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Her halls are of emptiness, grandeur's illusions ; And stretched out upon them the line of confusion ; In her palaces dark desolation is reigning, And the briers and the nettle their foliage entwining; The owl calls his count with a whoop and a knell, And there shall the bittern and cormorant dwell, The lamia shall lie in her chambers of state, And open her bosom and cry for her mate; The ostrich shall stand on her battlements proudly, And the vultures assemble, discordant and loudly; The satyrs shall dance with their howlings and yellings, The spirits of darkness that haunt the low dwellings Of mortals cut off in their greenness of sinning, Ere grace had a spring or repentance beginning, The toad and the adder shall come from the forest, And dragons pant o'er it when thirst's at the sorest. The gloom of oblivion shall over it centre, Till time shall withdraw and eternity enter, To all who despise their God and Forgiver, A beacon of terror for ever and ever.
THE DEATH OF THE STAG. Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in reposeIn the depth of thy desert regardless of foes. Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, With a haughty deeance, to come to the war. No outrage is war to a creature like thee: The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death In feet that draw power from the touch of the heathIn the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roarIn the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more Thy trust, 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock, lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the day; While hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious feet;
And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,
High life of a hunter! he meets on the hill
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE-BLOSSOM.
BEFORE thy leaves, thou com’st once more,
White blossom of the sloe !
Will then lie low.
A month at least before thy time
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
No more to be.
Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud !
In beauty bowed !
Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run ;
Sing to the sun.
And where the rose-leaf ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles on the well, in summer cold,
And daisied so:l.
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,
And thinks me slow.
For as the rainbow of the dawn,
Foretells an eve of tears ;
In early years.
Will see no leaf of mine;
Where no suns shine.
Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet sabbath's chime ! But thine before my time, 0 Death, I go where no flower blossometh,
Before my time.
Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon
To dic as soon ?
To love my mother, and to die?
To perish in my bloom ?-
Into the tomb !
He lived and loved will sorrow say;
By early sorrow tried;
He loved and died !
My mother smiles—then turns away ;
But turns away to weep:
I soon must sleep.
Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is
To be both tried and true !
They sigh adieu.
But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies; And many a youth in Shire cliffs' shade Will ramble where my boyhood played,
Though Alfred dies !
Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
No more, no more !
Well, lay me by my brother's side,
Where late we stood and wept ; For I was stricken when he died, "I felt the arrow as he sighed
His last, and slept.