LXVIII. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, LXIX. When the oldest cask is opened, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, LXX. When the goodman mends his armor, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. L The Awakening of Endymion. ONE upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him, Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed. When will he awaken ? When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying Asked the midnight's silver queen. Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping; Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead; By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken ? Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring ; Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring Love? When will he awaken ? Asks the midnight's weary queer. Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring, Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh. When will he awaken ? He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, And the Poet's world has entered in his soul; He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories, When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's control. When will he awaken? Asks the midnight's stately queen. Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated! Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart; Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but is bring ing Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart. Soon he will awaken To his and midnight's queen ! Lovely is the green earth,—she knows the hour is holy; Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. Soon he will awaken! Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, Yes, he has awakened For the midnight's happy queen! What is this old history, but a lesson given, How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth— How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth? 'Tis for such they waken! When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, Like that youth to night's fair queen! LÆTITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. Her Name. THE lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light; The latest murmur of departing day ; Fond friendship's plaint, that melts in pity's sight ; The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay; The seven-fold scarf that parting storms bestow, An infant's dream, ere life's first sands are run; The chant of distant choirs; the morning's sigh, Low be its utterance like a prayer divine, Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound! O friends! ere yet, in living words of flame, My Muse, bewildered in her soarings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide, Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, Anonymous Translation. VICTOR HUGO. The Grandmother. MOTHER of our own dear mother, good old grandam, wake and smile! Commonly your lips keep moving when you're sleeping all the while; For between your prayer and slumber scarce the difference is known; But to-night you're like the image of Madonna cut in stone, With your lips without a motion or a breath—a single one. Why more heavily than usual dost thou bend thy old gray brow? What is it we've done to grieve thee that thou'lt not caress us now? Grandam, see, the lamp is paling, and the fire burns fast away; Speak to us, or fire and lamp-light will not any longer stay, And thy two poor little children, we shall die as well as they. Ah! when thou shalt wake and find us near the lamp that's ceased to burn, Dead, and when thou speakest to us, deaf and silent in our turn |