Puslapio vaizdai
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A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven,
In Woman's shape. But why prolong the tale,
Casting meek words amid a host of thoughts
Armed to repel them? Every hazard faced
And difficulty mastered, with resolve

That no one breathing should be left to perish,
This last remainder of the crew are all

Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep
Are safely borne, landed upon the beach,
And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged
Within the sheltering Lighthouse. Shout, ye Waves!
Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds,
Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith
In Him whose Providence your rage hath served!
Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join!
And would that some immortal Voice

Fitly attuned to all that gratitude

a Voice

Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips
Of the survivors to the clouds might bear-
Blended with praise of that parental love,
Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew
Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave,
Though young, so wise, though meek so resolute -
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars,
Yea, to celestial Choirs, GRACE DARLING's name!

SONNET,

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

GLAD sight, wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold

Depends upon that mystery.

Vain is the glory of the sky,

The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye

We gaze, we also learn to love.

SONNET.

HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide

If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote

From trivial cares.

But, Fancy and the Muse,

Why have I crowded this small bark with you

And others of your kind, ideal crew!

While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues

To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,

No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?

SONNET,

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies Must heard, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

PRESENTIMENTS.

PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;

All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such,
Such privilege ye claim.

The tear whose source I could not guess,

The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,

Were mine in early days;

And now, unforced by time to part
With fancy, I obey my heart,

And venture on your praise.

What though some busy foes to good,
Too potent over nerve and blood,

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To taint the health which ye infuse;

This hides not from the moral Muse,
Your origin divine.

How oft from you, derided Powers!
Comes faith that in in auspicious hours
Builds castles not of air;
Bodings unsanctioned by the will

Flow from your visionary skill,

And teach us to beware.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,

That no philosophy can lift,

Shall vanish, if ye please,

Like morning mist: and, where it lay,

The spirits at your bidding play

In gayety and ease.

Star-guided contemplations move

Through space, through calm, not raised above

Prognostics that ye rule;

The naked Indian of the wild,

And haply, too, the cradled Child,
Are pupils of your school.

But who can fathom your intents,
Number their signs or instruments?
A rainbow, a sunbeam,

A subtle smell that Spring unbinds,
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds,
An echo, or a dream.

The laughter of the Christmas hearth
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth

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