Of birds that greet Aurora in blue skies
Hath not a sound so holy as the sighs
That part her fruit-like lips. Is she not dreaming
A poesy inspired of panting love,
Divine as that with which the heavens are streaming
When the intense eye of the west is wove
With the aurient sunset? She is gone! I weep:
For so all beauty passeth from the vision;
And clouds of darkness o'er the spirit creep,
Making of all her light obscure elision!
A translation from a German poem, by EDUARD MORIKE, appeared some years ago in the Dublin Magazine. The subject is treated in a manner so entirely original, there is in the conception of the poem so much vigorous fancy, and in its execution so much grace, and the translator has done his part so well, that the reader cannot but be pleased to add it to his collection.
RIVER! my River in the young sunshine!
O, clasp afresh in thine embrace
This longing, burning, frame of mine,
And kiss my breast, and kiss my face!
So, there!-Ha, ha!—already in thine arms!
I feel thy love; I shout; I shiver;
But thou out-laughest loud a flouting song, proud River, And now again my bosom warms!
The droplets of the golden sunlight glide
Over and off me, sparkling, as I swim
Hither and thither down thy mellow tide,
Or loll amid its crypts with outstretch'd limb;
I fling abroad mine arms, and lo!
Thy wanton waves curl slily round me!
But ere their loose chains have well bound me,
Again they burst away and let me go!
O, sun-loved River! wherefore dost thou hum,
Hum, hum alway thy strange, deep, mystic song
Unto the rocks and strands? for they are dumb,
And answer nothing as thou flowest along.
Why singest so all hours of night and day?
Ah, River! my best River! thou, I guess, art seeking Some land where souls have still the gift of speaking With Nature in her own old wondrous way!
Lo! highest Heaven looms far below me here;
I see it in thy waters, as they roll,
So beautiful, so blue, so clear,
'Twould seem, O River mine, to be thy very soul !
Oh, could I hence dive down to such a sky,
Might I but bathe my spirit in that glory,
So far outshining all in ancient fairy-story,
I would indeed have joy to die!
What on cold Earth is deep as thou? Is aught?
Love is as deep, Love only is as deep:
Love lavisheth all, yet loseth, lacketh nought;
Like thee, too, Love neither can pause nor sleep.
Roll on, thou loving River, thou! Lift up
Thy waves, those eyes bright with a riotous laughing!
Thou makest me immortal? I am quaffing
The wine of rapture from no earthly cup!
At last thou bearest me, with soothing tone,
Back to thy bank of rosy flowers:
Thanks, then, and fare thee well!-Enjoy thy bliss alone? And through the year's melodious hours
Echo for ever from thy bosom broad
All glorious tales that sun and moon be telling; And woo down to their soundless fountain-dwelling The holy stars of God!
A sonnet by the Rev. HENRY ALFORD, one of the most promising of our young poets, bears evidence of genius.
SLOWLY and softly let the music go
ye wind upwards to the gray church tower, Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe lowTread lightly on the pathside daisy flower,
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunn'd drops of silver dew ;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour, then turn away,-
Go to Hope's prison,-and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day
Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old,-
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.
There is not in our language a more perfect picture than this by GOLDSMITH, So well known to every reader, but nevertheless claiming a place in this collection, which would be incomplete without it, for it is certainly one of the choicest passages in the whole range of British poetry.
NEAR Yonder copse where once the garden smiled,
And still, where many a garden flower grows wild—
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear;
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;
Unpractised he to fawn or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize-
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast!
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away-
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won.
Pleased with his guest, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side-
But in his duty, prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service pass'd, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd.
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay-
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school,
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew :
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd-
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,
For even though vanquish'd he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around-
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But pass'd is all his fame, the very spot Where may a time he triumph'd, is forgot.
BEDDOES, who wrote some remarkable dramas, is the author of this very original composition.
TO-DAY is a thought, a fear is to-morrow,
And yesterday is our sin and our sorrow;
And life is a death,
Where the body's the tomb,
And the pale sweet breath
Is buried alive in its hideous gloom.
Then waste no tear,
For we are the dead; the living are here,
In the stealing earth, and the heavy bier.
Death lives but an instant, and is but a sigh,
And his son is unnamed immortality.
Whose being is thine. Dear ghost, so to die
Is to live, and life is a worthless lie.-
Then we weep for ourselves, and wish thee good-bye.
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