O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly Tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves
Order'd by an intelligence so wise,
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.
I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize:
And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree Can emblems see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, Some harshness show,
All vain asperites I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.
And as when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green,
The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?
So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly Tree.
THALABA'S HOME IN THE DESERT.
It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, That, in a lonely tent, had cast The lot of Thalaba.
There might his soul develope best Its strengthening energies; There might he from the world Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot.
Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled In that beloved solitude!
Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze Flow with cool current o'er his cheek? Lo! underneath the broad-leav'd sycamore With lids half-clos'd he lies, Dreaming of days to come.
His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, Now licks his listless hand; Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, Courting the wonted caress.
Or comes the father of the rains From his caves in the uttermost west, Comes he in darkness and storms? When the blast is loud, When the waters fill
The traveller's tread, in the sands, When the pouring shower Streams adown the roof,
When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds, When the outstrain'd tent flags loosely, Within there is the enibers' cheerful glow, The sound of the familiar voice,
The song that lightens toil,- Domestic peace and comfort are within. Under the common shelter, on dry sand, The quiet camels ruminate their food; From Moath falls the lengthening cord, As patiently the old man
Entwines the strong palm-fibres; by the hearth The damsel shakes the coffee-grains, That with warm fragrance fill the tent; And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, Forgiven plunderer, for Öneiza's sake!
Or when the winter torrent rolls
Down the deep-channell'd rain-course, foamingly, Dark with its mountain spoils,
With bare feet pressing the wet sand, There wanders Thalaba,"
The rushing flow, the flowing roar, Filling his yielded faculties; A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. Or lingers it a vernal brook
Gleaming o'er yellow sands?
Beneath the lofty bank reclin'd,
With idle eye he views its little waves, Quietly listening to the quiet flow; While, in the breathings of the stirring gale, The tall canes bend above.
Floating like streamers on the wind Their lank uplifted leaves.
Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath; God had given Enough, and blest him with a mind content. No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams; But ever round his station he beheld Camels that knew his voice,
And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call, And goats that, morn and eve, Came with full udders to the danisel's hand. Dear child! the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt It was her work; and she had twin'd His girdle's many hues; And he had seen his robe
How often, with a memory-mingled joy Which made her mother live before his sight, He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof! Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, Tost the thin cake on spreading palm,
Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity.
'Tis the cool evening hour: The tamarind from the dew Sheathes its young fruit, yet green.
Before their tent the mat is spread, The old man's awful voice Intones the holy book.
What if beneath no lamp-illumin'd dome, Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth, Azure and gold adornment? sinks the word With deeper influence from the Imam's voice,
Where in the day of congregation, crowds Perform the duty-task?
Their father is their priest,
The stars of heaven their point of prayer, And the blue firmament
The glorious temple, where they feel The present deity!
Yet through the purple glow of eve Shines dimly the white moon.
The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance, Rest on the pillar of the tent. Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, The dark-eyed damsel sits; The old man tranquilly Up his curl'd pipe inhales The tranquillizing herb.
So listen they the reed of Thalaba, While his skill'd fingers modulate The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones.
SCOTT's poetry possesses nearly the same qualities for which his novels are remarkable. It abounds in romantic narrative, picturesque description, and characters admirably delineated; and sometimes has scenes of deep feeling. His versification is easy and rapid in its flow, and his pages are full of bustling, various, vivid intererst, which his power in the display of true human nature enables him to excite and continue, almost without artifice or effort, in the mind of his reader.
His poetry is pure in its moral spirit, just in its sentiments, affectionate, noble, and friendly in its thoughts and feelings.
Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go-but go alone the while- Then view St David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!
HARP of the north, farewell! the hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending! In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone.
That I o'er live such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! "T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, "T is now the brush of fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell- And now, 't is silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
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