« AnteriorContinuar »
Isabel, a Dramatic Poem.
Agnes. Preserve me, Saints! is that a living form
Fill not my blasted sight with that worn frame,—
What mean those words?
Again!-Again !—No more—
[He flings himself from the window on the terrace-Agnes screams, and, endeavouring to save him, sinks to the ground. Scene changes.]
SCENE 2d. The ruins of an ancient Abbey.-Moonlight.-At one end an inhabited part of the building, the rest presents the remains of an old Monastery. The Hymn of the Monks within:
'Tis midnight, and the stars are waking-
Where lonely sorrow wakes and weeps.
'Tis midnight, and the Abbey bell
Hath tolled to mark the hour of prayer,
Hath called th to the vesper there.
All nature joins the holy choir,
One gen'ral thought pervades the whole,
Had spread its flame from soul to soul.
[Isabel rushes in—she looks as if pursued by some one whom she is anxious to avoid.]
Isabel. Hide me, ye caverns of the earth-roll, roll,
Great mountains from your base and bury me.
Isabel, a Dramatic Poem.
A pause-Lindenberg appears- he looks earnestly round-at length he discovers Isabel
Lin. Ha!-near me-Sorceress art thou hither come
The dying curse is hovering round thee now-
Nay, start not at that name-there was a time
O holy virtue! had I loved thee yet,
I had not now been scorned-my child-my child
I gazed on her to-day,-I gazed on her
Off, monster-off-delirium 's in my brain
She draws from her bosom a dagger-Lindenberg attempts to seize it, but she plunges it into her side.
Lin. Oh! Heaven, she's dead
He knocks at the convent gate-lights appear at the windows, and in a few moments some Monks enter from a low postern door. Lindenberg points to Isabel who lies on the earth at his feet-they raise her and support her in their arms, and Lindenberg continues to gaze on her without speaking-as they carry her into the monastery the scene closes.
Thou hast departed,-like a beauteous cloud
Thou wert the soothing spirit, which did move
And earth grew dim, and yon blue world of skies
But now I see thee human,-faithless-wed !-
Sonnet to Spring--Beaty.
SONNET TO SPRING.
I see thee-feel thee-life-renewing Spring!
A young creation springs, and the sweet sun
Ah, Spring! there is a season of the heart
O Beauty! words are poor and idle all,
Unskilled are they thy myst'ries to proclaim;
Hath wak'd my harp-unused to glowing theme!
Hail minister of bliss! whose balm can heal
The wounded mind-can soothe affliction strong;
The poison'd arrow that hath rankled long
The soul exults-for lo! its empire 's thine!
VOL I-NO. VI.
No treasons, Beauty, mar thy boundless reign.
Save that which burns for thee through all mankind;
Where Nature decks thee for herself alone:
With Summer's fairest fruits around thy throne ;
Our orisons are thine-for thee they flow!
Without thee life were vain-Elysium cold;
O Woman! Beauty's softer, tenderer name,
Emblem of Peace-bright rainbow mid our tears!
Of doubtful cadence-for to thee 'tis given
The language of the Stars-that speaks of Heaven!
And blooming Houries light his blissful dream;
To bless our Eden with a holier name!
O Time! thou stand'st alone-cold, and unmoved,
This ruined Statue's pity-moving mein;
Whose lips seem almost opening to complain,
Bright with the glories of thy earlier reign!
And fancy, sorrowing, through a thousand years,
But let me gaze once more upon the sky;
The things of art are fading fast away,
But here is beauty that can ne'er decay!
Fast by the font of light, and quaffed its ray,
In the days of my childhood, unfetter'd and free
For Liberty breathed her swet light on the flowers;
There was sunshine above me-the sunshine of skies Which the darkness of earth never turned into tears, Yet oh! even that was less bright than the eyes
That sparkled around me-like stars in the spheres!
Those scenes of my boy-hood are far, far away,
With the friends that I loved-and the hearts I ador'd; Yet oft will the spirit of memory stray,
To mingle with souls that can ne'er be restored ; And falsehood must dim the pure lustre of truth,
And feeling and passion no longer must be,
And the hearts that once made them so precious to me.
From the smile of contempt-and the frown of disdain, Which the world ever flings on the friendless and lone, I have turn'd with a spirit no ills could restrain,
To those days of my childhood-now faded and gone : And as darkly and sad on their fleetness I dwelt,
And thought of the friends that could never return, On the tomb of my hopes and enjoyments I knelt, And sweet were the tears that I pour'd on each urn!