« AnteriorContinuar »
Our lives are similar, our fates the same; How vain are riches, how fantastic fame! For born a snail, a peasant, or a prince, One certain destiny awaits us, since Or great, or rich, or poor, too true the truth, Time gnaws the heart-strings with unceasing tooth. Why should I envy, then, the wayward world, The vicious prosperous, or the courtier earled? A mite of joys and complement of cares, The humbler with the nobler equal shares. Were it not empty to have wished myself The murdered Bourbon, or the crazed Guelf? It is not in magnificence to save From worldly evil or inglorious grave; Else had that corse St. Helena inhumes, Forever lived, or died for statelier tombs.
XXI. THE BUTTERFLY.
THE Butterfly seemed to the ancients, the soul,
Apt emblem, indeed, is the grovelling worm,
Thus man, in his mortal enclosure confined,
'Till his spirit, released, on the heavenward wind, Ascends to the mansions of love.
XXII. REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD. [Journal. Portsmouth.]
I STAND among the dark grey stones;
Beneath me are the mouldering bones
And here, perhaps, they mused like me;
A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER. 119
Like me, they felt that sense was nought,
That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught,
Yet sense and passion held them slaves,
Perhaps, like them, I too shall go,
Nor heed my coming doom;
Oh God of mercy, make me know
But make it fit for heaven.
XXIII. A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER.
I CALLED for thee to bless thee-once I thought
Thou would'st have soothed this bleeding, broken heart:
A daughter's blessed consolation brought,
And ere the ebbing drops did all depart, I hoped to see thee on the shore of life,
Where I would linger for thy sweet farewell,
Then yield me to the flesh-dissolving cell.
I could have wished for more-unconscious me !
That mantling o'er this frozen cheek of mine, Called forth the accents of unwilling blame
Thou hast my pardon, daughter! give me thine. Come, let me bless thee, with my last, last kiss ;
These cold, cold lips inhaled thy infant breath, They hailed thee virtuous, with extatic bliss,
They bless thee fallen, in the pangs of death.
XXIV. THE LUNATIC GIRL.
'Twas on a moonshine night like this, we took our last farewell; And as he gave his parting kiss, I felt my bosom swell; He said, "Adieu, my Caroline," but I said not a word; Yet never heart was fond, like mine-how wild that dark bush stirred!
The moon was round, the moon was bright, the moon was rising high;
It was just such a pleasant night, and he was standing by; The sweet bird sung his roundelay, he mocked me all night long;
'Tis winter, and he 's flown away, or I should hear his song.
The moon looks down upon the spring-she cannot melt it, though;
The pretty bird has spread his wing, he does not love the snow; The winds blew hard-they say, at sea, such winds will raise a storm;
I wish my love was here by me--my heart would keep him
I have a hat of straw for thee-I wove it and I wept,
To think thou wert so far at sea, and I the toy have kept;
They say the moon loves such as I-her love is very cold;
What can my heart have done, to make me love so much the moon?
My fingers are so cold, they ache-i shall be frozen soon;
I would not love my lover 60-my tears are never dry;
I hear him call, and I must go-and so, sweet moon, good-bye.
XXV. MATERNAL MUSINGS.
The swift winged hours can carry.
My weakness turns to weeping--
To pray beside thee, sleeping.
'Twould shock thy manly pride, perhaps,
'Twould pain thy filial heart to find,
Then sleep, adventurous boy, and live
Yes--I will say, adieu to thee,
And when afar the ship is borne,
But hark! I hear a distant cry,
To deck--to danger-warning,
Streams to the breeze of morning.
XXVI. THE LAST REPOSE.
YE dead! ye dead! your rest is sweet, from dreamy trouble free,
Shall bosom every secret ill, where ye long vigils keep.
Ye solitary relics! pent, in earth, to earth a prey,
And sweet the couch, where coral wreaths, deep in the surging
brine, In ocean's dark unfathomed caves, the sleeping dust entwine. Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep, when tempests rode the
cloud, Or when the night-star paled the deep, the deep became their
shroud; Think not, for these, who press that bed, no seemly knell is rung, Think not, no rites embalm the dead, por holy hymn is sung: Heard ye net on the midnight wave, when whispered anthems
stole? ''Twas, o'er the seaboy's early grave, a requiem for his soul. Dear to the shipwreck'd is the port, where on a stormless sea, His barque rides safe from every gale, from shoals and quick
sands free ; Dear to the wanderer is the star, that points his doubtful way, That cheers and guides him when, afar, his faltering footsteps
stray ; And dear the hour when I, this head, may pillow on its rest, When I, amid the thronging dead, shall be a welcome guest ; O, dear to me that last repose, where I, this wasting form May shelter 'neath the opening rose, that knows no wintry