634. On first looking into Chapman's Homer Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : He stared at the Pacific-and all his men 635. When I have Fears that I may cease to be W HEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-pilèd books, in charact❜ry, Hold like full garners the full-ripen'd grain; Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, 636. O To Sleep SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, Then save me, or the passèd day will shine Save me from curious conscience, that still lords 637. Last Sonnet BRIGHT Star, would I were steadfast as thou art Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Of snow upon the mountains and the moors- Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN 638. The Outlaw of Loch Lene FROM THE IRISH 1795-1839 MANY a day have I made good ale in the glen, men : My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above; And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love. Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlaw'd lover to find. O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, 'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides: I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song. 639. WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER Too 1795-1846 '00 solemn for day, too sweet for night, But come in some twilight interim, When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim. GEORGE DARLEY 1795-1846 640. SWEET Song WEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above : O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love! Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me― Come-this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee! On a Gift-ring carelessly lost I SENT a ring-a little band Of emerald and ruby stone, Was full of loveliness, and thee. A shell was graven on its gold,— Her love is buried with that stone. Thou shalt not see the tears that start From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; Yet Helene, love, believe The heart that never could deceive. I'll hear thy voice of melody In the sweet whispers of the air In crystal streams thy purity; And look on Heaven to look on thee. |