By the slow and struggling death Of despair on youth's high heart- By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, appear!" Was it her yearning spirit's dream, Or did a pale form rise, And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam, "Have the depths heard ?-they have! O thou that wert so fair! Yet take me to thy rest! There dwells no fear with love; Let me slumber on thy breast, While the billow rolls above! Where the long lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for me, "stay!-I come!" There was a sullen plunge below, A flashing on the main ; And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe, TO WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read among the hills, Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words; While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. True bard and holy !—thou art e'en as one Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free. A MONARCH'S DEATHBED. [The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.] A MONARCH on his deathbed layDid censers waft perfume, And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Through his proud chamber's gloom? Had he then fallen as warriors fall, Where strikes fire with spear? spear Was there a banner for his pall, A buckler for his bier? Not so-nor cloven shields nor helms Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God. Were there not friends with words of cheer, A peasant girl that royal head Upon her bosom laid, And, shrinking not for woman's dread, Alone she sat :-from hill and wood With her long hair she vainly press'd The wounds, to stanch their tide- TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. "Umile in tanta gloria." PETRARCH. Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone, How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes, in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd— Of heaven they were, and thither have return'd. How shall we mourn thee?—With a lofty trust, And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, Not to decay, but unto death hast bow'd; Praise for yet one more name with power endow'd, Thine, Heber, thine; whose memory from the dead, ST ASAPH, Sept. 1826. |