« AnteriorContinuar »
Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition.
LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form, And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, The impetuous tenor of her hardy fight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest-shade
With wildest song ;-Me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, : And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.
On hearing the Sounds of an Æolian Harp.
SO ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the enfuriate gust, it did career,
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, And sunk bim to a zephyr;—then it died,
to which ar-offean" appear
Melting in melody ;-—and Í descried
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds,
WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy seat ?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon,
Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood,
BE hush’d, be hush’d, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest ; Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast.
Oh, cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh, cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betray'd.
When exild from my native home,
He should have wip'd the bitter tear ; Nor left me faint and loan to roam,
A heart-sick weary wand'rer here.
My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep; . Ah, little knows the hapless babe;
What makes its wretched mother weep!
Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one,
And never will he shelter thee.
Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
Wert nestling in thy mother's slıroud!"
OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT
PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.
*SLEEP Baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep Baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother,
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. "
Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining,
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,
And I would fain compose my aching head.
Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping,
In her low grave of shame and infamy!
* Sir Philip Sidney has a Poem begiuning “ Sleep Baby mine.”