Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly.
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing,
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
SHE lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Above her glared the moon, beneath, the sea,
Upon the white horizon Athos' peak
Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead;
The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair ;
The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below
The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;
The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;
The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge,
And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest;
And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept,
And hushed her myriad children for a while
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear,
But left her tossing still; for night and day
A mighty hunger yearned within her breast,
Till all her veins ran fever; and her cheek,
Her long thin hands, and ivory channelled feet,
Were wasted with the wasting of her soul,
Then peevishly she flung her on her face,
And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare,
And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool
Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward:
And then she raised her head, and upward cast
Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light
Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair,
As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks
Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon.
Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched the shell,
And waked wild music from its silver strings;
Then tossed it sadly by.—“ Ah, hush!" she cries;
"Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine;
Why mock my discords with thine harmonies?
Altho' a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,
Only to echo back in every tone
The moods of nobler natures than thine own."
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
DISAPPOINTED of her game,
Panting up the hill she came,
But her story was begun
Ere the summit quite she won.
"Mother! mother! I have been
Such a chase across the green,
By a cruel bird outwitted,
Still from bush to bush it flitted,
Rising oft, but soon alighting,
Still avoiding, still inviting:
Now I thought it all my own,
In a moment it was gone :
Onward still my steps it drew,
Then it spread its wing and flew ;-
What a world of pains it cost!
Now the pretty treasure's lost!"
While the maid her tale repeated,
Angry to be thus defeated,
First the prudent mother smiled,
Then bespoke her panting child:
"Let thy chase, my darling, give
Lesson to thee how to live,
From thine own pursuit and sorrow,
From that bird a warning borrow :
Rash and headlong, child, like thee,
Man pursues felicity.
Still illusive prospects cheer him, Still he thinks the treasure near him, When he on the prize would spring, Bliss is ever on the wing,
Thus his weary life he spends
In a chase that never ends,
Hopes conceived and baffled ever,
Bootless guest and vain endeavour."
DE ROSSI, trans. by J. ANSTICE.
LIFE is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Day, how rapid in its flight—
Day, how few must see the night;
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.
As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the humble vale?
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait.
As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose,
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease.
Say, man's true, genuine estimate
Is not, Art thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Say, To be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies.
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep,
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.
66 ONE LOVING HOWRE."
FOR many yeares of sorrow can dispence;
A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre.
Shee has forgott how many a woeful stowre
For him she late endurd; she speakes no more
Of past: true is, that true love hath no powre
To looken backe; his eies be fixt before.
SUCH a starved bank of moss
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across :
Violets were born!
Sky-what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud :
Splendid, a star!
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