« ElőzőTovább »
Telling a tale of mad, luxurious waste,
They say Despair has power to kill
With her bleak frown; but I say No: If life did hang upon her will,
Then Hope had perish'd long ago : Yet still the twain keep up their “barful strife,” For Hope Love's leman is, Despair his wife.
'Tis silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.
IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN
Ah! woe betide my bonny bride,
For war is in the land,
With ruthless bloody brand.
Still as a dream the purple beam
Of eve is on the river,
A blood-red flame will quiver.
Fair in the skies the sun will rise
As ever sun was seen,
Shall back reflect his sheen :
For the warrior stern our cot will burn,
And trample on the bower;
”Twill perish in an hour.
Those firs were old, our grandsires told,
In their good fathers' days, And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves
Must crackle in the blaze.
Beneath their shade how oft we played !
There was our place of wooing :But now we're wed, and peace is fled,
And we shall see their ruin.
In battle plain shall I be slain,
And never would I shrink,
To thee, I dare not think.
And our sweet boy, our baby joy,
He'll for his mother cry,
And then my bird will die.
and thick as waves,
An infant's grave is found.
Our fathers died, their whole fireside
Is laid in peace together,
Must brave the wind and weather.
Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high,
Where eagles build their nest,
As blithely as the best.
We'll leave the bower and tender flower
That we have nursed with care ;
We shall not die, for all birds that fly
Shall thither bring us food, And come the worst, w’ell be help'd the first,
Before the eagle's brood.
The mist beneath, that curls its wreath
Around the hill-top hoar,
And ne'er be heard of more.
SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT.
Like one pale, flitting, lonely gleam
Of sunshine on a winter's day,
It came from far away.
Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight
That visit our bedarken'd clay
Although they pass away.
They come and go, and come again ;
They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain
Before they pass away.
But whither go they? No one knows
Their home,—but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose
For them that pass away.