FICTION AND TRUTH. THERE was a glare of light, a mass And living hearts not more sincere. Mine nursed a wound they could not heal, Mine saw a scene they could not see; How little I for them might feel, How less could they for me! I knew not why I wandered there, When, sudden as a star that drops Brief as the quick and quivering spark There came a spirit on my path, A brow, the whitest world of thought It came and claimed no kindred there ; But glanced on me as though a hair, Plucked from the brow of Time, might be A chain to bind it unto me. On me it gazed, an instant gazed, Then passed through closing crowds again, A pinnace on the sea-foam raised To strike the swimmer's brain. Thus fairest things should vanish fleet And all the blossoms she may shed I wished its momentary stay, Could be my term of life below, Its presence came so brightly brief, And where that light was found and lost, I counted o'er a cloud-like host, Bright with the sunshine which they shade, While all beneath them freeze and fade. The flame had sunk where it began, The scene was still a painted show; They said 'twas truth-I turned to Man, And sighed to find it so. M TO GREECE. (A FRAGMENT.) O, MISTRESS of rich seas, whose every billow Hath hymned a hope, or been some poet's pillow; Mother of mountain isles, whose every stone Hath borne the glory of some name unknown! Whose shores a holy echo still repeat, And show the sun-prints of immortal feet; O, scenes where HOMER lived and BYRON died, THE SHADOWS OF LIFE. THE secret world in human eyes All passion is a blazing brand Pity a winter smile; And hope but winds across the sand, That forms, and fails the while. Our life is as an idle boat Along a winding river; An aimless arrow sprung remote And pilotless it still must float, And aimless speed for ever. |