Puslapio vaizdai
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Where waters fall and flow. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fevered bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihead.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped?

Of all thy slaves below

I most have laborèd

With service sung and said; Have culled such buds as blow,

Soft poppies white and red, Where thy still gardens grow, And Lethe's waters weep. Why, then, art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

ENVOY.

Prince, ere the dark be shred
By golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft-footed as the snow,

Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!

21

BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE.

HERE I'd come when weariest !

Here the breast

Of the Windburg 's tufted over

Deep with bracken; here his crest

Takes the west,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Silent here are lark and plover;

In the cover

Deep below the cushat best

Loves his mate, and croons above her

O'er their nest,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest,

To the blest

Bed that waits the weary rover,

Here should failure be confessed;

Ends my quest,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

ENVOY.

Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,

Ah, fulfil a last behest,

Let me rest

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

IN ITHACA.

'And now I am greatly repenting that ever I left my life with thee, and the immortality thou didst promise me.'-Letter of Odysseus to Calypso. Luciani Vera Historia.

'Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was o'er
With all the waves and wars, a weary while,
Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,

And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,
Go down the ways of gold, and evermore
His sad heart followed after, mile on mile,
Back to the Goddess of the magic wile,
Calypso, and the love that was of yore.

Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee yet
To look across the sad and stormy space,
Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,
Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet,
Because, within a fair forsaken place

The life that might have been is lost to thee.

HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL.

THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH.

EUSTON SQUARE, 1840.

Now then, take your seats! for Glasgow and the North; Chester! Carlisle ! - Holyhead,—and the wild Frith of

Forth:

'Clap on the steam and sharp's the word,

You men in scarlet cloth:

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For the Night-Mail-to the North!'

Are there any more passengers?

Yes three but they can't get in, —

Too late, too late! - How they bellow and knock,
They might as well try to soften a rock

As the heart of that fellow in green.

For the Night Mail North? what ho
(No use to struggle, you can't get thro')
My young and lusty one

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Whither away from the gorgeous town?

For the lake and the stream and the heather brown,

And the double-barrelled gun!'

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'From a ruined hearth and a starving brood, A Crime and a felon's gaol!'

For the Night Mail North, old man?·

Old statue of despair

Why tug and strain at the iron gate? 'My daughter!!'

Ha! too late, too late,

She is gone, you may safely swear;

--

She has given you the slip, d' you hear?

She has left you alone in your wrath,

And she's off and away, with a glorious start,

To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart,

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Wh-ish, R—ush

What's all that hullabaloo?

'Keep fast the gates there- who is this

That insists on bursting thro'?'

A desperate man whom none may withstand,
For look, there is something clenched in his hand-
Tho' the bearer is ready to drop —

He waves it wildly to and fro,

And hark! how the crowd are shouting below –

'Back!'

And back the opposing barriers go,

'A reprieve for the Cannongate murderer, Ho! In the Queen's name —

STOP.

Another has confessed the crime.'

Whish-rush-whish-rush

The Guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet,

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