Boat Glee. The song, that lightens the languid way, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, As we row along through waves so clear, Nothing is lost on him, who sees With an eye that feeling gave : And faint with rowing : 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray. To sigh, yet feel no pain. To sigh, yet feel no pain, To weep, yet scarce know why; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; Such as kindleth hearts that rove. To keep one sacred flame Through life, unchill'd, unmov'd; To such refined excess, That though the heart would break with more, We could not live with less; This is love-faithful love, Such as saints might feel above! The Light-house. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye, The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd In the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim distant hill, till the light-house fire blaz'd Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers, One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope, And thought that the light-house look'd lovely as hope That star of life's tremulous ocean. Yet time is long past, and the scene is afar, That blaz'd on the breast of the billow: Tell me not of joys above. Tell me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier than the love Which enslaves our souls in this! Tell me not of Houris' eyes; Far from me their dangerous glow, Wound like some that burn below! Who that feels what love is here, Who, that 'midst a desert's heat There's a bower of roses. There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,108 And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet! Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill'd from their flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, There's a bliss. There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; To a lady on her singing. Thy song has taught my heart to feel When tir'd of life and misery, |