MANFRED'S FAREWELL TO THE SUN. Most glorious orb! thou wert a mystery ere Which gladden'd, on the mountain tops, the hearts Thou chief star! And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! And shine, and set in glory. thou dost rise Fare thee well! As my first glance thee, then take My latest look; thou wilt not beam on one To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 7 Byron. MILTON. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. S 258 THE SANDS OF DEE. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : Wordsworth. THE SANDS OF DEE. "Он, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land- "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. Kingsley. LIBERTY. YE clouds! that far above me float and pause, Ye woods! that listen to the night-bird's singing, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! ye loud waves! and O ye forests high! And O ye clouds that far above me soar'd! Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky! Yea, everything that is, and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er you be, With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty. Coleridge. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN. ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: And then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 260 MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover; Made to his mistress' eye-brow: Then, a soldier; shifts Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice; Shakspeare. "ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S OH that those lips had language! Life has past MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream, that thou art she. 261 My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived: By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. |