Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

The gardens, that the miser had

Left all untrimmed and bare,

Were planted, pruned, and decked anew, And stored with all things rare.

But chiefly did the lady love

One glade within the wood,

The shady glade, where broad and high, The noble Oak tree stood.

Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,
For her that lone spot bore:
'Twas there she parted from her lord
To meet on earth no more!

'Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke His last, last fond farewell!

From thence she watched him ride away
The eve before he fell :—

No marvel that sad lady loved
The silent spot so well!

And there they oft together came,

The lady and the boy,

For he to her was all on earth,

Her one sole living joy.

And long years after, when she slept

Her warrior's tomb beside,

When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:—

That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke

Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it the Lady's Oak.

I know the spot—though strangely time
Hath altered all around,

Where once the forest's stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.

A large and busy peopled town
E'en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.

But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.

I've sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.

Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep

With roar and riot,—even where

That lady came to weep!

Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?

Louisa A. Twamley.

There's no power

In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,

Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.

Hence man's best riches must be gained—not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.

Mrs. Hale.

Some men are born to endure the toil and strife
And heavy burdens of the earth. They are
The pillars in the temple of this life,

Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far
Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.
In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,
Yet other men upon them lean, and fain
(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)
Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.
Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;

They least repine who bear and suffer most:

In still and stern endurance they sustain

The ills whereof all weaker minds complain;

And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh

or boast.

MacKellar.

YEW....Sorrow.

The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.

Who that hath ever been,

Could bear to be no more?

Yet who would tread again the scene

He trod through life before?

The

Montgomery.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;

Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest

With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Shakspeare.

And sorrowing friends stood round the bed
Whereon a form was lying:

'Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint,
Without a murmur or complaint,

In peace and hope was dying. A silence deep as death was there When her true soul departed;

And grace and mercy crowned her end

Who lived the broken-hearted.

MacKellar.

When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping
O'er the chords of the youthful heart,

And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,
Sees the visions of fancy depart;

When the bloom of young feeling is dying,

And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife

When our sad days are wasted in sighing,

Who then can find sweetness in life?

Mrs. Embury.

He is dead.

Those words toll on the ear,

The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.
The spirit light has cast a farewell beam—
Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged
To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,

For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow

In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, Making that refresh which seemed to blast!

C. Watson.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »