If man comes not to gather
The roses where they stand,
They fade among the foliage;
They cannot seek his hand.
Turning to America, where poetry is taking its place among national literature, we find in a Boston periodical entitled Whim-whams, this elegant address.
BALMY breeze from the blossomy south,
Kissing my lips with thy tender mouth,
Touching my forehead with delicate hand,
Lifting my
with breath so bland,
And bathing my head with scents of flowers
Borne from the laps of southern bowers-
Balmy breeze, I behold not thee;
Yet, oh, how beautiful thou must be!
Stay-wilt thou stay, sweet breeze? Ah! now
It hath fled away from my lip and brow;
There, over the plain, its wide robe spreads,
And the gentle flowers are bending their heads:
It hath enter'd the wood-the beautiful breeze!
I hear its music among the trees;
And now it is passing over the river-
I know by the water's timid quiver.
Balmy breeze! I behold not thee;
But, oh, how beautiful thou must be!
Come, thou breeze, from the bloomy south,
Kiss my lips with thy tender mouth,
Touch my brow with thy delicate hand,
And take me away to thy southern land;
Then never more, breeze invisible, roam,
But dwell with me in thy spirit's home.
The spirit of the old Lyrists seems to have inspired this composition by CHARLES MACKAY.
WHAT is it ails thee, heart of mine?
What makes thee sorrow and repine,
And in sweet Nature's face no more
Take the same pleasure as before?
Why, when the flowerets gem the ground,
And birds make music all around,
And each created thing is glad,
Art thou so desolate and sad?
Time was, when not a bird could spring,
But thou wert pleased to hear it sing,
When woods and wilds were fair to see,
And sunshine beautiful to thee.
Sad heart of mine! by love alone
The darkness and the blight are thrown,
"Tis falsehood causes thy annoy,
Thou 'st lost thy lover and thy joy.
Oh Fate! my happy times renew-
All nature smiles when love is true;
Would he be kind, I'd not be sad,
And little things should make me glad.
Once more for me the birds should sing,
And birds make music with the spring,
And Nature's voice resound with glee,
Were my false love but true to me.
FAREWELL TO RIVILIN.
Another graceful lyric by EBENEZER ELLIOTT. BEAUTIFUL River! goldenly shining
Where with the cistus woodbines are twining; (Birklands around thee, mountains above thee,) Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee?
Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River?
Love thee, and leave thee? Leave thee for ever?
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee!
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!
Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!
Playfully mingling laughter and sadness,
Ribbledin's Sister! sad in thy gladness.
Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing,
Man is a shadow? River undying!
Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth,
E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth.
Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes,
Coffin'd in slander, far from thy roses,
Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking River!
Tell them I loved thee-love thee for ever!
Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal;
River of Beauty! love is eternal :
While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven,
Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven.
There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!
Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me,
Glad as the heathflower, glowing to meet thee.
How full of graceful sentiment is the following extract from Vaughan's Poems, published in 1640.
SURE thou didst flourish once, and many Springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers
Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts, and wings,
That now are dead, lodged in thy living towers:
And still a new succession sings, and flies—
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring-skies,
While the low violet thriveth at their root.
WHAT ELOQUENCE DOST THOU LOVE BEST?
We extract the following graceful and spirited stanzas from an old number of the Dublin National Magazine, a periodical, which has long since ceased publication. The author is JOHN LOCKE.
WHAT eloquence dost thou love best?
The lyre, the lamp, the tongue, the eye;
That vary here our strange unrest,
As shadows o'er the landscape fly.
The lyre, disturbed by warrior fingers,
Lashes the passions into strife;
When beauty wakes the theme, it lingers
Around the gentler springs of life,
Soothes the hurt spirit's fitful sadness,
Exults in mirth, or love's sweet madness-
Giving to each uncommon zest--
What eloquence dost thou love best?
The lamp to study pale has brought
The treasures of the ebbing past,
Whose years are hours of struggling thought,
But life e'en here shall death outlast-
Whose soul, self-lumined, like a star,
Shines forth to men and times afar,
By love of wondrous lore possess'd-
What eloquence dost thou love best ?
The tongue persuasion's golden flood,
Gushing from depth of heart and brain,
Rolls o'er the sluggish multitude
In turbid wave on wave amain;
Till pealing shout, and glancing brand,
Echo the o'ermastering demand,
And glorious praise from every breast-
What eloquence dost thou love best?
The eye, when flashing conscious power,
Or absent, fix'd in pensive slumbers,
Adds might to genius' happiest hour,
And sympathy to music's numbers,
Releasing thoughts, for words too bright,
By a mute language of pure light,
To all reveal'd, by all exprest-
What eloquence dost thou love best?
A powerful passage in one of the poems of BARHAM, better known as the author of the Ingoldsby Legends.
SWEETLY, oh sweetly! the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all-save the wretch condemn'd to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a sun
As that which its course had now begun,
Should rise on such scene of misery,—
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal dark-frowning gallows tree:
And hark! a sound comes big with fate,
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes eight:
List to that low, funereal bell,
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell :
And see! from forth that opening door
They come--He steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more ;-
God! 'tis a fearsome sight to see
That pale wan man's meek agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning in doubt and in fear
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands which ne'er
Shall be lifted again--not even in prayer—
The heaving chest! Enough-tis done,
The bolt has fallen! The spirit is gone:
For weal or for woe is known but to One.
Oh! 't was a fearsome sight! Ah me!
A deed to shudder at-not to see.
Go where the water glideth gently ever,
Glideth through meadows that the greenest be;
Go, listen to your own beloved river,
Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth
Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree!
List to the dim brook pining as it playeth,
And think of me!
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