Upward she points to the golden-edged 'Tis thus with our life, while it passes clouds, along, And the sailor sings gayly, aloft in the Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and shrouds ! Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, Passing away, like a dream of the heart! Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her and sunshine on high- Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters! - asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherish'd home on some desolate plain! Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep,-as the moon in the sky, A phantom of beauty!-could deem, with a sigh, That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And souls that are smitten lie bursting within! Who, as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is di viding Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever! Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave! song! Gayly we glide, in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurl'd; All gladness and glory to wondering eyes, Yet charter'd by sorrow and freighted with sighs! Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on-just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er. THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. The prettiest night-gowns under the Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, Maud and Madge in robes of white, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. WEEP NO MORE. WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, JOHN FLETCHER. AFTER THE BALL. THEY sat and comb'd their beautiful hair, Their long, bright tresses, one by one, As they laugh'd and talk'd in the chamber there, After the revel was done. Idly they talk'd of waltz and quadrille, Robe of satin and Brussels lace, Knots of flowers and ribbons, too, Scatter'd about in every place, For the revel is through. And Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, For the revel is done, Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, Till the fire is out in the chamber there, All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together,- sun, Curtain'd away from the chilly night, After the revel is done, I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, To hear me? Let me go: take back thy Thy presence and thy portals, while I A soft air fans the cloud apart: there Whispering I knew not what of wild and comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, Once more the old mysterious. glimmer While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul ders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. arise, And shake the darkness from their loos en'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. ALFRED TENNYSON. |