But soon a wasting malady began
To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
Yet with such flattering intervals as mock
The hopes of anxious love, and most of all
The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days
Of treacherous respite, many a time hath he,
Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back
Into the shadow from her social board,
Because too surely in her cheek he saw
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles
And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-looked-for tidings came at last,
That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid
Amid Madeira's orange-groves to rest.
O gentle Emma! o'er a lovelier form
Than thine earth never closed; nor e'er did heaven Receive a purer spirit from the world.
Southampton.
THE LORD OF THE SEA.
EFORE sea-washed Southampton,
With sceptre and with crown,
King Knut, in pomp of purple,
Upon his throne sits down,
The billows loudly roaring.
His vassals, mute, around him,
Await his nod, but he
Peers out with frowning eyebrows
Upon the boundless sea,
The billows loudly roaring.
Then, with defiant gesture,
The haughty, gray-haired Dane, Tamer of England's people,
Flings back his lion-mane; The billows loudly roaring.
"From this gold chair I sit on, To the blue Baltic's brine, From Thule to Southampton,
The world," he cried, "is mine!"
The billows loudly roaring.
"Thou, too, despite thy fury,
White-crested old sea-wave!
Shalt henceforth pay me tribute,
And be my faithful slave!"
The billows loudly roaring.
And while he speaks, a sea-wave
Flung up its sparkling spray,
And spat upon his beard there,
As if in scornful play,
The billows loudly roaring.
But he took off his crown, then,
And flung it in the sea,
Crying, "Man's might is idle!
To God all glory be!"
The billows loudly roaring.
Karl Gottfried Leitner. Tr. C. T. Brooks.
THE moonlight is without, and I could lose
An hour to gaze, though taste and splendor here, As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!
Regardless of the lights that blaze within,
I look upon the wide and silent sea
That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps.
Nor heard to murmur or to move, it lies;
Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam,
The eve of pleasant yesterdays!
Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars
Seem in their watches set as gazing on;
While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful,
Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks,
How different is the scene
That lies beneath this archéd window's height!
The town that murmured through the busy day
Is hushed; the roofs one solemn breadth of shade
Veils; but the towers, and taper spires above,
The pinnets and the gray embattled walls,
And masts that throng around the southern pier
Shine all distinct in light; and mark, remote
O'er yonder elms, St. Mary's modest fane.
MOOTH went our boat upon the summer seas,
Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind,
Its sounds of mingled uproar; we reclined
Upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze
That o'er us whispering passed, or idly played
With the lithe flag aloft. A woodland scene
On either side drew its slope line of green,
And hung the water's shining edge with shade.
Above the woods, Netley! thy ruins pale
Peered as we passed; and Vecta's azure hue
Beyond the misty castle met our view;
Where in mid channel hung the scarce-seen sail.
So all was calm and sunshine as we went
Cheerily o'er the briny element.
O, were this little boat to us the world,
As thus we wandered far from sounds of care,
Circled by friends and gentle maidens fair,
Whilst morning airs the waving pennant curled;
How sweet were life's long voyage till in peace
We gained that haven still, where all things cease!
William Lisle Bowles.
H, hills beloved! - where once, a happy child,
Your beechen shades, "your turf, your flowers,
among,"
I wove your bluebells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah! hills beloved!—your turf, your flowers, remain
But can they peace to this sad breast restore,
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pair,
And teach a broken heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna! in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah no!-when all, e'en hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion but in death alone!
ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE."
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
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