« السابقةمتابعة »
I wake from my trance !-lo! the Sun is declin
ing! And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining. -One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet, Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell ! -Vanish'd Creature ! I bid thy fair image fare.
SONG. THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day
long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet
dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget ;
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bende.
No; the roses are withered that hung o'er the
wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly
they shone ;
And a dew was distilled from their flowers that
All the fragrance of summer when summer was
gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies
An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bende
FROM THE IRISH MELODIES. SHE is far from the land where her young hero
sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!
She sings the wild song of her dear dative plains,
Every note which he loved awaking: Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had lived for his love, for his country he died;
They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
FROM THE IRISH MELODIES.
I saw thy(a) form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before thy steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Which flits not with the breath;
Than in thy smile of death, Mary !
As streams that run o'er golden mines
With modest murmur glide,
Within their gentle tide, Mary !
Thy radiant genius shone ;
Seemed worthless in thine own, Mary!
If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left thy sphere ;
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary !
Though fairest forms we see,
Than to remember thee, Mary !
(a) These beautiful stanzas are believed to have been composed on the death of the poetess, Mrs Tighe.
THE ARAB MAID.
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
Then come-thy Arab maid will be
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
As if the very lips and eyes
So came thy every glance and tone,
Then fly with me, if thou hast known
Come, if the love thou hast for me
But if for me thou dost forsake
Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
MUTABILITY OF LOVE. ALAS !-how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love !
(a) The hudhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.