« ZurückWeiter »
O! change - stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod!
Wakes with his God.
MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee! Let loose the rudder-bands
Good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come; Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home! Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee; Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Hold the helm fast!
There swept the blast.
“ What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?”
No land yet — all's right.”
Danger may be
Securest to thee.
Clean out ine hold
Heave out thy gold;
Now the ship rights;
Lo! the red lights :
At inlet or island;
Straight for the high land;
Cut through the foam-
Heaven is thy home.
JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.
1775–1841. [Born at Seville, Spain, July 11, 1775; of an Irish Catholic family; ordained a priest, 1799, came to England in 1810; left the Catholic Church, and became a tutor in the family of Lord Holland; resided in London as a man of letters, contributing to leading reviews and periodicals, and producing several works in Spanish and English. Among his works were, Letters from Spain, 1822; Practical and Internal Evidence Against Catholicism, 1825; Second Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion, 1833. Died at Liverpool, May 20, 1841. His Sonnet to Night was called by Coleridge the finest in the language.] NIGHT AND DEATH.
And lo! creation widened in man's
view. MYSTERIOUS Night! when first Who could have thought such darkness parent knew
lay concealed Thee from report divine, and heard Within thy beams, O sun! or who thy name,
could find, Did he not tremble for this lovely Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood reframe,
vealed, This glorious canopy of light and That to such countless orbs thou blue?
mad'st us blind! Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Why do we then shun Death with Bathed in the rays of the great set
anxious strife? ting flame,
If light can thus deceive, wherefore Hesperus with the host of heaven came, not life?
(BORN in the Temple, London, February 10, 1775; was educated at Christ's Hospital, with Coleridge for a school-fellow; became clerk in the India House, 1792; retired on a pension, 1825; died December 27, 1834. His poetry is as follows: - Poems by S. T. Coleridge, second Edition, to which are now added poems by Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd, 1797. Blank Verse, by Charles Lloyd and Charles Lamb, 1798. Poetry for Children, entirely original; by the Author of Mrs. Leicester's School, 1809. Poems in The Works of Charles Lamb, 1818. Album Verses, with a few others, by Charles Lamb, 1830.]
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
How some they have died, and some
they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are
departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I HAVE had playmates, I have had com
panions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful
school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been
carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my
bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among wo
men; Closed are her doors on me, I must not
see her All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no
man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend
abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar
On the green hill top, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest
roof, And not distinguished from its neigh
bor-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of
spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone
barely tells The name and date to the chance pas
senger. For lowly born was she, and long had
eat, Well-earned, the bread of service:
hers was else A mounting spirit, one that entertained Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image: I remember, too, With what a zeal she served her mas
ter's house : And how the prattling tongue of garruDelighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skilled in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms dis.
course Of births, of titles, and alliances;
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of
my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to
traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a
brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's
dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar
Of marriages, and intermarriages;
less Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low de
gree. But these are not thy praises; and I
wrong Thy honored memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere
to tell, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer
She served her heavenly master. I
have seen That reverend form bent down with age
and pain, And rankling malady. Yet not for
this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or
withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, and humble
hopeSo meekly had she learned to bear her
For she had studied patience in the
school Of Christ, much comfort she had thence
derived, And was a follower of the Nazarene.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
1775-1864. (Walter Savage LANDOR was born at Warwick, Jan. 30, 1775; died at Florence, Dec. 17, 1864. He resided in Italy almost continuously from 1815 to 1835, and afterwards twenty-one years in Bath. His writings, the dates of which range from 1795 to almost the year of his death, were first collected by himself in two large volumes (1846), and afterwards (1876), with his Life, by Mr. John Forster, in eight vols. 8vo.] THE SHELL.
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear
And it remembers its august abodes, [From Gebir, Book I.]
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs
there. I am not daunted, no; I wili engage. But first, said she, what wager will you lay?
PRAYERS. A sheep, I answered, add whate'er you will.
[From Book V.) I cannot, she replied, make that return: YE men of Gades, armed with brazen Our hided vessels in their pitchy round
shields, Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a And ye of near Tartessus, where ths sheep.
shore But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue | Stoops to receive the tribute which all Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
To Baetis and his banks for their attire, In the Sun's palace-porch, where when Ye too whom Durius bore on level unyoked
meads, His chariot-wheel stands midway in the Inherent in your hearts is bravery:
For Earth contains no nation where Shake one and it awakens, then apply
The generous horse and not the warlike The big wave blacken'd o'er the mouth man.
supine: But neither soldier now nor steed avails : Then, when my Tamar trembles at the Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the
tale, Gods :
Kissing his lips half open with surprise, Nor is there aught above like Jove him- Glance from the gloomy story, and with self,
glee Nor weighs against his purpose, when Light on the fairer fables of the Gods. once fixt,
– Thus we may sport at leisure when Aught but, with supplicating knee, the Prayers.
Where, loved by Neptune and the Swifter than light are they, and every Naiad, loved face,
By pensive Dryad pale, and Oread Tho' different, glows with beauty; at The sprightly nymph whom constant the throne
Zephyr woos, Of mercy, when clouds shut it from Rhine rolls his beryl-color'd wave; than mankind,
Rhine They fall bare-bosom'd, and indignant What river from the mountains ever
Jove Drops at the soothing sweetness of their More stately? most the simple crown voice
adorns The thunder from his hand: let us Of rushes and of willows intertwined arise
With here and there a flower: his lofty On these high places daily, beat our
Shaded with vines and mistletoe and oak Prostrate ourselves and deprecate his He rears, and mystic bards his fame rewrath.
sound. Or gliding opposite, th' Illyrian gulf
Will harbor us from ill.” While thus TAMAR AND THE NYMPH.
she spake, (From Book VI.]
She toucht his eyelashes with libant lip, “Oh seek not destin'd evils to divine, And breath'd ambrosial odors, o'er his Found out at last too soon! cease here
cheek the search,
Celestial warmth suffusing: grief dis'Tis vain, 'tis impious, 'tis no gift of persed, mine;
And strength and pleasure beam'd upon I will impart far better, will impart
his brow. What makes, when Winter comes, the Then pointed she before him: first arose Sun to rest
To his astonisht and delighted view So soon on Ocean's bed his paler brow, The sacred ile that shrines the queen of And Night to tarry so at Spring's return.
love. And I will tell sometimes the fate of It stood so near him, so acute each
sense, Who loos’d from drooping neck the That not the symphony of lutes alone restless arm
Or coo serene or billing strife of doves. Adventurous, ere long nights had satis- But murmurs, whispers, nay the very fied
sighs The sweet and honest avarice of love; Which he himself had utter'd once, he How whirlpools have absorb'd them,
heard. storms o'erwhelm’d,
Next, but long after and far off, appear And how amid their struggles and their The cloudlike cliffs and thousand towers prayers