Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

“ Yes, I have been the sport of waves,

And like this mass around
I toiled and felt, - nor knew the rest,

Blest Neptune! which I 've found.

“ Come, all of ye Sea-Nymphs, admire
My beautiful repose

!"
Out gushed the voice of one Sea-Nymph,-

6 Give me the form which grows.

" I better please myself to watch

Life than a handsome death,
And, born of a quick element,

Like something which has breath.

“So, I 'll just feast my eyes awhile
On what

you,
And never tire of watching this

Till it grows stony too."

goes on round

How in the ocean's deepest depth

Is human life repeated !
By coral beds, who 've done with change,

How hardly youth is greeted !

[blocks in formation]

Eyes not down-dropped nor over-bright, but fed

With the clear-pointed Aame of chastity, -
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Of her still spirit, – locks not wide dispread,
Madonna-wise on either side her head, -

Sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign
The summer calm of golden charity,
Were fixed shadows of thy fixèd mood,

Reverèd Isabel, the crown and head,
The stately flower of female fortitude,

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.
The intuitive decision of a bright
And thorough-edged intellect, to part

Error from crime, -a prudence to withhold,

The laws of marriage charactered in gold
Upon the blanchèd tablets of her heart,
A love still burning upward, giving light
To read those laws, an accent very low
In blandishment, but a most silver flow

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress,
Right to the heart and brain, though undescried,

Winning its way with extreme gentleness
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride, -
A courage to endure and to obey,-
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway,
Crowned Isabel, thro' all her placid life,
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.
The mellowed reflex of a winter moon,
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one,
Till in its onward current it absorbs
With swifter movement and in purer light

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother, -
A leaning and upbearing parasite,
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite,
With clustered flower-bells and ambrosial orbs.

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other,
Shadow forth thee: - the world hath not

another

(Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finished, chastened purity.

SUNDAY.- Herbert.

O DAY most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud;
The endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time ; care's balm and bay:-
The week were dark but for thy light;

Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man ; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow :
The working days are the back-part ;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,

Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death. But thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still ;
Since there is no place so alone

The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are
On which heaven's palace archèd lies :

HYMN OF PAN.

109

The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden; that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

HYMN OF PAN. — Shelley.

From the forests and highlands

We come, we come ;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,

Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle-bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,

With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth;

And then I changed my pipings,-
Singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed :
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !

It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed :
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,

At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

L'ALLEGRO.- Milton.

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born! In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un

holy, Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings;

There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess, fair and free,
In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth!
Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

« ZurückWeiter »