My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled Oh, for that small, small beer anew! Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart! The' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The "omne bene"-Christmas come! But now I write for days and days— Then home, sweet home!—the crowded coach- The joyous shout-the loud approach— The winding horns like rams'! The meeting sweet that made me thrill The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, No "satis" to the "jams!" 38 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. When that I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, TO THE OWL. The following lines were written in reference to the murder of Mr. Weare, a few years ago. OWL! that lovest the boding sky! What saw'st thou there? For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry! "The maple's head Was glowing red, And red were the wings of the autumn sky; Rose from the stream That dabbled my feet, as I glided by !" Owl! that lovest the stormy sky! What crimson'd thy beak, And hung on the lids of thy staring eye? And it rose like a flood,- Owl! that lovest the midnight sky! Again, again, Where are the twain? Look! while the moon is hurrying by!— "In the thicket's shade The one is laid ; You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye!" Owl! that lovest the darken'd sky! There rose a low and a murmuring cry :- A bubble burst, and gurgled by; But I look'd from the brim, And I saw, in the weeds, a dead man lie!" Owl! that lovest the moonless sky! With the faggot's rays, Look! oh, look! what seest thou there? That snort and hiss, And why do thy feathers shiver and stare?--""Tis he! 'tis he! He sits 'mid the three, And a breathless woman is on the stair!" Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky? What there thou hearest tell to me?— "Tis a woman's scream, And she calls on one on one of the Three!" ""Tis a soul that prays in agony !" 40 TO THE OWL. Owl! that hatest the morning sky! I must pray, in charity, Miserere, Domine! ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. BY L. E. L. His was a harp just fit to pour The first time that I read his strain I had forgot my woman's fears, In thinking on my country's fame, Till almost I could dream I saw Her colours float o'er blood and flame. Died the high song as dies the voice Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes, Like stars that darken'd in their fall. ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. Hopes perishing from too much light, Like Marah's wave, to bitterness. And is this, then, the curse that clings Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing? Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold; Look not up from the sullen path That lead's to this world's idol-gold. And close thy hand, and close thy heart, But look thou upon Nature's face, Or worship thou the midnight sky, The silent spell of music's power. Or love, or feel, or let thy soul Pour forth thy fervid soul in song- But of all earth's dim vanities, The very earthliest is praise. 41 |