LETITIA E. LANDON. Perhaps he's come to worship her: Advancing stepless, quick, and still, Then terrifies with dreadful strides : At first, there's nothing to resist : He fights with all the forms of peace; He comes about her like a mist, With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death; And grows all harmlessness again, Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stops, and stands at bay; But he, in all more strong than she, Subdues her with his pale dismay, Or more admired audacity. All people speak of him with praise: How wise his talk; how sweet his tone; What manly worship in his gaze! It nearly makes her heart his own. With what an air he speaks her name: His manner always recollects Her sex and still the woman's claim Is taught its scope by his respects. Her charms, perceived to prosper first In his beloved advertencies, When in her glass they are rehearsed, Prove his most powerful allies. Ah, whither shall a maiden flee, When a bold youth so swift pursues, And siege of tenderest courtesy, With hope perseverant, still renews! Why fly so fast? Her flattered breast Thanks him who finds her fair and good; She makes it more, with bashful art, The gallant credit he accords To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss, She's three times gentler than before: He gains a right to call her his, Now she through him is so much more! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast, 253 At all his words and sighs perceived Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies: should she be won, It must not be believed or thought She yields: she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught. THE LOVER. He meets, by heavenly chance express, Which others cannot understand. To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. The least is well, yet nothing's light Her virtue all virtue so endears, LETITIA E. LANDON. THE SHEPHERD-BOY. LIKE some vision olden Or art thou complaining Dost ask what thou hast not? ALICE CAREY. I tell ye, banks of Krumley, The flowers that love her crowd to bloom O dim and dewy Krumley, O bold, bold winds of Krumley, O flower and bird, O wave and wind, 255 Then my heart said, Give o'er; The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower, When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank; So narrow was the rill from which I drank, An infant might have stepped from bank to bank; And the tall rushes near Yet to the ocean joyously it went; For all the banks were spread With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed. The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight, With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright, Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight, And every little bird upon the tree, Life's countless blessings was to live at all ! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew, Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned; And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush! NEARER HOME. ONE Sweetly welcome thought, Than I've ever been before; Where the many mansions be; Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the Jasper Sea; Nearer that bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down, — Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown. But lying dimly between, Winding down through the night, Lies the dark and uncertain stream That leads us at length to the light. O LAND, of every land the best, - Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love. On mountain high, in valley low, Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb 257 Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us peace, and lo! They gained a better peace than ours. SYDNEY DOBELL. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. O HAPPY, happy maid, In the year of war and death She wears no sorrow! By her face so young and fair, By the happy wreath That rules her happy hair, She might be a bride to-morrow! She sits and sings within her moonlit bower, Her moonlit bower in rosy June, Like fragrance from some sweet nightblowing flower, Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune! She sings no song of love's despair, Has ever touched or bud or leaf Of her unblighted spring. She sings because she needs must sing; The murmur of the mourning ghost "O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, |