THE STUDENT. Ar midnight, in his lonely room, Like lights that gleam around the dead, The shadowy streams of light that spread He lean'd his burning brow upon Hours when he held communion high The forms of all that once were dear But every lip was mute and pale, And they pass'd on to death's lone vale, He wander'd back to earlier years, And dream'd he saw those welcome tears, Which the heart's offering are; But, as he gazed, the scene became And voices shriek'd aloud his name, The light, that long had beam'd among Grew dim-the spirit, high and strong, He felt that life's last hope had fled, Like moonlight, o'er a marble tomb, AUTUMN FLOWERS. THOSE few pale Autumn flowers! Than all that went before, And why?—They are the last— How many thoughts are stirr'd! 284 AUTUMN FLOWERS. Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers! Last hours with parting dear ones Last looks of dying friends! Who but would fain compress The last day spent with one, Must leave us, and for aye? O, precious, precious moments! Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers! I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows, Tell me of change and death! STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delightThe winds, the birds, the ocean floods: The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 286 STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are: My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Some might lament that I were cold, Whom men love not:-and yet regret, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. BY JOHN MALCOLM. As sweeps the bark before the breeze, |