She look'd down to blush,—and she look'd up to sigh-
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye!
He took her soft hand; ere her mother could bar,
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely his face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume:
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far,
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone,-over bank, bush and scaur,They'll have swift steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan, Forsters, Fenwicks and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.—
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar !
ST. PETER'S AT ROME-THE VATICAN.-BYRON.
BUT lo! the dome-the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana's marvel was a cell-
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle-
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyena and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd;
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone,—with nothing like to thee-
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.
Since Zion's desolation, when that He
Forsook his former city, what could be
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? It is not lessen'd; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
Thou movest-but increasing with the advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,-
Deceived by its gigantic elegance;
Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize—
All musical in its immensities;
Rich marbles-richer paintings-shrines where flame
The lamps of Gold—and haughty dome which vies
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame
Sits on the firm-set ground—and this the clouds must claim.
Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break,
To separate contemplation, the great whole ;
And as the Ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye-so here condense thy soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts, until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll
In mighty graduations, part by part,
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart,
Not by its fault, but thine: Our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp; and, as it is
That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression, even so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
Defies at first our nature's littleness,
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of what they contemplate.
Then pause and be enlighten'd; there is more
In such a survey than the sating gaze
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore
The worship of the place, or the mere praise
Of art and its great masters, who could raise
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;
The fountain of sublimity displays
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain-
A father's love, and mortal's agony,
With an immortal's patience blending :-Vain
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
The old man's clench: the long, envenom'd chain
Rivets the living links; the enormous asp
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.
Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,
The god of life, and poesy, and light—
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot-the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might,
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the deity!
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.*-POPE.
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,—
O the pain,—the bliss of dying!
Cease fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,—
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite,—
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?—
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears,
Heav'n opens on my eyes,-my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!
O death, where is thy sting,
O grave, where is thy victory?
*The difficulty of delivering this exquisite little piece with proper effect, is that of preserving the feeble and failing tone of the dying man, and yet conveying the enthusiastic confidence of the hopeful Christian. The reader must bear in mind these two phases of expression.
AFTER THE BATTLE.-MOORE.
NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood, few and faint, but fearless still!
The soldier's hope, the patron's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd—
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost!
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die!—
There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?
THOU whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear,—
"Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom seer!"
Earth yawn'd; he stood, the centre of a cloud;
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye;
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness glitter'd there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;
From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came.
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