« PreviousContinue »
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while : And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
TO THE GLOW-WORM.
BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field; Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield; To me, oh, nightly be thy splendour given! Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command, How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand, With every sweetest dew of heaven!
Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade!
Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bower, And with barbarian beak thy life devour!
Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat; Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat, And bid thee 'mid the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight! Of such these willing hands a bower shall form, To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness! 'mid the awful calm Of pausing Nature thou art pleased to dwell; In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.
How different man, the imp of noise and strife,
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet!
I WISH I WAS WHERE ANNA LIES.
I WISH I was where Anna lies;
Go and partake her humble bier.
I wish I could! for when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved, Since that sad hour, a dreary void, A waste unlovely and unloved.
But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
And pluck the ragged moss away,
And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?
And who, while memory loves to dwell
I did it; and would fate allow,
Should visit still, should still deplore→→ But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
And can thy soft persuasive look,
Thy voice, that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,
Thy spirits, frolicksome as good,
Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye:
Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu!