« 이전계속 »
Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers, Of frantic men in battle rack the soul
With their importunate and jarring din,
Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace.
Sit patient with an enviable smile
My very prayers are full of thee, I look
And-Oh! but I have said too much. Oh! scorn not
The immodest maid, whom thou hast vex'd to utter Miriam.
What yet she scarce dared whisper to herself.
Sweet, musical as thus? and wilt thou leave me? I hop'd with thee t' have passed a tranquil hour,
Miriam. A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour !
My father! - But thou art like them all! the miserable
Javan. Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,
Miriam! is not thy father Without being mock'd and taunted with their
(Oh, that such flowers should bloom on such a stock !) misery Javan.
The curse of Israel? even his common name
Simon the assassin! of the bloody men Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy
That hold their iron sway within yon city, To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus
The bloodiest! Thou would'st not speak. But t'was not to provoke
Miriam. That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness :
Oh cease, I pray thee cease!
Javan! I know that all men hate my father; I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.
Javan! I fear that all should hate my father; That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest
And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love, At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks, Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,
Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love, It cannot long remain secure and open;
Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart
The forfeited affections of his kind.
Is it not written so in our Law ? and He
We worship came not to destroy the Law.
Then let men rain their curses, let the storm
Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk, In Pella the neglected church of Christ.
I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scoffs Miriam.
Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him. With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear
Javan. Lest all the while I have deceived my soul,
Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou Excusing to myself our stolen meetings
Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose; By the fond thought, that for my father's life
The enamouring one even now too much enamour'd! I labour'd, bearing sustenance from thee,
I must admire thee more for so denying, Which he hath deem'd heaven-sent.
Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted.
Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril,
And me to deepest anguish; yet ev
Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity That Miriam loves me!
Flying me, leaving me without a joy,
Without a hope on earth, without thyself;
Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul
The last in all the thick and moonless heavens, Toits mother's bosom-Love thee! when the sounds O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert. Of massacre are round me, when the shouts
Go! if this dark and miserable earth
Do jealously refuse us place for meeting,
Al that foul deed by her fierce children done; There is a heaven for those who trust in Christ.
A few dim hours of day Farewell!
The world in darkness lay; (sun. And thou return'st !
Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless
While thou didst sleep within the tomb,
Consenting to thy doom ;
Ere yet the white-rob’d angel shone The fruit, the wine-- -Ob! when I part from thee,
Upon the sealed stone. How can I think of ought but thy last words ?
And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand Javan.
With Devastation in thy red right hand, Bless thee! but we may meet again even here!
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew: Thou look'st consent, I see it through thy tears.
But thou didst haste to meet
Thy mother's coming feet,
Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise
Into thy native skies,
Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.
King of Kings! and Lord of Lords !
Thus we move, our sad steps timing
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming,
Where thy House its rest accords.
Chas'd and wounded birds are we,
Through the dark air fled to thee;
To the shadow of thy wings,
Lord of Lords! and King of Kings!
The branches of thy fruitful vine,
That its luxurious tendrils spread
O'er all the hills of Palestine.
And now the wild boar comes to waste
the greenest boughs and last,
That, drinking of thy choicest dew;
On Zion's bill, in beauty grew.
No! by the marvels of thine hand, Bright harmony from every starry sphere;
Thou wilt save thy chosen land !
By all thine ancient mercies shown,
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown;
By that wide and bloodless slaughter
Underneath the drowning water.
Like us in utter helplessness,
In their last and worst distressAnd when thou didst depart, no car of flame
On the sand and sea-weed lying,
And behind fierce Egypt rode
(tombs. To their fathers' God they pray'd, With all thy own redeem'd out bursting from their To the Lord of I losts for aid.
For thou didst bear away from earth
On the margin of the flood
With lifted rod the Prophet stood ;
And the summond east wind blew,
And aside it sternly threw Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; The gather'd waves, that took their stand, A little while the conscious earth did shake
Like crystal rocks, on eitther hand,
Or walls of sea-green marble piled
And now we set thee down before Round some irregular city wild.
The jealously-unclosing door,
That the favour'd youth admits Then the light of morning lay
Where the veiled virgin sits On the wonder-paved way,
In the bliss of maiden fear, Where the treasures of the deep
Waiting our soft tread to hear; In their caves of coral sleep.
And the music's brisker din, The profound abysses, where
At the Bridegroom's entering in, Was never sound from upper air,
Entering in a welcome guest Rang with Israel's chanted words,
To the chamber of his rest. King of Kings! and Lord of Lords!
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry, Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave.
Which charm'd my youth; or mid her gay career
Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear Sat sad on memory's cheek! though loftier themes
Await the awaken’d mind, to the high prize Of wisdom hardly, earn’d with toil and pain, Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain
Cast friendless, where unheard some suff'rer cries Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,
'Twere not a crime, should we awhile delay
Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, till they forget to weep; And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep.
TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.
As slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,
Wensbeck! the mossy scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song To the dark woods above, tbat waving seem To bend o'er some enchanted spot, remov'd
From life's vain scenes; I listen to the wind,
And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclin'd O'er the forsaken tomb of one she lov’d. Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure long unknown
To him who passes weary on his way.
The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, Shall thank you: and whene'er of pleasures flowo His heart some long lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.
Languid and sad, and slow, from day to day
Ijourney on, yet pensive turn to view,
Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue, The streams and vales and hills that steal away. So fares it with the children of the earth.
For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth. But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles;
And soon a longing look like me they cast
Back o'er the pleasing prospect of the past. Yet fancy points, where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends.
TO THE RIVER TWEED.
O Tweed! a stranger that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile
(If so his weary thoughts he may beguile) Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. The waving branches that romantic bend
O’er thy tall banks, & soothing charm bestow.
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more;
Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at even tide.
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement,
And yon forsaken tow'r that time has rent: The lifted oar far off with silver gleam Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest;
TO BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Here Charity has fix'd her chosen seat;
Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest touch the landscape still.
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill And wood I think of those that have no friend: Who now perhaps by melancholy led, [Baants
From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
Retiring, wander mid thy lonely haunts Unseen, and mark the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye
Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind
Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery.
(sh Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams to Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!
ON THE RHINE.
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.
WRITTEN AT OSTEND.
Clydsdale, as thy romantic vales I leave,
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow Where musing Fancy seems to linger still,
(Hung with the blushes of the bending vine) Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
Rhine I may return your varied views to mark
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow Of rocks amid the sunshine tow'ring dark;
In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire;
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Yet still your brightest images shall smile
Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. To charm the lingering stranger, and beguile Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, His way; whilst I the poor remembrance keep
Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's sido Like those, that muse on some sweet vision flown,
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; To chear me wandering on my way alone.
Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. Itchin, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast
On which the self-same tints still seem to rest; Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal! Is it, that many a summer's day has past
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, Since in life's morn I carol'd on thy side?
So piercing to my heart their force I feel ! Is it, that oft since then my heart has sigh'd,
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, As youth's and hope's delusive gleams flew fast? Is it, that those who circled on thy shore,
And now along the white and level tide Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
They fling their melancholy music wide, Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer days, and those delightful years,
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, From whom in happier hours we wept to part.
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears; DOVER CLIFFS.
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more. Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, If chance some pensive stranger hither led, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
His bosom glowing from romantic views, And while the distant murmur met his ear,
The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues, And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed? Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 'Tis poor Matilda!- to the cloister'd scene
To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear; A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came Of social scenes from which he wept to part.
To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene The thoughts that would full fain the past recall; As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, Like that which spake of a departed friend: The world his country, and his God his guide. And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest,
Where husht to long repose the wretched rest. The orient beam illumes the parting oar,
From yonder azure track emerging white
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, O Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay,
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Yet, mid the beauties of the morn unmoy'd, The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away: Like one, for ever torn from all he lov'd,
On thee I rest my only hopes at last;
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile. To dreams like these adieu! the pealing bell
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Speaks of the hour that stays not, and the day
Sings in the sunshine of the transient show'r, To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
LANDING AT OSTEND.