Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me,
To others that unfold some heaven-born art,
And melody-Oh, dearest melody!

How had thine accents thrilling to my heart.
Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,

Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!
How had my heart responsive to the strain,
Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain

In vain-alas, in vain! thy numbers roll-
Within my heart no echo they inspire;
Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control,
To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,
Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;

And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,
That can to animation kindle stone,
To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

[blocks in formation]

And none are more exquisitely awake

To nature's loveliness than those who feel

The inspiration of the muse-who take

From her the glowing thoughts that as they steal Around the soul entranced, a goddess make

Of nature to whose shrine of beauty kneel,

The fond enthusiasts adoring all

Within her we may dread or lovely call.

The terrible in nature is to them

The beautiful, and they can with delight Behold the tempest, and its wrath contemn,

Stationed upon some rock whose quivering height Is by the spirit swept, whose diadem

In burning terror wreathes the brow of night, While the rude winds their cave of slumber rend, And to the loud-voiced thunders answer send.

Yet, Nature, not alone when stern and wild
Canst thou the homage of the bard awaken,
Still art thou worshipp'd by the muse's child,
When thou thy throne of terrors hast forsaken;
With darkness when thy brow is undefiled,
When scarce a leaflet of thy robe is shaken
By zephyrs that soft music murmuring,
Around thee wave their aromatic wing.

When first the queen of night in beauty rides,
That with the glory of Apollo vies,
One star alone through heaven's azure glides,
That when ten thousand thousand robe the skies,
Preeminent in beauty still presides;

To her the lover's and the poet's eyes
Are ever fondly turned to hail the power
That smiles such loveliness upon the hour.

How often have I watch'd the star of even,
When eyes of heaven's own etherial blue,
Have follow'd mine to gaze upon the heaven,
Where they as on a mirror's face might view
The bright and beautiful reflection given,

Of their own siarry light and azure hue!
But she beholding night's resplendent throne,
Of nature's beauty thought, and not her own.

I thought of both-if earth appear so fair,

How glorious the world beyond the skies;
And if the form that heaven-born spirits wear,
This earthly shrine so fascinate our eyes,
To kneel in worship we can scarce forbear,
And e'en to gaze on thine is paradise.
O what are those who free from earthly stain,
Above yon azure realms in bloom immortal reign?

WILLIAM LEGGETT,

Or New York, the editor of the Critic. His volume of poems, under the title of “Leisure Hours at Sea,” was published in 1825. They were written while the author was a midshipman in the navy of the United States.

VOL. III.

SONG.

THE tear which thou upbraidest,
Thy falsehood taught to flow;
The misery which thou madest,

20

My cheek hath blighted so:
The charms, alas! that won me,
I never can forget,
Although thou hast undone me,
I own I love thee yet.

Go, seek the happier maiden
Who lured thy love from me;
My heart with sorrow laden
Is no more prized by thee:
Repeat the vows you made me,
Say, swear thy love is true;
Thy faithless vows betray'd me,
They may betray her too.

But no! may she ne'er languish
Like me in shame and wo;
Ne'er feel the throbbing anguish
That I am doom'd to know!
The eye that once was beaming
A tale of love for thee,

Is now with sorrow streaming,
For thou art false to me.

THE WARRIOR'S RETURN.

STILL, Still is that heart, lovely maid! erst so warm,
And pale thy fair cheek, and thy once lovely form
Is cold as the marble that bends o'er thy tomb-
Thou art gone in the pride of thy youth and thy bloom!

There were friends weeping o'er thee, as death dimm'd thine

eye;

There was one standing by thee who breathed not a sigh: By him not a murmur of sorrow was spoken

But he thought of thy fate with a heart that was broken!

His mind as he stood there had travell'd far back
Through the vista of years, o'er life's desolate track,
To those warm sunny hours when his bosom was young,
And when on thy accents delighted he hung.

Then he left thee to mourn o'er his absence and pass'd
To where flouted war's banner and sounded her blast-
And he thought of the battle-field gory and red,
The despair of the dying, the blood that was shed:

Then a dim dungeon vault next arose on his sight, Where no voice ever entered, no glimmering of light, But in darkness and horror months, years pass'd away, Till he wish'd for that night which endureth for aye!

He died not-but after long time was set free;
Then how bounded his heart at remembrance of thee!
To the maiden he loves with what ardor he's flying!
He rushes to meet thee-behold thou art dying!

He stood by thy couch as life faded away;
With a firm step he walk'd in thy funeral array;
No sigh rent his bosom, no tear-drop did start-
But what language can picture his anguish of heart!

To the battle he hasted, and reckless of life,
His war-cry was heard 'mid the wildest of strife:
When the conflict was past he was sought for in vain,
And he never return'd to his country again.

A SONG AT SEA.

OUR sails are spread before the wind,
And onward, onward swift we fly;
We've left our country far behind,
No prospect now invites the eye,
Save the blue sea, and cloudless sky.

Oh! when I waved my last good-bye,
To parents, friends, and Mary dear,
It was not fear that dimm'd mine eye,
This heart ne'er felt a thrill of fear-
It was affection caused the tear.

And while upon the heaving main
Our vessel dashes proudly on,

To meet those well-loved friends again,
With wealth and honors bravely won,
That is the hope I live upon.

But should some cannon pointed true,
Destroy these soothing dreams of glory,
Affection's tears my grave will dew,

And Mary, when she hears my story,
Will shed love's holiest tribute o'er me.

HANNAH F. GOULD,

Or Newburyport. Miss Gould's poems have been written generally for the newspapers of Newburyport and Boston.

THE MERMAID'S SONG.

COME, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave-

For I have a bed of coral for thee;
And quiet and sound shall thy slumbers be
In a cell in the Mermaid's cave.

On a pillow of pearls thine eye shall sleep,
And nothing disturb thee there;
The fishes their silent vigils shall keep-
There shall be no grass thy grave to sweep
But the silk of the Mermaid's hair.

And she who is waiting with cheek so pale,
As the tempest and ocean roar;

And weeps when she hears the menacing gale,
Or sighs to behold her mariner's sail
Come whitening up to the shore.

She has not long to linger for thee;—
Her sorrows shall soon be o'er;

« AnteriorContinuar »