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I seek for comfort, all in vain,
I fly to shadows for relief; And call old fancies back again ;
And breathe on pleasure's withered leaf.
It may not be; my lot of thrall
Was dealt me by a mightier hand;
The grief that came not at my call,
Will not depart at my command.
Then ask me not, sweet friend, to wake
The harp, so dear to thee of yore;
Wait, till the clouds of sorrow break,
And I can hope and love once more.
When pain has done its part assigned,
And set the chastened spirit free, My heart again a voice shall find,
And my first notes be poured to thee!
BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.
The crimson sun was sinking down to rest,
Pavilioned on the cloudy verge of heaven;
And ocean, on her gently-heaving breast,
Caught and flashed back the varying tints of even;
When, on a fragment from the tall cliff riven,
With folded arms, and doubtful thoughts oppressed,
Columbus sat,- till sudden hope was given-
A ray of gladness shooting from the West !
Oh! what a glorious vision for mankind
Then dawned above the twilight of his mind;-
Thoughts shadowy still, but indistinctly grand !
There stood his Genius, face to face, and signed
(So legends tell) far seaward with her hand;
Till a New World sprang up and bloomed beneath her
He was a man whom danger could not daunt,
Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue;
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt,
And steeled the path of honour to pursue :
So, when by all deserted, still he knew
How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront
Sedition; schooled with equal eye to view
The stings of grief, and the base pangs of want.
But, when he saw that promised land arise,
In all its rare and bright varieties,
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod;
Then softening nature melted in his eyes;
He knew his fame was full — and blessed his God;-
And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod!
Beautiful realm beyond the western main,
That hymns thee ever with resounding wave!
Thine is the glorious sun's peculiar reign;-
Fruits, flowers, and gems, in rich mosaic, pave
Thy paths;—like giant altars o'er the plain
Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering—’mid the rave
Of mighty streams, that shoreward rush amain,
Like Polypheme from his Etnean cave.
Joy-joy for Spain! A seaman's hand confers
These glorious gifts, and half the world is hers!
But where is he— the light whose radiance glows;
The load-star of succeeding mariners?
Behold him-crushed beneath o'ermastering woes;
Hopeless-heart-broken-chained - abandoned to his
BY THE AUTHOR OF “LILLIAN."
Nessun maggior dolore,
Che recordarsi del tempe felici,
STAND on a funeral mound,
Far, far from all that love thee ; With a barren heath around,
And a cypress bower above thee : And think, while the sad wind frets,
And the night in cold gloom closes, Of spring, and spring's sweet violets,
Of summer, and summer's roses.
Sleep where the thunders fly
Across the tossing billow; Thy canopy the sky,
And the lonely deck thy pillow :
And dream, while the chill sea-foam
In mockery dashes o'er thee, Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home,
And the kiss of her that bore thee.
Watch in the deepest cell
Of the foeman's dungeon tower, Till hope's most cherished spell
Has lost its cheering power ;
And sing, while the galling chain
On every stiff limb freezes,
Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain,
Of the breath of the mountain breezes.
· Talk of the minstrel's lute,
The warrior's high endeavour, When the honied lips are mute,
And the strong arm crushed for ever : Look back to the summer sun,
From the mist of dark December ; Then say to the broken-hearted one,
“ 'Tis pleasant to remember!”