A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.
And thence, though quick of feeling, hath been deemed Almost as cold and loveless as she seemed; Because to fools she never would reveal
Wounds they would probe-without the power to heal. No,-whatsoe'er the visions that disturb
The fountain of her thoughts, she knows to curb Each outward sign of sorrow, and suppress― Even to a sigh-all tokens of distress. Yet some, perhaps, with keener vision than The crowd that pass her by unnoted, can, Through well dissembled smiles, at times, discern A settled anguish that would seem to burn The very brain it feeds upon; and when This mood of pain is on her, then, oh ! then, A more than wonted paleness of the cheek,- And, it may be, a flitting hectic streak,- A tremulous motion of the lip or eye,- Are all that anxious friendship may descry.
Reserve and womanly pride are in her look, Though tempered into meekness; she can brook Unkindness and neglect from those she loves, Because she feels it undeserved; which proves That firm and conscious rectitude hath power To blunt Fate's darts in sorrow's darkest hour. Ay, unprovoked, injustice she can bear Without a sigh-almost without a tear, Save such as hearts internally will weep, And they ne'er rise the burning lids to steep; But to those petty wrongs which half defy Human forbearance, she can make reply With a proud lip, and a contemptuous eye.
There is a speaking sadness in her air, A tinge of languor o'er her features fair, Born of no common grief; as though despair, Had wrestled with her spirit-been o'erthrown- And these the trophies of the strife alone.
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.
A resignation of the will, a calm
Derived from pure religion (that sweet balm For wounded breasts) is seated on her brow, And ever to the tempest bends she now, Even as a drooping lily, which the wind Sways as it lists. The sweet affections bind Her sympathies to earth; her peaceful soul Has long aspired to that immortal goal, Where pain and anguish cease to be our lot, And the world's cares and frailties are forgot!
SILENCE o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell, Till the convent tower sent deeply forth The chime of its vesper bell.
One moment, and that solemn sound Fell heavily on the ear;
But a sterner echo passed around; Which the boldest shook to hear.
The startled monks thronged up, In the torchlight cold and dim; And the priest let fall his incense cup, And the virgin hushed her hymn; For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp, And a summoning voice were heard, And fretted wall, and tombstone damp, To the fearful echo stirred.
The peasant heard the sound,
As he sat beside his hearth;
And the song and the dance were hushed around, With the fireside tale of mirth.
THE SICILIAN VESPERS.
The chieftain shook in his bannered hall, As the sound of war drew nigh; And the warder shrank from the castle wall, As the gleam of spears went by.
Woe, woe, to the stranger then; At the feast and flow of wine, In the red array of mailéd men, Or bowed at the holy shrine;
For the wakened pride of an injured land Had burst its iron thrall;
From the pluméd chief to the pilgrim band; Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul!
Proud beings fell that hour,
With the young and passing fair,
And the flame went up from dome and tower; The avenger's arm was there!
The stranger priest at the altar stood, And clasped his beads in prayer,
But the holy shrine grew dim with blood; The avenger found him there!
Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul;
To the serf and mailéd lord; They were gathered darkly, one and all, To the harvest of the sword; And the morning sun, with a quiet smile, Shone out o'er hill and glen,
On ruined temple and mouldering pile, And the ghastly forms of men.
Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled, As its early glance came forth; It had no sympathy with the wild And terrible things of earth;
And the man of blood that day might read, In a language freely given,
How ill his dark and midnight deed
Became the light of heaven.
Он, when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!
A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing;-
But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!
My marbles once my bag was stored- Now I must play with Elgin's lord, With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipped his string, Forgotten all his capering,
And harnessed to the law!
My kite-how fast and far it flew ! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky!
"Twas papered o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote-my present dreams Will never soar so high.
My joys are wingless all and dead; My dumps are made of more than lead; My flights soon find a fall:
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a whoop, And seldom with a call!
My football's laid upon the shelf ;— I am a shuttlecock myself,
The world knocks to and fro- My archery is all unlearned, And grief against myself has turned My arrows and my bow.
No more in noontide sun I bask; My authorship's an endless task, My head's ne'er out of school,- My heart is pained with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool!
The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake It makes me shrink and sigh- On this I will not dwell and hang, The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye!
No skies so blue, or so serene As then no leaves look half so green As clothed the play ground tree! All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me!
Oh, for the garb that marked the boy-- The trowsers made of corduroy,
Well inked with black and red;
The crownless hat-ne'er deemed an ill- It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!
Oh, for the riband round the neck!
The careless dogs' ears apt to deck
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