« AnkstesnisTęsti »
"A Mother, too!" these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
When he wak'd up, and star'd like one
He sat upright; and ere the dream
"O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd)
"I have torn out her heart."
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,
And never she smil'd after.
Carmen religuum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow and To-morrow!
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir PATRICK SPENCE.
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon clouds in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom-light,
(With swimming phantom-light o'erspread But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
In word, or sigh, or tear
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
And it's peculiar tint of yellow green :
And still I gaze- and with how blank an eye!