Imagens da página



With daring aims irregularly great;

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, This region, surely, is not of the earth. I see the lords of human-kind pass by ; Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove, Intent on high designs, a thoughtful ban Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot

By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature' Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings True to imagined right, above control, On the clear wave some image of delight, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, And learns to venerate himself as man. Some ruined temple or fallen monument, Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur To muse on as the bark is gliding by,

Thine are those charms that dazzle and c And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,

THE LEPER. Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, “Room for the leper! Room !” And as Was with his household sacrificing there,

The cry passed on, — “Room for the From daybreak to that hour, the last and best,

Room !”
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth,
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow,

And aside the And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood Steals o'er the trembling waters.

Who met him on his way, - and let hir

Everywhere And onward through the open gate he ca Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,

A leper with the ashes on his brow,
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lif
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers, A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came; And with a diflicult utterance, like one
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, Whose heart is with an iron nerve put d
A thousand, thousand colors not their own :

Crying, “Unclean! unclean !"
And at her bidding, lo ! a dark descent
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,

Day was 1 Those fields with ether pure and purple light When at the altar of the temple stood Ever invested, scenes by him described The holy priest of God. The incense-la Who here was wont to wander, record

Burned with a struggling light, and a lo What they revealed, and on the western shore Swelled through the hollow arches of thy Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, Like an articulate wail, and there, alone Beloved Parthenope.

Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt Yet here, methinks, The echoes of the melancholy strain Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape Died in the distant aisles, and he rose u Filling the mind by turns with awe and love, Struggling with weakness, and bowed d By turns inclining to wild ecstasy

head And soberest meditation.

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And with the sackcloth round him, and

Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,

Waiting to hear his doom :-

“Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God, My genius spreads her wing,

For he has smote thee with his chasten And flies where Britain courts the western spring;

And to the desert wild Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,

From all thou lov'st away thy feet mu And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide;

That from thy plague his people may There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ;

“Depart ! and come not near Creation's mildest charms are there combined, The busy mart, the crowded city, mor Extremes are only in the master's mind !

Nor set thy foot a human threshold o' Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state,

And stay thou not to hear





Voices that call thee in the way; and fly No followers at his back, nor in his hand
From all who in the wilderness pass by. Buckler, or sword, or spear, - yet in his mien

Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, “Wet not thy burning lip

A kingly condescension graced his lips, In streams that to a human dwelling glide ;

| The lion would have crouched to in his lair. Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide, His garb was simple, and his sandals worn; Nor kneel thee down to dip

His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, His countenance, the impress of a God, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. Touched with the open innocence of a child;

His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky “And pass not thou between

In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn The weary traveller and the cooling breeze,

Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees

The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
Where human tracks are seen ;

He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, | As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, “Be clean!" " And now depart ! and when

And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,

Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel his chastening rod.

The dewy softness of an infant's stole.

His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Depart ! O leper! and forget not God!”

Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him. And he went forth -- alone ! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak

Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,

Sick and heart-broken, and alone, - to die !
For God had cursed the leper !

THERE lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,

A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;

It was noon, Whose sires, perchance, in Fairy-land might And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool

dwell, In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched But he, I ween, was of the north countrie, — The loathsome water to his fevered lips,

A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Praying that he might be so blest, — to die ! Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, though free; Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms; He drew the covering closer on his lip,

Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. Crying, “Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, The shepherd swain, of whom I mention made, He fell upon the earth till they should pass.

On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed; The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name. An honest heart was almost all his stock; - “Helon !” — the voice was like the master His drink the living water from the rock ; tone

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Of a rich instrument, — most strangely sweet; Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And the dull pulses of disease awoke,

And he, though oft with dust and sweat beAnd for a moment beat beneath the hot

sprent, And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. Did guide and guard their wanderings, where“ Helon ! arise ! ” and he forgot his curse,

soe'er they went. And rose and stood before him.

From labor health, from health contentment Love and awe

springs ; Bringled in the regard of Helon's eye.

Contentment opes the source of every joy. As he beheld the stranger. He was not

He envied not, he never thought of, kings ; In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow

Nor from those appetites sustained annoy, The symbol of a princely lineage wore ;

That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy :


Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled ;| Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field ; Hemourned no recreant friend nor mistress coy, And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy For on his vows the blameless Phæbe smiled,

yield. And heralone he loved, and loved her from a child.

Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonde

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pi No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;

And sees, on high, amidst the encircling

From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents Each season looked delightful, as it passed, To the fond husband and the faithful wife.

While waters, woods, and winds, in Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life


And Echo swells the chorus to the ski They never roamed ; secure beneath the storm

Would Edwin this majestic scene resi: Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife,

For aught the huntsman's puny craft su Where peace and love are cankered by the

Ah! no : he better knows great Nature's

to prize. Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

And oft he traced thc uplands, to surv The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, When o'er the sky advanced the kindlin Was all the offspring of this humble pair ; The crimson cloud, blue main, and m His birth no oracle or seer foretold ;

gray, No prodigy appeared in carth or air,

And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky Nor aught that might a strange event declare. Far to the west the long, long vale witl You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth ; While twilight loves to linger for a wi The parent's transport and the parent's care ; And now he faintly kens the bounding The gossip's prayer for wealth and wit and And villager abroad at early toil. worth ;

But, lo! the Sun appears ! and heaven Andone long summer day of indolence and mirth.

ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to cli And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;

When all in mist the world below was Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,

What dreadful pleasure ! there to sta

lime, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy ; Silent when glad ; affectionate tlough shy;

Like shipwrecked mariner on desert co

And view the enormous waste of vapor And now his look was most demurely sad ; And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.

In billows, lengthening to the horizon The neighbors stared and sighed, yet blessed

Now scooped in gulfs, with mountai the lad :

embossed! Some decmed him wondrous wise, and some be

And hearthe voice of mirth and song n lieved him mad.

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the h

found ! But why should I his childish feats display? In truth he was a strange and maywaru Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled ;

Fond of each gentle and each (readful Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray In darkness and in storm he found de Of squabbling imps; but to the forest speil, Nor less, than when on occan wave se Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head, The southern sun diffused his dazzling Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, And if a sigh would sometimes interve

There would he wander wild, till Phiebus' beam, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll Shot from the western cliff, released the weary A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to team.




The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring ;
His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would

To work the woe of any living thing,
By trap or net, by arrow or by sling;
These he detestell; those le scorned to wield ;
He wished to be the guardian, not the king,

Hear the sledges with the bells,

Silver bells,
What a world of merriment their melody fo

* Brightness, splendor. The word is used by writers, as well as by Milton.

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight,
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the

Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells !



Hear the mellow wedding bells, –

Golden bells !.
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon ! O, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !

How it swells !

How it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

Hear the tolling of the bells, –

Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody

compels !
In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone !

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.


Hear the loud alarum bells,

Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,

now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

O the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells

of despair !
How they clang and clash and roar !

What a horror they outpour
On the busom of the palpitating air !

And the people, — ah, the people, They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human licart a stone, They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor human,

They are ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls ;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

A pæan from the bells !
And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells !
And he dances and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells, –

Of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells, — Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters

Of the river Lce.


I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

TOLL! Roland, toll!
High in St. Bavon's tower,
At midnight hour,
The great bell Roland spoke,
And all who slept in Ghent awo

What meant its iron stroke ?
Why caught each man his blade
Why the hot haste he made ?
Why echoed every street
With tramp of thronging feet, -
All flying to the city's wall ?
It was the call,
Known well to all,
That Freedom stood in peril of 1
And even timid hearts grew bol
Whenever Roland tolled,
And every hand a sword could I
For men
Were patriots then,
Three hundred years ago !

Toll! Roland, toll!
Bell never yet was hung,
Between whose lips there swung
So true and brave a tongue !

If men be patriots still,
At thy first sound

True hearts will bound,
Great souls will thrill,
Then toll ! and wake the test

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter

« AnteriorContinuar »