« EelmineJätka »
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.
As clouds o'er the morning fleet ?
That, even in sorrow, were sweet!
Then, child of misfortune! come hither,
Been like our Lagenian mine, *
All over the surface shine?
Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
That flitted from tree to tree
Has Hope been that bird to the e?
The gem did she still display,
When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
That led thee along so light; * Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.
+ “The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing and settled again,” &c.-Arabian Nights,-Story of Kummir el Zummaun and the Princess of China.
If thus, too, the cold world wither
Each feeling that once was dear;-
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken !
I'd live years of grief and pain
By such benign blessed sounds again!
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
There shone such truth about thee,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
Still clung with hope the fonder,
But go, deceiver! g0,
The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it !
When every tongue thy follies nam’d,
I fled th’unwelcome story;
Some gleams of future glory.
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
But go, deceiver ! go,
Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, tho’youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;
And they who flatter scorn thee.
No genial ties enwreath it;
Go-go-tho’worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
For all thy guilty splendour!
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever; When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever!
With smiles had still receiv'd thee,
Go--go-'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.
WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
For her's was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh ! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light That illum'd the whole volume, her WELLINGTON's name!
II. “ Hail, Star of my Isle !” said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies“ Thro'ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
“ I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. “ For tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, “And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;
« But oh! there is not
“ One dishonouring blot “On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's name!
“ Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
“The grandest, the purest, ev’n thou hast yet known; “Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. “ At the foot of that throne, for whose weal' thou has
stood, “Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame
And, bright o'er the flood
“Of her tears and her blood, “Let the rainbow of Hope be her WelLINGTON's name!"
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
The light, that lies
In woman's eyes,
My only books
Were Woman's looks,
Her smile when Beauty granted,
Like him, the Sprite, *
Whom maids by night
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
And are those follies going ?
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
* This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk ;-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power;—but the moment you
look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel) has given a very different account of that Goblin. .