! 'tis the wakeful sentry's call!" Nay, nay, my gondolier! We 're far from castle-moat and wall- 'Tis but the plunging sea-dog's feat, Or wild bird on the cliff; And lo! the wind is in our sheet, More swiftly sails our skiff. |