Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

I know the blight is there,

And slowly it is spreading in my youth;
And ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.

And trembles every limb,

As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,
Yet not a mist of tears.

Thou dost not know, when pale

My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale
Of terror sweep its flood.

O, from the laughing earth,

And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,
Save in thy precious heart.

Yet come not when the drear

Last hour of life is passing over me;

I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,
To bid me live for thee.

But come when I am dead:

No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,
Without one passion's trace.

And come thou to my grave:

Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn,

When lightly in the breeze the willows wave,

And spring's first flowers are born;

Or on a summer's eve,

When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned To crimson in the west, when waters heave

As if they lived and burned;

Or in the solemn night,

When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep,
And when the earth is bathed in starry light,
O, come thou there, and weep.

Weep yet not bitter tears;

Let them be holy, silent, free from pain:
Think of me as a bird who, many years,
Was in a galling chain;

A chain that let it gaze

On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise
Its wing, still bound it there.

And bring sometimes a flower To scatter on the turf I lie beneath, And gather it in that beloved bower That round us used to wreathe.

And whatsoe'er the time

Thou comest,-at the morn, or eve, or night, When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime Or in the moon's pale light,

Still keep this thought, (for sweet

It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet, Ay, surely meet, in heaven.

Lydia Jane Pierson.

THE

WILD-WOOD HOME.

OH, show me a place like the wild-wood hom :,

Where the air is fragrant and free,

And the first pure breathings of Morning come.
In a gush of melody!

She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue eye
With a radiant smile of love,

And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie
Are bright as the gems above;

Where noon lies down in the breezy shade
Of the glorious forest bowers,

And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades
Sit nodding amongst the flowers,

While the holy child of the mountain-spring
Steals past with a murmured song,

And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing
Its garlanded banks along;

Where Day steals away, with a young bride's blush.
To the soft green couch of Night,

And the Moon throws o'er, with a holy hush,
Her curtain of gossamer light;

And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell
(Oh, sweetest of birds is she!)

Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free;

There are sumptuous mansions with marble walls,
Surmounted by glittering towers

Where fountains play in the perfumed hall
: Amongst exotic flowers:

They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind,
Yet a wild-wood home for me,

Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain-wind, And the bounding heart, are free!

Albert G. Greene.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest

ray,

Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay—

The stern old Baron RUDIGER, whose frame had ne'er been

bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had

spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are

o'er

That I snall mount my noble steed and lead

more;

my

band no

They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now

that I,

Their own liege-lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!—

must die.

"And what is Death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear;

Think ye he's entered at my gate-has come to seek me

here?

I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ;

I'll try his might I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him

not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the cul

verin;

Bid each retainer arm with speed: call every vassal in.
Up with my banner on the wall!—the banquet-board pre-

pare,

Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was

spread,

And rang the heavy oaken floor with

tread;

many a martial

While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted

wall,

1ights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers

poured

On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around

the board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state,

Armed cap-à-pie, stern RUDIGER, with girded falchion, sate.

'Fill every beaker up, my men—pour forth the cheering

wine!

There's life and strength in every drop-thanksgiving to

the vine!

« VorigeDoorgaan »