But maidens now from hall and park are brought, Like Covent Garden flowers, in lots to town; No more by prowess in the lists 'tis soughtBeauty's the purchase of the wealthiest clown!
Alas! the days of Chivalry are fled !
The brilliant tournament exists no more! Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, And even courtship is a dreadful bore!
SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.
"A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied, Yes all is fair; but the sea-where is it?"
WHERE is the sea?-I languish here-
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,
And flags and breezes free!
I miss that voice of waves- -the first
That woke my childish glee:
The measured chime-the thundering burst-
Where is my own blue sea?
Oh! rich your myrtles' breath may rise,
Soft, soft, your winds may be ;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-
Where is my own blue sea?
I hear the shepherd's mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute—
Where is my own blue sea?
I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old;
And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true-it is very true
I'm old, and " I 'bide my time"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.
Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call;
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go.
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is beating slow;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.
AUTUMNAL leaves, Autumnal leaves,
That gently rustle 'neath my tread,
Oh how the afflicted spirit grieves
To see you withered thus and dead,
From your own parent branches riven,
And scattered by the winds of heaven.
Autumnal leaves, autumnal leaves,
Who feels no pang, and heaves no sigh
To see you shrivelled thus, achieves
No enviable victory
O'er powers that ne'er should own control-
The kindliest feelings of the soul!
Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves,
Though hope aspire to heights sublime,
Your fall her every dream deceives,
And as the warning voice of time
Proclaims in language plain and clear
The changes of the circling year.
Autumnal leaves, autumnal leaves,
And shall we see your like again?
That thought-like Gilead's balm, relieves
The anguish of the heart and brain,
Giving a charm and mystic spell
To life's last words-Farewell!-Farewell!
REMIND me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanished hours;
When all my soul was given to thee-
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget, canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh, by my soul! I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid-breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half-reproached, yet raised desire;
And still we near and nearer pressed-
And still our quivering lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek;
Veiling the azure orbs below-
While their long lashes' darkening gloss
Seemed stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smoothed in snow.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
THE water rolled-the water swelled,
A fisher sat beside;
Calmly his patient watch he held
Beside the freshening tide:
And while his patient watch he keeps,
The parted waters rose,
And from the oozy ocean deeps
A water maiden rose.
She spake to him, she sang to him-
"Why lurest thou so my brood,
With cunning art and cruel heart,
From out their native flood?
Ah! couldst thou know, how here below
Our peaceful lives glide o'er,
Thou'dst leave thine earth, and plunge beneath,
To seek our happier shore.
"Bathes not the golden sun his face
The moon too in the sea;
And rise they not from their resting-place
More beautiful to see?
And lures thee not the clear deep heaven
Within the waters blue-
And thy form so fair, so mirrored there
In that eternal dew!"
The water rolled-the water swelled,
It reached his naked feet;
He felt, as at his love's approach,
His bounding bosom beat;
She spake to him, she sang to him,
His short suspense is o'er;
Half drew she him, half dropped he in,
And sank to rise no more.
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