Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby

clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they

ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

Mrs. Blackwood.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago
When first you were my bride :
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

?Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between them, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride :
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arms young strength was gone ;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' then,
And you hid it for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh ! I am thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more !

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darlin'!
In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair !

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side :
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

THE SEVEN AGES.—Shakspeare.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits, and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,

His youthfal hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

Leigh Hunt. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold :Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, “What writest thou ?”—The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “ The names of those who love the Lord.” “ And is mine one ?” said Abou. “Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Alou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.” The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE BLIND BOY'S BEEN AT PLAY.-E. Cook.

The Blind Boy's been at play, mother,

And many games we had;
We led him on our way, mother,

And every step was glad.

But when we found a starry flower,

And praised its varied hue,
A tear came trembling down his cheek,

Just like a drop of dew.
We took him to the mill, mother,

Where falling waters made
A rainbow o'er the rill, mother,

As golden sun-rays played ;
But when we shouted at the scene,

And hailed the clear blue sky,
He stood quite still upon the bank,

And breathed a long, long sigh.
We asked him why he wept, mother,

Where'er we found the spots.
Where periwinkle crept, mother,

O’er wild forget-me-nots :
“Ah, me!” he said, while tears ran down

As fast as summer showers,
“ It is because I cannot see

The sunshine and the flowers.”
Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother,

Has taught me I am blest,
For I can look with joy, mother,

On all I love the best,
And when I see the dancing stream,

And daisies red and white,
I'll kneel upon the meadow sod,

And thank my God for sight.

WATERLOO.-Byron.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »