Puslapio vaizdai

Him who in moral mood this image drew;
And yet, methinks, that I could frame
An image different, yet the same,

More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.

Behold a lane retired and green,

Winding amid a forest-scene,

With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;
There is a browsing ass espied,

One colt is frisking by her side,

And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.

And lo! a little maiden stands,

With thistles in her tender hands,

Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat ;

Or gently down before him lays,

With words of solace and of praise,

Pluck'd from the untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.

The summer sun is sinking down,

And the peasants from the market town

With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning;
Groups of gay children too are there,

Stirring with mirth the silent air,

O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.

The ass hath got his burthen still!

The merry elves the panniers fill:

Delighted there from side to side they swing.

The creature heeds nor shout nor call,

But jogs on careless of them all,

Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.

A gipsey-group! the secret wood

Stirs through its leafy solitude,

As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;
Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires

From the brown tents, and sparkling fires,

And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,
More pensive mid this scene of glee,

That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;

The soul of all her softest rays

On yonder placid creature plays,

As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.

But now the silver moonbeams fade,

And, peeping through a flowery glade,




An ass stands meek and patient there,

And by her side a spectre fair,

To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.

With tenderest care the pitying dame
Supports the dying maiden's frame,

And strives with laughing looks her heart to cheer;
While playful children crowd around
To catch her eye by smile or sound,

Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!

I feel this mournful dream impart

A holier image to my heart,

[ocr errors]

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth :-
Blest creature! through the solemn night,

I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,

Shed from that wond'rous child-The Saviour of the earth.

When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,
Thou on that wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie;
On thee the humble Jesus sate,

When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate,

To see mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.

Happy thou wert,-nor low thy praise,

In peaceful patriarchal days,

When countless tents slow passed from land to land
Like clouds o'er heaven:-the gentle race

Such quiet scene did meetly grace,

Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.

Poor wretch!-my musing dream is o'er;

Thy shivering form I view once more,

And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.

But they whose thoughtful spirits see

The truth of life, will pause with me,

And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

THE air of death breathes through our souls,

The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, "Prepare to die.”

The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wond'rous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave,
With thin locks silvery-gray;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

And holy midnight voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright, From whose dear side they came! --We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name

This frame of dust, this feeble breath The Plague may soon destroy; We think on Thee, and feel in death A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast!


[blocks in formation]

What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne !
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,

To thy kingdom all have gone.
Before thee stand

The wondrous band;

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darken'd nations when they died!

Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on:
Back from the tomb

No step has come;

There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound!


DOMESTIC Love! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lonely cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide ;
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,
Shining along, through banks with harebells dyed;

And many a bird to warble on the wing,

When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O! love of loves!-to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key.

Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,

When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that, on the midnight sea,
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come
And on its altar closed-forever closed thy plume.


THERE was once a gentle time
Whenne the worlde was in its prime ;
And everie daye was holydaye,
And everie monthe was lovelie Maye
Cupid thenne hadde but to goe
With his purple winges and bowe;
And in blossomede vale and grove
Everie shepherde knelte to love.

Thenne a rosie, dimplede cheeke,
And a blue eye, fonde and mceke;
And a ringlette-wreathenne brow,.
Like hyacinthes on a bed of snowe;
And a low voice, silverre sweete,
From a lippe without deceite;
Onlie those the heartes could move
Of the simple swaines to love.

But thatte time is gone and paste,
Canne the summer always laste?
And the swaines are wiser grown,
And the hearte is turned to stone,
And the maidenne's rose may witherre,
Cupid's fled, no man knows whitherre
But anotherre Cupid's come,
With a browe of care and gloome:
Fixede upon the earthlie moulde,
Thinkinge of the sullene golde;
In his hande the bowe no more,
At his backe the householde store,
That the bridalle gold must buye:
Uselesse nowe the smile and sighe:
But he weares the pinion stille,
Flyinge at the sighte of ille.

Oh, for the olde true-love time,
Whenne the world was in its prime!

« AnkstesnisTęsti »