KINDRED HEARTS. OH! ask not, hope thou not too much Few are the hearts whence one same touch Forbidden here to meet Such ties would make this life of ours It may be, that thy brother's eye A rapture o'er thy soul can bring- The tune that speaks of other times A sorrowful delight! The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night, The wind that, with so many a tone, Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true The kindly, that from childhood grew, If there be one that o'er the dead And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,- But for those bonds all perfect made, THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. IN sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth! He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone; A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone; He listen'd—and his heart beat high— The rapture of a conqueror's mood Rush'd burning through his frame,— The depths of that green solitude Its torrents could not tame; Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile— Night came with stars :-across his soul Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall No more than this!—what seem'd it now • A remarkable description of feelings thus fluctuating from triumph to despondency, is given in Bruce's Abyssinian Travels. The buoyant exultation of his spirits on arriving at the source of the Nile, was almost immediately succeeded by a gloom, which he thus portrays :-" I was, at that very moment, in possession of what had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the enquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy." A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain land! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, Their wild, sweet voices call'd him back. They call'd him back to many a glade, Where brightly through the beechen shade They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father's hills and graves. But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene, Rose up a fearful vision, fraught The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, Where was the glow of power and pride? His alter'd heart within him died He wept the stars of Afric's heaven E'en on that spot where fate had given The meed of toiling years!— Oh, happiness! how far we flee Thine own sweet paths in search of thee! CASABIANCA.* THE boy stood on the burning deck The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames roll'd on-he would not go His voice no longer heard. He call'd aloud :- 66 Say, Father, say If yet my task is done ?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. Speak, Father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on. Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. |