And yet these dreams of fame to thee Alas! e'en these have been in vain, Thy name, a nameless one; And I, who, in vain sympathy, I only know thy nameless fate Methinks it is not much to die- When fame and death, in unison, Have given thousand lives for one. Our thoughts, we live again in them, Our life in many a memory, Our home in many a heart: When not a lip that breathes our strain, But calls us into life again. No, give me some green laurel leaves To float down memory's wave: One tone nemain of my wild songs, And then but little should I care How soon within that grave I were. THE BLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. W. HOWITT. He stood supreme in lofty genius, proud And in high temples, with meek head, he bowed; Like genial waters' flow, his outward life supplied. On the high mountain's topmost peak he lay, And many-tongued thunders; where had stood When gods communed with man, the poet with the Nine. Then sprang the hope of an immortal name, He dwelt upon the beauties of the lyre; Whether in art or nature, life and light, Endowing him with skill, and song's sublimest might. And, day by day, he proudly pondered o'er Of critic malice, mocking that warm zeal, That fervent strength of song its spirit could not feel. Still dwelt he 'neath a bright and classic sky; And nature's marvels were around him spread; The mountain's cloudy pinnacle, which high Rears, in the vault of heaven, its splintered head: The ocean's everlasting voice ;-the red, Fierce lightnings, and the thunder's stormy cry. He sojourned in the lands renown'd of old, But now his soul was dim, his drooping fancy cold. Alas! the curse was on him. The unkind, Blasting his vision, sunk his ardent mind, He pined—the young, the generous, ardent, true ; The aspiring genius fire, the broken heart a grave. THE DIAL OF FLOWERS. MRS, HEMANS. 'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours Thus had each moment its own rich hue In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew, To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd In a golden current on, Ere from the garden, man's first abode, So might the days have been brightly told— So in those isles of delight, that rest Which many a bark, with a weary quest, Yet is not life, in its real flight, Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth, By the closing of one hope's delight, Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, A lingerer still for the sun-set hour, THE DESERTED HOUSE. TENNYSON. LIFE and Thought have gone away Leaving door and window wide : All within is dark as night: And no murmur at the door, Come away: no more of mirth Is here, or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away for Life and Thought But in a city glorious A great and distant city--have bought Would they could have stayed with us! |