ON the Sabbath-day, Through the church-yard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music- in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara. - My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara! I searched, in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. Within the dripping church-yard, the rain plashing on your stone, 'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart hath ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; Still I love you, Barbara! Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts opprest, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again! There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; · Black Labor draws his weary waves A sunbeam like an angel's sword Thus have I watched thee, Terror! While the blue night crept up the stream. Which, night and morning, ebbs and The wild train plunges in the hills, flows. I dwelt within a gloomy court, With leaves as pale as human cheeks. Afar, one summer, I was borne; I sat, and watched an endless plain Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste, O'er which a laughing shower has raced! Oh, fair the April shoots! Oh, fair the woods on summer days, While a blue hyacinthine haze Is dreaming round the roots! Draw thy fiercestreams of blinding ore, square Lie empty to the stars. From terrace proud to alley base I know thee as my mother's face. and When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; He shrieks across the midnight rills; And on the moorlands bare At midnight, when thy suburbs lie When larks with heat are mute, Disturbed but by my foot; And through thy heart as through a dream, Flows on that black disdainful stream; All scornfully it flows, Between the huddled gloom of masts, Silent as pines unvexed by blasts 'Tween lamps in streaming rows, O wondrous sight! O stream of dread! O long, dark river of the dead! Afar, the banner of the year Unfurls: but dimly prisoned here, 'Tis only when I greet A dropt rose lying in my way, I know the happy Summer smiles "Twere neither pæan now, nor dirge, And, from the glory round thee Alike to me the desert flower, poured, The rainbow laughing o'er the shower. While o'erthy walls the darkness sails, I lean against the churchyard rails; Up in the midnight towers The belfried spire, the street is dead, I hear in silence overhead The clang of iron hours: It moves me not- I know her tomb All raptures of this mortal breath, Dwell in thy noise alone: Lives in thy streets of stone; For we have been familiar more Than galley-slave and weary oar. The beech is dipped in wine; the shower Is burnished; on the swinging flower CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE CRICKET. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Though in voice and shape they be Neither night nor dawn of day |