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النشر الإلكتروني

MILTON WARD.

This young writer published a volume of poetry at Hanover, New Hampshire, in 1826. Most of it was composed at the age of fifteen. The following is one of his earliest pieces.

THE LYRE.

THERE was a Lyre, 't is said, that hung

High waving in the summer air ;
An angel hand its chord had strung,

And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,

Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,
Than ever shell of Mermaid břew

In coral grottoes of the main.
When, springing from the rose's bell,

Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell

Bright with the tears, that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,

Waved lightly his soft azure wing ;
What touch such music could inspire !

What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,

The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,

Were heard not where that harp was nigh.
When the last light of fading day

Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay,

While night had darken'd all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,

And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,

As solemn Philomela sung,
That harp its plaintive murmurs sigh'd

Along the dewy breeze of even ;
So clear and soft they swell’d and died,

They seem'd the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,

And not the poplar’s foliage trembled,

That harp was night!y heard to thrill

With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,

Unearthly forris were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams

Would of around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled-

In earth and air it shone no more ;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,

While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast-

The tempest's fury raged along-
On! for some angel, as they pass’d,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shriek'd-how could it bear the touch,

The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seem'd too much

Sometimes, though always light and warm.
It loudly shriek’d—but ah! in vain

The savage wind more fiercely blew;
Once more-it never shriek'd again,

For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrill'd with anguish more,

Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,

Was dreadful but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer play'd

Gently upon its shatter'd form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it stray'd,

That lyre they could not wake or warm.

GEORGE LUNT

Is a native of Newburyport, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1824. He published in 1826 a volume entitled “The Grave of Byron and Other Poems.” He has evidently higla powers as a poet, which require only the developement that study and a mature taste will afford, to be duly appreciated. He shows deep sentiment, reminding us occasionally of Percival.

VOL. III.

29*

THE GRAVE OF EYRON.

I KNEW young

Julian well ;—that gentle youth,
Whose heart was as a maiden's ;—by my side
He grew together with me, and in truth
His boyish sports were mine, whether we plied
The evening smoothness of the summer tide,
Or met the sunbeam on the mountain's brow;
I loved him well ;-alas, for me! he died,

When the first Autumn winds began to blow
Foliage whose bright tints mock’d the soft-hued sunset glow.

He was indeed a strange and dreamy boy,
Wild as an Indian huntress, and as proud
As his young country's eagles; and his joy
Was even like theirs to listen to the loud
Clang of the tempest or the rattling cloud;
Yet loved all human kind, he was so mild :
What here is writ he gave me ere he bow'd

His head upon my bosom, as he smiled
His lingering life away, most like a slumbering child.

Free as the untamed thunder-levin rolling
Athwart the blackness of this drooping sky ;-
Free as the winds controll'd not, yet controlling,
Free as the martyr's last prayer when to die
Is glorious gain ;-free as despair's deep sigh,
Or as the waters when their chainless surge,
Lash'd to wild wrath, speaks to the storm on high,

Rise up, my soul, while proud hopes onward urge,
And perish in the whelming tempest, or emerge

To high and perilous emprise ;-throw off
The bondage of all such as war with thought,
And trample on the fool's unmeaning scoff;
Why should'st thou bow to wealth, who art unbought ?
What carest thou for forms, who art untaught
To smile when thou should'st frown?-thou wilt not sell
The holy birtbright of thy race for aught ;-

Rise, then, my slumbering spirit, rise and dwell Enshrined in quenchless thought, fearless of earth or hell.

The idols of my heart are fading fast,
And my own fragile being will not long
Endure the fatal memory of the past,

in peace,

Still less the gathering ills of present wrong,
And unforgetful sighs, a tireless throng,
Which day by day sink deeper than before ;-
Weak sighs, which still are mightier than the strong,
Soon-soon-oh, when shall the vain strife be o'er,
And I repose

and ye

torment no more ?
Yet will I hush this voice of weak lament;
Yet will I conquer this unmanly grief;-
But the strong pain of passion first must vent
Its throbbing woes in words for sad relief:
'T is done,-my waning pilgrimage be brief,—
Though young and dying, scarcely can I mourn;
Time cannot bind my feelings' shatter'd sheaf,

Nor bid the loved, the long, long lost return,-
Then welcome be my journey towards the perilous bourne.

Methinks it scarcely matters when we tread
The road which all must tread who have not trod,
Though the dark journey be replete with dread ;--
Firm by the mercy of a pitying God,
And humbled at the chastening of his rod,
How sweet, this aching heart and painful head
Slumbering in peace beneath the grass-green sod,

To join those ancient worthies who have fled,
And meet the mightier spirits of the mighty dead!

With them and such as them I have conversed
More than with men, and thus the fruit has been
That they and their old mouldering tomes have nursed
Feelings and thoughts and hopes which do not win
Men's charity, though haply not of sin:
For Roman, Grecian lore has been to me
The mistress of my love ;-'mid cities' din

I've loved all Rome while yet she was the free,
And wanderd, lost in mists, through sage Philosophy.

Perchance it did not profit me ;-at least,
I learnt that knowledge doth not always bring
The fabled pleasures of the mental feast;-
Thạt intellectual streams might own a spring
Of bitter wave, whose sun-bright vapors fling
An arch of promise o'er the cheating source,
Lit by the ray of man's own hopes, which cling

To all delusion with a desperate force,
Till doubts and darkness soon obstruct their stumbling course.

1

Perchance my draught was shallow, and confused
The brain it did not sober-let it pass :
Even from my childhood upward I have used
To search into my being—but alas !
The scrutiny was fruitless ;—that I was
Wretched I knew-but why I could not tell,-
Born but to perish as a blade of grass ;-

One fate awaited all, I saw full well,--
Alike the sage and fool—the vile and virtuous fell.

For one grew ripe in honorable age, And others at his voice all lowly bow'd While he discoursed as fiom a pictured page Most eloquent music to a listening crowd, Who ever and anon fell shouting loud ;Till with a golden circlet (save this crown No other virtue had he,) terror-brow'd, Came one they call'd a king, and at his frown Blood from the old man's silvery locks went running down.

Another fell in manhood's ripen'd day,
In the full flow of his warm bosom's tide ;-
His wasted strength like weakness pass'd away,
And his heart's lingering streams of life were dried
By the enduring shame of humbled pride,
Or rankling poison left by passion's sting,
Or foul disease ungorged, and gaping wide ;-

For each hath plumed his shaft from Horror's wing, And each ten thousand shapes of varying fate can bring.

And there was one who, by the kindling flush
And happiness which beauty round her shed,
Seem'd 'mid her pure hours, lit by that soft blush,
Some stray grace tripping o'er a violet bed,
In spring, -but ere the lingering aster fled,
They laid her ringlets ’neath the early snow ;-
Men marvell’d that so fair a thing was dead,

And when flowers blossom, blue-eyed maidens go, With memory's garland-gifts for her who sleeps below..

And dreamy boys in the rathe bloom of youth,
Ere frozen years had bid them cease to lave
Their glowing cheeks with tears of joy or ruth,
Went down in silence to the marble grave,
Scorch'd by the flame of passions which they crave;
Or else embarking all their hope upon

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