N. P. WILLIS, an American poet, already introduced to the reader in an early page of these selections, is the author of this graceful poem.
On the cross beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air:
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon-
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon-
When the clock strikes clear at morning light—
When the child is waked with "nine at night"-
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer—
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth thy feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that in such wings of gold
I could my weary heart upfold;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And, while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And, never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen unstirr'd to knell or chime,
And, lapt in quiet, bide my time.
This sonnet was one of a series of passionate outpourings of grief by DRUMMOND, on the sad occasion of the death, by a sudden fever, of a young lady to whom he was about to be married.
SWEET Spring, thou comest with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.
Sweet Spring, thou comest-but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turns my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons gone and come,
When thine forgot lies closed in a tomb.
Mrs. ELIZABETH Barrett BrowNING, whose genius has a remarkable tinge of German mysticism, is the author of this very original poem.
O ROSE! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But barren, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat
Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame thee.
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-thorns, and thence take away
An odour up the lane, to last all day-
If breathing now-unsweeten'd would forego thee.
The sun that used to light thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appear'd to bloom and flower to burn-
If shining now-with not a hue would dight thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was-
If dropping now-would darken where it met thee.
The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,-
If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive-
If passing now-would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete-
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—
Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!
This extremely graceful poem was contributed to The Etonian, by the Rev. CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSEND.
THE world does not know me; to that I appear,
As rapture or grief wakes the smile or the tear,
Now light-now reflective-now mournful-now gay,-
Like the gleams and the clouds of a wild April day.
The wise oft will frown, the contemptuous will smile,
The good oft reprove, yet look kindly the while:
Indifferent to those, I am thankful to them;
But e'en they do not know what it is they condemn.
For it is not the faults which the multitude see
That are wept o'er in secret so wildly by me;
These scarcely a thought from my sorrows can win,-
Oh! would they were all !-but the worst is within.
Thou only dost know me; to thee is reveal'd
The spring of my thoughts, from all others conceal'd.
The enigma is solved, as thou readest my soul;
They view but a part, thou beholdest the whole.
Thou know'st me above, yet below, what I seem,
Both better and worse than the multitude deem;
From my wild wayward heart thou hast lifted the pall,
From its faults and its failings, yet lovest me with all!
Dr. ANSTER, known as the translator of Faust, is the author of many beautiful ballads, most of them embodying the superstitions of his native Ireland. One of the most simply pathetic of them is The Fairy Child, supposed to be sung by a sad mother whose child has been stolen
by a fairy, and a changeling left in its place. This is a popular superstition, not in Ireland only, but in many parts of England.
THE summer sun was sinking
With a mild light, calm and mellow,
It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks,
And his loose locks of yellow.
The robin was singing sweetly,
And his song was sad and tender;
And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song,
Smiled with a sweet soft splendour.
My little boy lay on my bosom
While his soul the song was quaffing;
The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek,
And his heart and his eye were laughing.
I sate alone in my cottage,
The midnight needle plying;
I fear'd for my child, for the rush's light
In the socket now was dying!
There came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning;
I knelt to pray, but rose again,
For I heard my little boy groaning:
I cross'd my brow, I cross'd my breast,
But that night my child departed-
They left a weakling in his stead,
And I am broken-hearted!
Oh! it cannot be my own sweet boy,
For his eyes are dim and hollow:
My little boy is gone--is gone,
And his mother soon will follow!
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me,
And the mass be chanted meetly,
And I shall sleep with my little boy,
In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.
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