Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home?
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell
Yet why to thee adieu ?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note But yet the Lyre retains the strings, And sometimes on Æolian wings In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! along whose rippling surge, My youthful limbs were wont to urge
At noontide heat their pliant course; Plunging with ardor from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise, and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles displayed; Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above Description's power of words! Still near my breast thy gift I wear, Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; Our souls were equal, and our lot In that dear moment quite forgot; Let pride alone condemn!
All, all is dark and cheerless now! No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race, To humble in the dust my face, And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart, On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth, My name obscure, unmarked my birth, My life a short and vulgar dream: Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod, Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod, Where now my head must lay; The meed of pity will be shed In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, By nightly skies and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne,
To him address thy trembling prayer,
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to thee I call,
My soul is dark within;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.
ROUSSEAU-Voltaire - our Gibbon-and de Staël- Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more, Their memory thy remembrance would recall;
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY
"Tis time this heart should be unmoved Since others it has ceased to move! Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone.
The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze - A funeral pile!
The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus and 'tis not here
Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,
« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó » |