The tempest; and, anon, they reined its rage
In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown,
Beautiful fictions of our fathers!-flown
Before the wand of Science, and the hearths
Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year,
Are passionless and silent!
WRITTEN BENEATH A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE.
His was the master spirit; at his spells
The heart gave up its secrets: like the mount
Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet's rod,
Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that gray rock,
On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards
Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal
On which his Genius rose; and, rooted there,
Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high
Above the clouds, and changes of the world,
That Heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams
Have round its awful brows a glory shed,
Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds
Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions
Beam light on that dim world they leave behind.
And while they spurn, adorn it; so his spirit
His "dainty spirit," while it soared above
This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew
Treasures of light and loveliness.
Were "gentle Shakspeare's" features; this the eye Whence earth's least earthly mind looked out, and
Amazement on the nations; this the brow
Where lofty thought majestically brooded,
Seated as on a throne; and these the lips
That warbled music stolen from heaven's own choir
When seraph harps rang sweetest. But I tempt
A theme too high, and mount like Icarus,
On wings that melt before the blaze they worship.
Alas! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild!
Else should the eye, whose wandring gaze is fixed
Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains
Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck
From Memmon's ruined statue: the rapt soul
Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes
"Discourse most eloquent music.”
THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest;
And the eye views life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret
We gaze upon them as they melt away;
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost her early
power.
In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow,
Her smile was loveliest then ;-her matin song
Was Heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her Eden bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born:
We knew not-cared not-it was born to die
Flushed with the breeze: wet with the dews of morn; With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blueLike our own sorrows then, as fleeting, and as few.
And manhood felt her sway too: On the eye
Half realised her early dreams burst bright;
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;
And though at times might lour the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten--still the air
Was balmy with her breath; and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.
'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen;
Her wreath, the summer flower; her robe of summer green.
But, though less dazzling in her twilight dress,
There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now;
That angel smile of tranquil loveliness
Which the mind dreams of, glowing on her brow;
That smile will mingle with the evening star
That points our destined tomb; nor e'er depart
'Till the faint light of life is fled afar,
And hushed the last deep beating of the heart.
The meteor bearer of our parting breath-
A moonbeam in the midnight storm of death.
Ar midnight, in his lonely room,
The toil-worn student sate,
His genius flashing 'mid the gloom
Of darkly gathering fate,
Like lights that gleam around the dead,
Laid in their last cold rest-
The shadowy streams of light that spread Round wandering souls unblessed.
He leaned his burning brow upon
His cold and trembling hand,
And thought on hours of rapture gone,
Far in his native land;
Hours when he held communion high
With loved ones now no more,
And worshipped 'neath the starry sky,
On his own island's shore.
The forms of all that once were dear
Came thronging round his heart,
Like angel shadows that appear
In deserts far apart;
But every lip was mute and pale,
And every eye was dim,
And they passed on to death's lone vale,
Where wailed the funeral hymn.
He wandered back to earlier years,
And happier scenes afar;
And dreamed he saw those welcome tears,
Which the heart's offering are;
But, as he gazed, the scene became
All darkness on his eye,
And voices shrieked aloud his name,
Far o'er the midnight sky.
The light, that long had beamed among
The louring shades of woe,
Grew dim-the spirit, high and strong,
Aspired no more below;
He felt that life's last hope had fled,
A great, a good man's fame,
And that he hasted to the dead,
Where all men are the same.
Like moonlight, o'er a marble tomb,
The sun of being seemed;
Lore shone no more amid the gloom
Where glory once had beamed;
Earth unto him brought no delight,
Time was an age of woe ;-
Slowly he fled where all is night,
But sleep-like none below.
THOSE few pale Autumn flowers!
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!
And why? They are the last-
The last!-the last !-the last
O, by that little word,
How many thoughts are stirred!
That sister of the past!
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