Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace;
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face;
Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.
The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years;
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.
But She hath been a happy wife;-the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;
A sense of slight-of loneliness-hath never banished sleep;
Her life hath been a cloudless one ;-then, wherefore doth she weep!
She look'd upon her raven locks;-what thoughts did they recall?
Oh! not of nights wiren they were deck'd for banquet or for ball;—
They brought back thoughts of early youth, ere she had learned to
check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.
She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there;
She seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch
That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she prized so much.
And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep-when she beholds the first footmark of Time!
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.
'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane
Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again, It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret,
The Spring for ever gone-the Summer sun so nearly set.
Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy mirror tells the truth,
Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth;
Go!-bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair;
"Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first grey hair!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
ALL houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
The perturbations, the perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of that unseen star,
That undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud,
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd,
Into the realm of mystery and night;
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
[John Gay, one of the most genial, gentle, and worthiest of our poets and dramatists was born at Barnstaple, Devon, in 1668. He came of a good, but greatly reduced family; and both parents dying when he was but six years of
age, he was apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London. Disliking the drudgery of a retail shop, he obtained the cancelling of his indentures, and devoted himself to literature. In 1708 he published a poem, in blank verse, called "Wine;" and in 1711 "Rural Sports," a descriptive poem, which he dedicated to Pope, through life his admirer and friend, and became domestic-secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth. In 1714 he published his "Shepherd's Week," a pastoral, and obtained the post of secretary to Lord Clarendon on his appointment of Envoy-Extraordinary to Hanover; but Gay was totally unfitted for public employment, and held the situation for two months only. On his return, he produced several dramatic pieces, with but slight success; but in 1727 his "Beggars' Opera" came out, ran for sixty-two successive nights, and not only became the rage at the time, but has remained ever since one of the most popular pieces ever produced on the British stage. He soon amassed 30001. by his writings. This he determined to keep "entire and sacred," being at the same time received into the house of his early patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. Here he amused himself by adding to his "Fables." He died, suddenly, of fever, December 4, 1732, aged 44, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.]
I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame;
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried:
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister "awkward creature ;"
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day,
A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends,
A rose he pluck'd, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the muse inspired:
'Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace!
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never-fading love!
There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there,
I see thy withering head reclined
With envy and despair:
One common fate we both must prove,
You die with envy, I with love."
"Spare your comparisons," replied
An angry rose, who grew beside.
"Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a poet do without us?
In every love-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?"
THE MOURNING MOTHER OF THE DEAD BLIND.
MRS. E. B. BROWNING.
[See page 142.]
Dost thou weep, mourning mother,
For thy blind boy in the grave?
That no more with each other
Purest counsel ye can have?
That he, left dark by nature,
Can never more be led
By thee, maternal creature,
Along smooth paths instead?
That thou can'st no more show him
The sunshine, by the heat;
The river's silver flowing,
By murmurs at his feet?
The foliage, by its coolness;
The roses, by their smell;
And all creation's fulness,
By Love's invisible?
Weepest thou to behold not
His meek blind eyes again-
Closed doorways which were folded,
And prayed against in vain—
And under which sate smiling
The child-mouth evermore,
As one who watcheth, wiling
The time by, at a door?
And weepest thou to feel not
His clinging hand on thine-
Which, now at dream-time, will not
Its cold hands disentwine?
And weepest thou still ofter,
Oh, never more to mark
His low, soft words, made softer
By speaking in the dark ?
Weep on, thou mourning mother!
But since to him when living,
Thou wert both sun and moon,
Look o'er his grave, surviving,
From a high sphere alone!
Sustain that exaltation-
Expend the tender light,
And hold in mother-passion,
Thy Blessed, in thy sight.
See how he went out straightway
From the dark world he knew;
No twilight in the gateway
To mediate 'twixt the two;
Into the sudden glory,
Out of the dark he trod,
Departing from before thee
At once to light and GOD!
For the first face, beholding
The Christ's in its divine;
For the first place, the golden
And tideless hyaline :
With trees, at lasting summer,
That rock to tuneful sound,
While angels, the new comer,
Wrap a still smile around.
Oh, in the blessed psalm, now,
His happy voice he tries,
Spreading a thicker palm-bough,
Than others, o'er his eyes;
Yet still, in all his singing,
Thinks highly of thy song
Which, in his life's first springing,
Sang to him all night long,
And wishes it beside him,
With kissing lips that cool
And soft did overglide him,
To make the sweetness full.
Look up, O mourning mother,
Thy blind boy walks in light!
Ye wait for one another,
Before God's infinite!
But thou art now the darkest,
Thou mother left below-
Thou, the sole blind-thou markest,
Content that it be so,
Until ye two give meeting
Where heaven's pearl-gate is, And he shall lead thy feet in, As once thou leddest his!
Wait on, thou mourning mother!
(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)
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