THE LOVE OF POETRY NOT EXTINCT.
Finds his heart echo to its tones,
Can he choose but love the song?
"Earth's Poesy is never dead,"
'Tis breathing everywhere,
In the starlight stillness of the night,
In the bright, warm, noontide air;
The grassy glade, the waving wood,
The broad, upheaving sea;
The intermittent flash and roar
Of Heaven's artillery;
The mountain-tops by sunshine crowned,
Whilst girt by clouds below;
The twin-notes of the cuckoo's shout,
The summer twilight's glow;
The corn that sways with every breeze;
The river smooth yet strong,
That glides like life away; all, all
Are redolent of Song.
It is not sooth, it cannot be,
That the love of Song is o'er!
That the strains that were our childhood's spell,
May charm our sons no more!
Till Fancy fades, and Hope grows chill,
And Pity's self hath fled,
The love of Poesy can ne'er
In British hearts be dead.
Then, "blessings on the sons of Song,
Eternal praise be theirs,
Who gave us truth and pure delight,"
And "nobler loves and cares."
And the "still, small voice of Gratitude"
Must cease for aye on earth,
Ere we forget, or cease to prize,
Their wisdom and their worth.
YES, Desolation on her viewless wing,
Even now, perhaps, is speeding with the blast
In deathful haste;-with angry visiting
The surges sweep around us, and the mast,
Bereft of sail, bends like a fragile reed
Submissive to the storm. But for yon light
I had begun to deem this dreary night,
For us, would have no morn. In greatest need,
When through life's sea man's erring bark is driven,
Thus doth the beacon Hope with friendly gleam
Speak peace unto his soul; and though its beam
Bring not immediate aid, it can create
Courage to bear the buffetings of Fate
With patience, till he reach the sheltering port of Heaven.
It was from the heights above Caub (opposite to the Pfalfz), that the view of the Rhine first burst upon the Prussian troops, on their victorious return from France, and drew from them a simultaneous and exulting shout of "The Rhine! the Rhine!" which was repeated as each division came in sight of the river. They subsequently knelt down, and sung, as with one heart and voice, their national song, "Am Rhein, Am Rhein!"
IT is the Rhine, our own abounding river!
To home-sick hearts a vision half divine!
Its rapid current swiftly flows as ever;
It is the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
It is the Rhine, with duteous homage kneeling,
In one wild burst let heart and voice combine,
To swell our prayerful song, to heaven appealing;
The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
It is the Rhine, our own imperial river;
How brightly still its rippling waters shine;— Hark to the shout that makes the tall pines quiver! The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
It is the Rhine that laves our fatherland
(The seat of all we love, fair Freedom's shrine);
Above its haunted depths once more we stand;
It is the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
Broken and spent, from battle-fields returning,
Our haven won, we will no more repine;
We left its banks for fame and conquest burning;
Our goal, at length, is gained: the Rhine! the Rhine!
River of many hearts! rejoice, rejoice!
Glory and Freedom once again are thine!
Echo each storied height, with trumpet voice,
The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE OF THE POEMS OF WORDSWORTH.
HIGH Priest of the Nine! Poet, Prophet, and Sage,
What deep lessons of wisdom are taught in thy page!-
There the young and the old, sad and mirthful, may find
Each, reflected in sunshine, some "mood of his mind;"
There, the simple may learn with kind feelings to glow,
And the wise may discover how little they know!
There, the broken in spirit may find solace and balm,
And the tempest-tossed bosom be taught to grow calm;
The rich, there are treasures that gold cannot buy;
The poor, that there is but one rank in the sky;
The guileless, their whiteness of spirit to keep;
And the guilty, that vengeance not always will sleep!
There the gentle enthusiast whose heart hath been sown
With pure poesy's seeds, some soft feeling may own,
Some loved dream, in his heart cherished fondly and long,
That he wanted the science to weave into song!
There, the Pilgrim of Nature in fancy may stray,
Where thy silver-bright Duddon glides calmly away,
I'VE ROAMED THE WIDE WORLD OVER. 223
By its flower-fringed margin its wanderings to trace,
Till his thoughts are as placid and pure as its face:
There the Dreamer who tracks the swift footsteps of Time,
And for ever would muse 'mid his ruins sublime,
Who delights to the deeds of past ages to turn,
Will find lore that his spirit has thirsted to learn:
From the song of proud Dion, so solemn and sweet,
To thy "silver-white" Doe and her Sabbath retreat!
Each high theme of the Lyre hath awoke at thy call,
Every chord hast thou touched, and drawn music from all!
I'VE ROAMED THE WIDE WORLD OVER.
I'VE roamed the wide world over,
From Indus to the Pole;
I've been a general lover,
And loved with all my soul;
Whate'er her height, hair dark or light,
Confined or flowing free;
Eyes, azure bright or black as night,
'Twas all the same to me.
Whatever flowers are springing,
My bosom's tares above,
Whatever thoughts are clinging
To my heart of peace and love,-
Were planted there by Woman's care,
And nurtured 'neath her eye:
To her I clung, when life was young;
Be hers my latest sigh!
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