Unveiled skin's whiteness lay, Gold hairs in curls hung down, Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day. The flood a throne her reared Of waves, most like that heaven Where beaming stars in glory turn ensphered; No sigh by winds was given, Birds left to sing, herds feed, her voice to hear. World-wandering sorry wights, Whom nothing can content Within those varying lists of days and nights, Whose life, e'er known amiss, In glittering griefs is spent, Come learn, said she, what is your choicest bliss; From toil and pressing cares How ye may respite find, A sanctuary from soul-thralling snares, A port to harbor sure In spite of waves and wind, Which shall, when Time's hour-glass is run, endure. Not happy is that life Which ye as happy hold, No, but a sea of fears, a field of strife, Charged on a throne to sit With diadems of gold, Preserved by force, and still observed by wit; Huge treasures to enjoy, Of all her gems spoil Ind, All Seres' silk in garments to employ, The Phoenix' plumes to find To rest upon, or deck your purple bed. * No, but blest life is this, With chaste and pure desire, To turn unto the loadstar of all bliss, Burnt up with sacred fire, Possessing him, to be by him possest. Swift is your mortal race, And glassy is the field; Vast are desires not limited by grace; Life a weak taper is; Then, while it light doth yield, Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting bliss. This when the nymph had said, She dived within the flood, Whose face with smiling curls long after staid; Then sighs did zephyrs press, Birds sang from every wood, And echoes rang, This was true happiness! William Drummond. ABSALOM. HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low THE On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And the poor common words of courtesy The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! For his estranged, misguided Absalom, — The proud, bright being, who had burst away The heart that cherished him, — for him he poured, The pall was settled. He who slept beneath His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade And left him with his dead. The king stood still "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb! My proud boy, Absalom! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; |