Childlike, as then, I lie to-night, It starts and shudders, while it burns, Now swinging slow, and slanting low, And yet I know, while to and fro O promise of my soul! A heavenly trust my spirit calms,— JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE. WHERE LIES THE LAND? WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Link'd arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. BY THE AUTUMN SEA. FAIR as the dawn of the fairest day, There cometh a dream of the past to me, All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil, And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, And there rises a wind from the chill north-west That seemeth the wail of a soul's unrest, A single ship through the gloaming glides, The wings of the ghostly beach-birds gleam lew's scream Falls faintly shrill from the darkening height; The first weird sigh on the lips of Night Breathes low through the sedge and the blasted tree, With a murmur of doom, by the autumn sea. O sky-enshadowed and yearning main! Your gloom but deepens this human pain; Those waves seem big with a nameless care, That sky is a type of the heart's despair, As I linger and muse by the sombre lea, And the night-shades close on the autumn sea. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE, POEMS OF PLACES. THE EMIGRANTS IN THE BER MUDAS. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples-plants of such a price No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by His hand From Lebanon, He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique bay. Thus sang they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note; Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. To a sheepskin gave the story: And pledging with contented smack Happy field or mossy cavern Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? JOHN KEATS ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. MORTALITY, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust Since the first man died for sin; Here the bones of birth have cried, SONNET. WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. FROM beauteous Windsor's high and stor ied halls Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, To my low cot from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens, Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, "Though gods they were, as men they Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. SOULS of poets dead and gone, I have heard that on a day rill: Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells, Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, And tastes the myrtle and the citron's flowers; At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home. THOMAS WARTON. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Her Henry's holy shade; among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain !-- Where once my careless childhood stray'd, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames-for thou hast seen While some, on urgent business bent, To sweeten liberty; Some bold adventurers disdain And unknown regions dare descry ; And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigor born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men' And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart: And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. ELEGIAC STANZAS. SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. I WAS thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee. |