Cold is the wind as it blusters forth,
Howling and drear, from the snowy North;
Cold is the wave of the Frozen Sea,
And the world is cold, as it seems to me.

The grave

is cold as it closes o'er
One who has lived in our hearts before,
Who used our breasts with a glow to fill,
And has left us a blank, nay, an icy chill.

The stream runs cold as it hurries on
The fair, frail form of some erring one,
Who has learn'd, poor thing, that Humanity's cold,
And heeds not her sorrows so often told.

The breast as fair as the driven snow
Is often, alas! just as icy too;
And a smile will a coldness oft impart,
If it spring not in vigour from the heart.

Men are wont too to say, that stone is cold,
They might there, if they would, their own mirror

For the hardest and coldest grave-yard stone
Is nought to what often their bosoms own.

And what is the coldest thing I'd know,
Colder than frosty wind or snow?
Hast thou set thy affections above, 'twill be
When the eye of God shall look cold on thee.


We love the blue breast of the gentle deep,
Where the sea birds scream, where the breezes sleep;
We smile at the porpoise's fitful leap,

And carol our Yo! heave oh!

When the sun just tinges the snow-white spray,
When his infant beams ’mid the surges play,
Promising fair for a balmy day,

We troll out our Yo! heave oh!

And anon over stormy depths we cross,
When the


winds the billows toss, And nought may be seen save the albatross,

Still our song is the Yol heave oh!

If in harbour we lie with our anchors cast,
Till days are gone and weeks are past,
Till we wish each wearisome day the last,

Yet we haul out our Yo! heave oh!

Ay! we doat on our bonny and taut-rigged barque, We prize it as Noah might have prized his Ark, May its timbers long echo from daylight to dark,

With our chorus of Yol heave oh! ALLA PETRARCA.

The glorious sun not always gilds
The lonely heaths and green-wood wilds,
Nor always casts his radiant beams
Where the harsh plover fluttering screams;
Not always fresh the roses bloom,
And scent the air with sweet perfume;
Sometimes is shut the pimpernel,
And sometimes mists hang o'er the dell
But Emma's face is always fair-
Always a smile is glistening there.

« ElőzőTovább »