« EelmineJätka »
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Soul of the just! companion of the dead!
And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return. Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
Eternal hope! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time,
Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade-
The glory of evening was spread through the west,
While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest
'And must we then part from a dwelling so fair ?'
And with a deep sadness I turned to repair
The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate,
I pause, and at length through the glimmering grate
His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,
'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze,
But my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays
His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried,
And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him de
Still blackens and grows on the view.
When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field,
All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield,
But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,
'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose In the comfortless vault of disease.
When his fetters at night have so pressed on his limbs,
That the weight can no longer be borne, If, while a half slumber his memory bedims,' The wretch on his pallet should turn.
While the gaol mastive howls at the dull clanking chain, From the roots of his hair there shall start
A thousand sharp punctures of cold sweating pain,
But now he half raises his deep-sunken eye,
The silence of sorrow it seems to supply,
'Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood,
With o'erweening complacence our state to compare,
But one whose first wish is the wish to be good,
At thy name, though compassion her nature resign, Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine,
Should place thee where yet thou may'st blossom again.'
IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT STYLE.
Why dost thou weepe, O gentle Ladye? Why dost thou grieve, O Ladye fayre ?
Why is thy lovelye baby presste
In anguish to thye throbbing breaste? And why that look of black despayre ? Why dost thou sit forlorne and sigh? Sweetest Ladye, tell me why.
I have cause to weepe, kind stranger,
It is an orphan babe that's presste
Nathless comfort take, fayre Ladye,