84 The jealous minstrel had scarcely ended her sweet complaining, when another gentle voice, but "less steep'd in melancholy," arose from a dark stream, that silently flowed at the foot of my resting-place, and filled the listening air around us with melody and joy. SONG OF THE WATER-LILY. The Rose has her nightingale-I have my swan, When the rose is decay'd, and the nightingale gone, Oh! 'tis sweet, ere the ev'ning is low in the west, And float down the stream on his loved lily's breast In the fables of old there's a story that Jove Strew'd my leaves o'er the couch of his rest, Oh! ne'er for a moment, with ev'n the first Of immortals, could I be untrue To the dear one that here from my infancy nursed Then haste, dearest, haste to your lily that lies On the waves of your shadowy stream ;— Tune the lyre of your wing* to her fond whisper'd sighs, Though they say that the souls of the flowers again + Here on these slow waters I'd ever remain While you call me your loved lily-bride! In The lily ceased, and, startled by the applauding echoes, hid her warm rising blushes in the cold deep water, and was heard no more. vain I pursued the path of the streamlet, in the hope of seeing her emerge to let me look upon her beauty; but she came not, and I wan *The snowy swan, that like a fleecy cloud Sails o'er the crystal of reflected heaven (Some waveless stream), while through his reedy wings That up we gaze upon the twilight stars, And think it is the spheral music.-ANON. + It is either Marmontel, or Dr. Hay on Miracles, or somebody else, who is of opi. nion that those angels who stood neuter in the heavenly rebellion, have been banished from paradise to take upon them the grosser existence of materiality in various shapes, as a punishment for their indifference,---(hence our fairies, sylphs, elves, &c., dwelling in fountains, flowers, caves, and echoes,)---and that, after a certain period passed in such lenient exile, the gates of felicity will be again open to them. dered on in quest of other enjoyments, " chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies !" As I passed by a green lane, there came forth a gentle rush of soft night-winds, that seemed to have been chased by some flowers,- -"too rudely questioned by their breath," if I might be allowed to infer so from the sweets that followed them. They soon passed on, and once more I was stopped to listen to At the conclusion of this reproachful ditty, I fell into a reverie about devoted affections and the almost invariable ingratitude that awaits them. I could not but fancy the anemone a beautiful girl that had cast away the jewel of her heart upon a worthless one, and who found even in the language of reproach a new vent for the protestation of her love and fidelity. I made several attempts to throw off my growing and constantly-attendant feeling of morbid disquiet and melancholy, till suddenly my ears were merrily assailed by a song of so totally a different character from the last, that I hailed it as a timely relief from the gloom and misanthropy I was, half pleased, allowing to steal over me; and accordingly, though with somewhat of a struggle against " Il Penseroso," I duly attended to" L'Allegro" of the SONG OF THE BEE-FLOWER.† I'm the Cupid of flowers, And rule like a king! There is not a leaf Ever thrill'd with the smart Of Love's pleasant grief, But was shot through the heart The flowers of the anemone expand when the wind blows upon them. + A species of the Orchis. 66 66 6 By me-by me-little mischievous sprite ! I'm the Cupid of flowers, Her rash maiden-vow, To me-to me-little mischievous sprite ! I'm the Cupid of flowers; And Venus' own son With my honey and sting; Then the last, and take wing. Away-away-little mischievous sprite! “In truth, light-hearted minstrel,” said I, at the close of his tuneful merriment," Kindling a love-match,' at one time, has been a delight' even unto me: but tempora mutantur, and I am now as blank a page as ever was opened in the chronicles of the heart!" So saying, I looked around me for a bed of lettuce to lie down upon, and forget my grief; thinking that if it once served as an opiate to Venus herself after the death of Adonis, it might, on the present occasion, help me to forget the painful memories that were crowding" thick and fast" upon my feverish brain. A cluster of green leaves closely entwined in each other, for a moment made me think I had found the resting-place I sought for; but on stooping down to examine them more minutely, I discovered they were "Lilies of the valley," those nuns of the green veil, that they were preparing their evening hymn; and as I always respect the devotional exercises of every creed and clime, I stood apart in reverential silence to hear the VESPER SONG OF THE CONVALL LILIES. Listen! how the breezes swell, Like fairy music wreathing Through the windings of a shell, (Now near, now distant breathing,) Murmurs sweet the choral hymn To that hour divinely dim, Ere night begins or daylight ends;- From whom, though vain and hopeless tie, 66 Clings close and fond, like ivy on Though life seems wrapping its decline! Like fairy music wreathing Through the windings of a shell, Now near, now distant breathing! The daughters* of the Night-Wind bear A cascade of sweet sighs to rest, Dies in the valleys of the west! As they finished their hymn, the flowers closed themselves up in their green convent," and left me once more alone with my reflections. A twilight vista through an aperture in a "bosky dell," gave me a faint view of a distant sea-shore, which seemed so lonely, grey, and desolate, that it instantly accorded with my soul's sadness. So, heedless of other temptations that saluted me by the way, I rudely trode on, trampling many a fair blossom in my eagerness to arrive at what to me is the ecstasy, both in situation and time, of all melancholy pleasure,-a lonely walk along an unfrequented shore on a windy evening in the close of the autumn, when the deciduous trees make their shrill whis. tlings and complaints against the relentless blast, and the beach-wave of the "desert sea" (as Homer beautifully calls it) keeps up a constant diapason of restlessness and sighs. The sun was fast sinking behind the glorious architecture that he had been for some time constructing with the western clouds: eveninggrey evening-was coming slowly on, and I fancied I should have a delirium of enjoyment in this my most favourite solitude. But, alas! I was soon deprived of this anticipation, for a melancholy whisper soon convinced me that I was not alone in my grief; and as it breathed its sorrow in such gentle words, I stood still and heard— THE SONG OF THE EVENING PRIMROSE.† Hour beloved, e'en by the cold moon, Is thy calm beauty coming soon? Why does the sunbeam's noisy light Linger so long o'er the mountain's height? 'Tis thy own Flower that's singing to thee! Hither! hither! Leave me not here to be the scorn Of happier blossoms, and forlorn On my lone bank-fond, foolish Flower, To weep for the absent, unkind hour, *The Greeks and Latins called an echo the image, and the Hebrews daugh ter of the voice. + The Oenothera biennis of botanists. 66 That told me to meet him at this cold time,* 'Tis thy own Flower that's singing to thee! Hither! hither! "Pshaw!" said I, with an inward feeling of disappointment and vex. ation, even a flower of the humblest class can rival me in my most sacred, and, as I thought, exclusive feelings:" so turning away, I had retraced my steps to the deepest recesses of the wood. Here, again, I imagined I should be free to ruminate; but a series of small sounds, resembling the jangling of sweet bells, awoke the moment I sat down; and though in despair of being ever again left to my own undisturbed communion, I listened with a forced patience to THE SONG OF THE HAREBELL. List! list! my blue bells are ringing, Now tells you the evening is nigh! Droop your fair heads, close your bright eyes, Did not our Queen tell you last night, Flowers of the day should not see the moonlight? List list my blue bells are ringing, I'll call you from slumber again: Have you not heard that Beauty's fair sleep ls ere the dews of the midnight can weep ? Rest then! when flowers that love the night Look pale and wan, you'll be blooming and bright! The singer had scarcely ceased, when a confused and hurried rustling noise of closing leaves convinced me that he had sufficient dominion over the vassals under his jurisdiction, or bailiwick. His bells continued to ring on with an impertinent impatience; and I was just on the point of remonstrating with him for his tyranny and oppression, when my indig. nation was soothed into perfect tranquillity and attention by THE CURFEW SONG OF THE DAY-FLOWERS. Hark! 'tis our curfew bell ; Dew-dropping hour, Stilly and calm, Last blush of day, farewell! Sisters! good night! Sweet be your dreams, While the moonlight Over you beams! Good night! good night! "The rathe primrose that forsaken dies," says Milton, alluding to the com mon Primula veris. J. A. WADE. |