And he watches its flashes,
Which brightly reveal
What the long, fringing lashes
Would vainly conceal,
And reads, while he kneels
All his ardor to speak,
Her reply, as it steals
In a blush o'er her cheek.
Till, won by the prayers
Which so softly reprove,
On his bosom, in tears,
She half murmurs her love;
And the stifled confession
Enraptured he sips,
'Mid the breathings of passion,
In dew from her lips.
THIS illustrates that lofty sublimity which borders on fear. A
fine example for reciting.
Row gently, ye rowers, as lightly we glide,
Like a bird on the air, o'er the crystalline tide;
See the wave, through its depths, its dark treasures unfold,
Its pavement of marble, its pebbles like gold!
Not yet hath mild evening her mellow dews shed,
Not yet hath the shadow vailed Snowdon's hoar head;
Yon tower to the day lifts its ruins sublime,
Like a year-stricken Druid, grown hallowed with time.
His own mountain mists distant Trivaen enshroud,
Pen Llider looks forth from his curtain of cloud;
Glyder-bach's gloomy caverns awake to the call
Of dark Caunant's wild waters, that foam as they fall.
Then hail to the mountains, and hail to the tower
Where liberty fled from the tyrant's fell power;
Her eagle spread darkly its blood-bedewed plume,
And nurtured its brood amidst darkness and gloom.
O loud rung the echoes with liberty's horn,
When she rushed on her foemen with battle and scorn!
Rome's legions fled, vanquished, with murderous rout;
And loud rung the echoes with victory's shout.
The tramp of the warrior is hushed on the rock,
The echoes resound not with battle's rude shok;
Yon tower lifts its ruins in lonely decay,:
And the fame of the hero hath faded away.
Now, white are the flocks on the mountain so green,
And the shepherd-boy roves where 't was death to be seen;
The hunter's loud horn, and the hound's gallant cheer
Play round the rude cot of the bold mountaineer.
Yet the gale from the mountain, the roar from the river,
The voice from the fountain flow wildly as ever;
The glooms and the caves hold their ancient control,
And the shadows of ages rest dark on the soul.
Thus freighted with pleasure, thus sailing in pride,
Row gently, ye rowers, as lightly we glide.
Tell me not that the wave hath white foam on its crest;
I love the dark lake with a storm on her breast.
CRAZY TOM, THE BEDLAMITE.
By W. H. IRELAND.
I RAGE, I burn! my soul expires!
My heart is scorched with raging fires!
Oh! give me Alpine snows.
Ah! now I tremble - now I feel
The icy fangs of winter steal,
And freeze my blood's hot flow.
I've twined a garland for my love;
Her face was passing rare,
But flint her heart; for nought could move
The fairest of the fair.
Ah! now I'll soar to heaven on high,
And snatch a handful of the sky,
Or steal yon twinkling star.
No, no; I'll climb the craggy steep,
Then headlong plunge into the deep,
Or sail in cockle-car.
I see her now: her eye-balls glare;
And demons hideous roar.
Mark where they hurl their brands in air!
And will she come no more?
Sing, pretty warblers of the grove,
Chant strains' melodious- - strains of love;
Poor Tom grows sick at heart.
Shrill scream thy song, fell bird of night;
The bat and raven 's my delight.
I've snapped the rankling dart.
Split, world-rain fire- lull care in straw-
A bolt has singed my brain.
And now poor Tom will merry be,
And laugh, to kill old Care;
Ice, fire, friends, love are still with me.
She's fairest of the fair.
ALLEN-A-DALE has no faggot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side
The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spear be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty bold yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
Who, at Rere-cross or Stanmore, meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother she asked of his house and his home.
Though the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "stands gallanter still. "Tis the vaulted blue heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone. But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry! He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye. And she fled to the forest, to hear a love tale; And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
"A sorrow for the dead,
Friend, countryman, and stranger;
And a curse for him who fled
His fellow-men in danger."
WARRIORS and chiefs, should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's in your path,
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath.
Thou, who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me, that moment, in blood, at thy feet,
Mine be the doom which they dare not to meet.
Farewell to others; but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart.
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway
Or kingly the death which awaits us to day.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from this heart.
Yet it was not that nature had spread o'er the scene
Its purest of crystal, its brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlets or rill;
Oh, no! it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Which made every scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Ovoca, how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friend I love best;
Where the storms which I feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
|