Fitfully with a free and lashing change
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties:
The aspen next; a fluttered frivolous twitter
Was her sole tribute: from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dress'd her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean cave
Where he was born.
A SOLILOQUY OF LEOLF.
HERE again I stand,
Again and on the solitary shore
Old ocean plays as on an instrument,
DUNSTAN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS TEMPTATIONS.
Loves on a throne, and pleasures out of place. I am not old; not twenty years have fled Since I was young as thou; and in my youth I was not by those pleasures unapproach'd Which youth converses with.....
Attempted me, 'twas in a woman's shape;
Such shape as may have erst misled mankind,
When Greece or Rome uprear'd with Pagan rites
Temples to Venus, pictured there or carved
With rounded, polish'd, and exuberant grace,
And mien whose dimpled changefulness betray'd,
Through jocund hues, the seriousness of passion.
I was attempted thus, and Satan sang
With female pipe and melodies that thrill'd
The soften'd soul, of mild voluptuous ease
And tender sports that chased the kindling hours
In odorous gardens or on terraces,
To music of the fountains and the birds,
Or else in skirting groves by sunshine smitten,
Or warm winds kiss'd, whilst we from shine to shade
Roved unregarded. Yes, 'twas Satan sang,
Because 'twas sung to me, whom God had call'd
To other pastime and severer joys.
But were it not for this, God's strict behest
Enjoin'd upon me,-had I not been vow'd
To holiest service rigorously required,
I should have own'd it for an angel's voice,
Nor ever could an earthly crown, or toys
And childishness of vain ambition, gauds
And tinsels of the world, have lured my heart
Into the tangle of those mortal cares
That gather round a throne. What call is thine
From God or man? What voice within bids thee
Such pleasures to forego, such cares confront?
CALMNESS AND RETROSPECTION.
A SACRED and judicial calmness holds Its mirror to my soul; at once disclosed, The picture of the past presents itself Minute yet vivid, such as it is seen
In his last moments by a drowning man.
Look at this skeleton of a once green leaf:
Time and the elements conspired its fall;
The worm hath eaten out the tenderer parts,
And left this curious anatomy
Distinct of structure-made so by decay.
So, at this moment, lies my life before me,-
In all its intricacies, all its errors-
And can I be unjust?
Making that ancient music, when not known?
That ancient music, only not so old
As He who parted ocean from dry land,
And saw that it was good. Upon mine ear,
As in the season of susceptive youth,
The mellow murmur falls-but finds the sense
Dull'd by distemper; shall I say-by time?
Enough in action has my life been spent
Through the past decade, to rebate the edge
Of early sensibility. The sun
Rides high, and on the thoroughfares of life
I find myself a man in middle age,
Busy and hard to please. The sun shall so01
Dip westerly, but oh! how little like
Are life's two twilights! Would the last were first,
And the first last! that so we might be soothed
Upon the thoroughfares of busy life
Beneath the noonday sun, with hope of joy
Fresh as the morn,-with hope of breaking lights,
Illuminated mists and spangled lawns,
And woodland orisons and unfolding flowers,
As things in expectation. Weak of faith!
Is not the course of earthly outlook, thus
Reversed from Hope, an argument to Hope-
That she was licensed to the heart of man
For other than for earthly contemplations,
In that observatory domiciled
For survey of the stars?
THIS life, and all that it contains, to him
Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams
Fill'd with book-wisdom, pictured thought and love
That on its own creations spends itself.
All things he understands, and nothing does.
Profusely eloquent in copious praise
Of action, he will talk to you as one
Whose wisdom lay in dealings and transactions;
Yet so much action as might tie his shoe
Cannot his will command; himself alone
By his own wisdom not a jot the gainer.
Of silence, and the hundred thousand things
"Tis better not to mention, he will speak,
And still most wisely.
DUNSTAN ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. WHY did I quit the cloister? I have fought The battles of Jehovah; I have braved The perfidies of courts, the wrath of kings, Desertion, treachery, and I murmur'd not,The fall from puissance, the shame of flight, The secret knife, the public proclamation,And how am I rewarded? God had raised New enemies against me, from without The furious Northman, from within, far worse, Heart-sickness and a subjugating grief. She was my friend-I had but her-no more, No other upon earth-and as for heaven, I am as they that seek a sign, to whom
No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother!
THOMAS K. HERVEY was born near Paisley, | Sculpture, Australia, The English Helicon,
in Scotland, and received his early education in Manchester. I believe he has since resided most of the time in London, where his attention has been principally devoted to literature. He is the author of The Poetical Sketch Book, The Book of Christmas, The Devil's Progress, Illustrations of Modern
Ir is a summer eve-the gorgeous west
Lights into flame the ocean's heaving breast;
The sun has rested from his march on high,
But left his glowing banner in the sky,-
And, far and wide, is flung its crimson fold
O'er clouds that float in purple and in gold,
Or, piled around his rich pavilion, lie
In thousand shapes to fancy's curious eye.
The very air is radiant with the glow;
The billows dance in liquid light below;
The splendours rest upon the woods of pine,
And jewell'd mountains in their brightness shine;
While earth sends flashing back the glory lent,
In thousand colours, to the firmament.
The falcon pauses, in his midway flight,
and numerous contributions to the annuals and literary magazines. Some of his pieces are very pleasing and harmonious. The best of them are "poems of the affections," descriptive of domestic incidents and feelings, upon which he writes with taste, simplicity, and tenderness.
Then ebb again, like happiness, away.
On land, some thread the dance, to tinkling shells,
Here, stretch'd in caves, they mutter o'er their spells;
And there, the murmur of their evening song
In melancholy cadence dies along;
Some throw the spear, with bold and skilful hand,
While others wander o'er the glittering sand,
Gaze on that western paradise of clouds,
And muse upon the mystery it shrouds.....
The sun is down-that crimson flush of light
From heaven and earth has faded into night.
The sun is down-but, in his parting hour,
The moon has caught the mantle of his power;
She smote the gathering darkness from her side,
And lo! the shadows fly, the clouds divide;
The glancing stars come out along the sky,
Like Israel's flock beneath their prophet's eye;
And turns him, eastward, from the dazzling light; The cedars brighten in the silvery light,
Along the valleys strides the vast emu,
And o'er the waters wanders the curlew;
The pelican, upon his dizzy steep,
Looks proudly down along the glowing deep:
While herons spread their plumes o'er coral graves,
Or fall, like snow-drifts, on the buoying waves.
Far off, the white-winged eagle sails on high,
And nestles half-way 'twixt the earth and sky,
Above the archer's ken and arrow's flight,
Rock'd on the Eucalyptus' towering height,
Whose healing leaves weep balsam on the ground,
And fling their sighs of fragrance all around.
O'er many an inland lake, with swelling breast,
And scarlet-painted beak, and golden crest,
The mourning swan in dark-eyed beauty rides,
Or spreads his jetty plumage o'er the tides,-
Along whose banks resounds the far halloo
Of tribes that chase the graceful kangaroo,
Or lurk for vengeance in some covert way
And rush from ambush on their startled prey.
In light canoes, along the purple seas,
The natives sport, like swallows in the breeze;
Glide where the porpoise rocks himself to sleep,
But shun the dolphin, where he stirs the deep;
Or lead the measured music of the oar
Where the small billows break upon the shore,
Flow to the beach, like joys that will not stay,
And hang new stars along the brow of night;
Delicious airs come wafted from the vales,
Which echo songs like those of nightingales,
Rich with sweet basil and with orange flowers,
That keep their incense for the moonlight hours.
The Exocarpus, in the hallowing rays,
Throws out its weeping boughs a hundred ways;
And Thesium groves and Melaleuca trees
Load, with their fragrance, every passing breeze.
VENICE, THE WIDOW.
AND still that strange old city of the deep,
Paved by the ocean, painted by the moon,
Shows like a vision of the haunted sleep
Some heart was lull'd to by a fairy tune;
But sorrow sitteth in her soulless eyes-
The same proud beauty with her spirit gone!-
And spann'd to-day by many a "bridge of sighs,"
The sea goes moaning through her flutes of stone.
Gone the glad singing in her lighted halls,
The merry masque and serenade apart,
And o'er their own dark shadows brood her walls,
Like memories lingering in a broken heart.
And Venice has the veil upon her brow,
Where sat of old the crown:-she is a widow now.
AGAIN-again she comes!-methinks I hear
Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings;
My heart goes forth to meet her with a tear,
And welcome sends from all its broken strings.
It was not thus-not thus we met of yore,
When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky
To greet her; and the joyous song she bore
Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply:
The wings are fetter'd by the weight of years,
And grief has spoil'd the music with her tears.
She comes-I know her by her starry eyes,
I know her by the rainbow in her hair! Her vesture of the light and summer skiesBut gone the girdle which she used to wear Of summer roses, and the sandal flowers
That hung enamour'd round her fairy feet, When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers,
And cull'd from all the beautiful and sweet.
No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth,
Nor offers now the garlands of the earth.
Come back, come back-thou hast been absent long,
Oh! welcome back the sybil of the soul,
Who came, and comes again, with pleading strong,
To offer to the heart her mystic scroll;
Though every year she wears a sadder look,
And sings a sadder song, and every year
Some further leaves are torn out from her book,
And fewer what she brings, and far more dear.
As once she came-oh, might she come again,
With all the perish'd volumes offer'd then.
But come-thy coming is a gladness yet
Light from the present o'er the future cast, That makes the present bright-but oh-regret Is present sorrow while it mourns the past; And memory speaks, as speaks the curfew bell, To tell the daylight of the heart is gone. Come, like the seer of old, and with thy spell,
Put back the shadow of that setting sun On my soul's dial; and with new-born light Hush the wild tolling of the voice of night. Bright spirit, come-the mystic roll is thine,
That shows the hidden fountains of the breast, And turns, with point unerring, to divine
The places where its buried treasures rest Its hoards of thought and feeling; at that spell, Methinks I feel its long-lost wealth reveal'd, And ancient springs within my bosom swell That grief had check'd, and ruin had conceal'd, And sweetly swelling where its waters stray, The tints and freshness of its earlier day.
She comes she comes her voice is in mine ear, Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for ever, Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river; (Flowers, like lovers, only speak in sighs, [hearts,) Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their
Oh-thus the spirit yearns to pierce the skies,
Exulting throbs, though all save hope departs: Thus the glad freshness of our sinless years Is water'd ever by the heart's rich tears.
She comes-I know her by her radiant eyes, Before whose smile the long dim cloud departs; And if a darker shade be on her brow,
And if her tones be sadder than of yore, And if she sings more solemn music now, And bears another harp than erst she bore, And if around her form no longer glow The earthly flowers that in her youth she woreThat look is loftier, and that song more sweet, And heaven's flowers-the stars are at her feet.
How beautiful a world were ours, But for the pale and shadowy One That treadeth on its pleasant flowers,
And stalketh in its sun!
Glad childhood needs the lore of time
To show the phantom overhead;
But where the breast, before its prime,
That carrieth not its dead-
The moon that looketh on whose home
In all its circuit sees no tomb!
It was an ancient tyrant's thought,
To link the living with the dead;
Some secret of his soul had taught
That lesson dark and dread;
And, oh! we bear about us still
The dreary moral of his art-
Some form that lieth, pale and chill,
Upon each living heart,
Tied to the memory, till a wave
Shall lay them in one common grave!
To boyhood hope to manhood fears!
Alas! alas! that each bright home
Should be a nursing-place of tears,
A cradle for the tomb!
If childhood seeth all things loved
Where home's unshadowy shadows wave,
The old man's treasure hath removed-
He looketh to the grave!-
For grave and home lie sadly blent,
Wherever spreads yon firmament.
A few short years and then, the boy
Shall miss, beside the household hearth,
Some treasure from his store of joy,
To find it not on earth;
A shade within its sadden'd walls
Shall sit, in some beloved's room,
And one dear name, he vainly calls,
Be written on a tomb-
And he have learnt, from all beneath,
His first, dread, bitter taste of death!
And years glide on, till manhood's come;
And where the young, glad faces were,
Perchance the once bright, happy home
Hath many a vacant chair:
A darkness, from the churchyard shed,
Hath fall'n on each familiar room,
And much of all home's light hath filed To smoulder in the tomb
And household gifts that memory saves
But help to count the household graves.
Then, homes and graves the heart divide,
As they divide the outer world;
But drearier days must yet betide,
Ere sorrow's wings be furl'd;
When more within the churchyard lie
Than sit and sadly smile at home.
Till home, unto the old man's eye,
Itself appears a tomb;
And his tired spirit asks the grave
For all the home it longs to have!
It shall be so it shall be so!
Go bravely trusting-trusting on; Bear up a few short years-and, lo!
The grave and home are one!And then, the bright ones gone before Within another, happier home, And waiting, fonder than before,
Until the old man come
A home where but the life-trees wave;
Like childhood's-it hath not a grave!
For ever gone! the world is growing old !
Gone the bright visions of its untaught youth!
The age of fancy was the age of gold,
And sorrow holds the lamp that lights to truth!
And wisdom writes her records on a page
Whence many a pleasant tale is swept away-
The wild, sweet fables of the dreaming age,
The gorgeous stories of the classic day.
The world is roused from glad and glowing dreams, Though roused by light awaking still is pain, And oh! could men renew their broken themes,
Then, would the world at times might sleep again. Oh for the plains-the bright and haunted plainsWhere genius wander'd, when the earth was new, Led by the sound of more than mortal strains, And gathering flowers of many a vanish'd hue! The deathless forms that on the lonely hill Came sweetly gliding to the lonely breast, Or spoke, in spirit whispers, from the rill
That lull'd the watcher to his mystic rest! The shapes that met his steps by green and glade, Or glanced through mid-air, on their gleaming wings; [play'd; That hover'd where the young, wild fountains And hung in rainbows o'er the dancing springs, Or drew aside the curtains of the sky, And show'd their starry mansions to his eye! Oh! the bright tracks by truth from error won! The price we pay for knowledge, and in vain ! For half the beauty of the world is gone, Since science built o'er fancy's wild domain! A dream of beauty! such as came, of old, To him who came and watch'd the hosts of light, As one by one their fiery chariots roll'd, In golden pomp along the vaults of night,
Till another, and another deep
Sent forth a spirit to the shining train, Their myriad motion rock'd his heart to sleep,
But left bright pictures in the haunted brain, Where forms grew up, and took the starry eyes That gleamed upon him from the crowded skies! A dream like his to whom the boon was given
To read the story of the stars, at will,
And, by the lights they held for him in heaven,
Talk with their lady on the Latmos hill!
A vision of the stars! the moon, to-night-
Her antler'd coursers by the nymph-train driven,
Rides in the chariot of her own sweet light,
To hunt the shadows through the fields of heaven!
And oh! the hunting-grounds of yonder sky,
Whose streams are rainbows, and whose flowers
are stars!-
The shapes of light that, as they wander by,
Do spirit homage from their golden cars!
The meteor troop that, as she passes, play
Their fiery gambols in their lady's sight; And planet-forms that, on her crowded way, Throw silver incense from their urns of light! Lo! Perseus, from his everlasting height,
Looks out to see the huntress and her train;
And Love's own planet, in the pale, soft light,
Looks young, as when she rose from out the main!
And, plying all the night, his starry wings,
Up to her throne, the herald of the sky
From many an earthly home and hill-top, brings
The mortal offering of a young heart's sigh!
And round her chariot sail immortal forms,
Or darkly hang about its shining rim;
And, far away, the scared and hunted storms
Leap from their presence, to their caverns dim!
On-onward, at her own wild fancy led,
Along the cloud-land paths she holds her flight,
Where rears the battle-star his crested head,
And bears his burning falchion through the night!
Where, hand in hand, the brothers of the sky
Sit, like twin angels, or pure heavenward sleep;
While far below, with urns that never dry,
The mourning Hyads hang their heads and weep!
Where brightly dwell in all their early smiles,
Ere one was lost the sweet and sister seven,
Like blessed spirits, pausing from their toils,
Or some fair family at rest, in heaven.
Where, swifter than her steeds, that never tire-
Some comet-shape-those couriers of the sky-
In breathless haste, upon his barb of fire,
On some immortal message, rushes by !
O'er the dim heights where, encircled by his train,
And wearing on his brow his sparkling crown,
The planet-monarch holds his ancient reign;
And, from his palace of the clouds, looks down, With stately presence and a smiling eye On his bright people of the boundless sky! Mid northern lights, like fiery flags unfurl'd, And soft, sweet gales that never reach the world; Mid flaming signs, that perish in their birth, And ancient orb, that have no name on earth; Hail'd by the songs of everlasting choirs, And welcomed from a thousand burning lyres! Oh! for the ancient dreamer's prophet eye, To see the hunting grounds of yonder sky;
To hang upon some planet's wheeling car,
And tread the cloud-land paths from star to star; And climb the heights where old Endymion Held lofty converse with the lady-moon;
Or, lifted to her chariot of the sky,
Look on its dwellers with a lofty eye, [driven,
And throughout its fields, in that bright vision
Walk, for one night, amid the hosts of heaven.
I AM all alone! and the visions that play
Round life's young days, have pass'd away;
And the songs are hush'd that gladness sings;
And the hopes that I cherish'd have made them
MORN on the waters!-and, purple and bright, Bursts on the billows the flushing of light! O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, [gale! And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the The winds come around her, in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along! Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gayly, aloft in the shrouds! Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, Over the waters-away, and away! Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, Passing away, like a dream of the heart!Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her, and sunshine on high,Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, Oh! there be hearts that are breaking, below!
Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherish'd home on some desolate plain! Who-as she smiles in the silvery light, Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep, -as the moon in the sky,A phantom of beauty! could deem, with a sigh, That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within ! Who-as he watches her silently gliding,Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever! Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave!
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song ! Gayly we glide, in the glaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd; All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs!Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on-just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er!
And the light of my heart is dimm'd and gone,
And I sit in my sorrow, and all alone!
And the forms which I fondly loved are flown,
And friends have departed-one by one;
And memory sits, whole lonely hours,
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers,
And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near
To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear!
And the home of my childhood is distant far,
And I walk in a land where strangers are; [hear
And the looks that I meet and the sounds that I
Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my ear;
And sunshine is round me, which I cannot see,
And eyes that beam kindness, but not for me!
And the song goes round, and the glowing smile,
But I am desolate all the while!
And faces are bright and bosoms glad,
And nothing, I think, but my heart, is said!
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom,
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom!
I wander about, like a shadow of pain,
[brain;
With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladness, -
Oh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness!-
So, I turn from a world where I never was known,
To sit in my sorrow, and all alone!
THE eye must be dark that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine;
But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
In many a token and sign:
I need but look up with a vow to the sky,
And a light like thy beauty is there;
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.
And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapp'd in the mantle of care,
Yet the grief of my bosom-oh, call it not gloom!-
Is not the dark grief of despair.
By sorrow reveal'd, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears;
A hope-like the rainbow-a being of light,
Is born, like the rainbow, in tears.
I know thou art gone to the home of thy rest;
Then why should my soul be so sad?
I know thou art gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad ;-
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stain it had gather'd in this,
And hope, the sweet singer that gladden'd the earth, Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss.
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