Puslapio vaizdai
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T may be that our homeward longings made That other lands were judged with partial eyes; But fairer in my sight the mottled skies, With pleasant interchange of sun and shade, And more desired the meadow and deep glade Of sylvan England, green with frequent showers, Than all the beauty which the vaunted bowers Of the parched South have in mine eyes displayed; Fairer and more desired!— this well might be, For let the South have beauty's utmost dower And yet my heart might well have turned to thee, My home, my country, when a delicate flower Within thy pleasant borders was for me

Tended, and growing up thro' sun and shower.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

SAW in dream where met proud rivers twain
From the East and West—one without storm

or stain,

Clear-eyed and paved with crystal, as to glass The merest speck that in the air might pass Above it; the other, from remoter springs, Soil'd with long travel and passionate outgoings, Full-vein'd and swoll'n with ore from the iron rock, Impetuous sped to meet it: at the shock Earth reeled, and heaven grew dark with sudden gloam Above the unpenetrable spray. What wonder, If men's eyes, baffled by the blinding foam, Saw not beyond, where, 'scaped the smoke and thunder, Through prosperous fields, bright blazon'd fold on fold, One clear strong stream their glorious course they hold.

JAMES RHOADES.

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Darkens the pools by dun green velveted, The stream leaps like a living thing at play,— In haste it seems; it cannot, cannot stay!

The great boughs changing there from year to

year,

And the high jackdaw-haunted eaves, still hear The burden of the rivulet,-Passing away!

And sometime certainly that oak no more

Will keep the winds in check; his breadth of

beam

Will go to rib some ship for some far shore ;

Those coigns and eaves will crumble, while that

stream

Will still run whispering, whispering night and day, That over-song of Father Time,-Passing away!

WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.

PROJECTED SHADOWS.

H, memory! ah, ruthless memory!
Shall I not have one hour unfill'd for thee?

Why wilt thou thus usurp the days to be,

Unsatisfied with all thy realms that lie
Behind the Present? why o'ercloud the sky,
Glad with gold star-scripts of Futurity?

Hast thou not made the fleeting hours for me Sunless enough, that thou must flicker by

The shrouding years, and hovering on the verge

Of my horizon's blue, blot out the forms.

Of all my pleasant creatures of delight,

Won with much wrestling from the haggard night,

And in their stead paint up a sky of storms

And the stern Fury sworded with the scourge?

JOHN PAYNE.

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