Page images
PDF
EPUB

Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded
In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe;
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know:
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task,

Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air; Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask More than the widow's pittance then could spare. Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay,

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial, day by day,

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain,

The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain,

And could not comfort-yet had power to wound! Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown Familiar with deep trials of its own,

With riper judgment looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,

Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time,
And darkens every folly into crime!

SONNET-TO MY BOOKS.

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take-
Let me return to You; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought,
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
"Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime

My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

SONNET-THE WEAVER.

Little they think, the giddy and the vain, Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, While the light glossy silk or rustling train Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, Crossing in silence the perplexing thread,

Pent in the confines of one narrow room,

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head: Little they think with what dull anxious eyes,

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, The devious mingling of those various dyes

Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: But the day cometh when the tired shall rest

Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast!

COMMON BLESSINGS.

Those "common blessings!" In this chequered scene
How little thanksgiving ascends to God!

Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean

To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod,
See various blossoms paint the valley clod,
And all things into teeming beauty burst?
A miracle as great as Aaron's rod,
But that our senses, into dullness nurst,
Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst.

They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure;
They who most suffer value Suffering's pause;
They who but seldom taste the simplest pleasure,
Kneel oftenest to the Giver and the Cause.
Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws,

To hide the sunset and the silver night;

While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws,

And some rare holiday permits delight,

Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight.

THE PRISON CHAPLAIN.

I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word,
Enter the souls of many fellow-men,
And pierce them sharply as a two-edg'd sword,
While conscience echoed back his words again;
Till, even as showers of fertilizing rain

Sink through the bosom of the valley clod,

So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod,

One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God.
That amphitheatre of awe-struck heads

Is still before me: there the Mother bows,
And o'er her slumbering infant meekly sheds
Unusual tears. There, knitting his dark brows,
The penitent blasphemer utters vows

Of holy import. There, the kindly man,

Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose
All he most valued when his life began,

Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran.
There, with pale eyelids heavily weighed down
By a new sense of overcoming shame,
A youthful Magdalen, whose arm is thrown

Round a young sister who deserves no blame;
As though like innocence she now would claim,
Absolved by a pure God! And, near her, sighs
The father who refused to speak her name:
Her penitence is written in her eyes-

Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise?

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE facts in the life of ELIZABEth Barrett BROWNING, one of the most distinguished of the female poets of England, which have come to our know. ledge, are very few. Up to her marriage with Robert Browning (himself no mean poet), in November, 1846, she went very little into society. Since that time she has resided with her husband in Florence, and is now (1851) about forty years of age.

Mrs. Browning's publications are as follows: Essay on Mind, a Poem;" "Prometheus Bound, and Miscellaneous Poems;" "The Seraphim, and other Poems:" "Collected Poems," in two volumes; "A Drama of Exile, and other Poems," two volumes.

Mrs. Browning has been styled "the learned poetess of the day, familiar with Homer and Eschylus, and Sophocles, and to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspirations of Christianity." This is readily granted, and yet we cannot say that her poetry, as a whole, deeply interests us. With the exception of some few pieces, it takes no permanent hold upon the heart, simply because it is addressed more to the reason than to the feelings or affections. The following, we think, are some of her best pieces-pieces of the most simplicity and feeling, if they do not, so well as some others, illustrate her general style.

THE PET-NAME.

I have a name, a little name,
Uncadenced for the ear;
Unhonored by ancestral claim,
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm
The solemn font anear.

Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none;

And afterwards, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread
Across my funeral stone.

Whoever chanceth it to call,

May chance your smile to win ;-
Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall
Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within!

My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain;
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill-

And through the word our laugh did run
As part thereof! The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still!

Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear!
The talk upon the willow seat,
The bird and wind that did repeat
Around our human cheer!

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sister's woodland glee-
My father's praise I did not miss,
What time he stooped down to kiss
The poet at his knee-

And voices-which to name me, aye
Most tender tones were keeping!

To some I never more can say

An answer, till God wipes away

In heaven these drops of weeping!

My name to me a sadness wears-
No murmurs cross my mind-
Now God be thanked for these thick tears,
Which show of those departed years,

Sweet memories left behind!

Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet;

Now God be thanked for every thought
Which is so tender, it hath caught

Earth's guerdon of regret!

Earth may embitter, not remove,

The love divinely given:

And e'en that mortal grief shall prove

The immortality of love,

And lead us nearer Heaven!

THE LADY'S YES.

"Yes!" I answered you last night;
"No!" this morning, sir, I say!
Colors, seen by candle-light,

Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above and laughs below-
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes or fit for No.

Call me false, or call me free-
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both

Time to dance is not to woo-
Wooer light makes fickle troth-
Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death-
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true-
Ever true as wives of yore-
And her Yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes forevermore.

VICTORIA'S TEARS.1

O maiden! heir of kings!
A king has left his place;

The majesty of Death has swept

All other from his face!

1 When Queen Victoria was informed of her accession to the throne on the death of her uncle, she was so affected with the consciousness of the heavy responsibilities which had in a moment fallen upon her, that she wept.

« PreviousContinue »