How the chorus swells and dies, like the wind of summer! How those passages of mysterious import seem to wave to and fro, like the swaying branches of trees; from which anon some solitary sweet voice darts off like a bird, and floats away and revels in the bright, warm sunshine! HYPERION. How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives ! MORITURI SALUTAMUS. FEBRUARY 4. The passing years had drunk a portion of the light from her eyes, and left their traces on her cheeks, as birds that drink at lakes leave their footprints on the margin. But the pleasant smile remained, and reminded him of the bygone days. Can it be so! Or does my sight KAVANAGH. Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white. THE GOLDEN Legend. Mendelssohn, 1809; Elisha Kent Kane, 1820. FEBRUARY 4. G. Lillo, 1693; J. Quincy, 1772; M. Hopkins, 1802. Wonderful and many were the soft accords and plaintive sounds that came from that little instrument, touched by the clever hand. Every feeling of the human heart seemed to find an expression there, and awaken a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him. HYPERION. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face Revealing his Norwegian race; A radiance, streaming from within, Around his eyes and forehead beamed, The Angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed. PRELUDE TO TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. He is dead, the sweet musician! Kind messages, that pass from land to land; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand, One touch of fire, - and all the rest is mystery! DEDICATION TO THE SEASIDE AND Fireside. Over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit - the light of inexhaustible human love. As in real life, so in his writings - the serious and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, the pathetic and the ludicrous are mingled together. HYPERION. The day is ending, The night is descending; The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. AN AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. FEBRUARY 8. Some critics are like chimney-sweepers: they put out the fire below, or frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it. DRIFT-WOOD. Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, EMMA AND EGINHARD. Ah! vainest of all things Is the gratitude of kings! BELISARIUS. |