صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

Land of romance and beauty; noble land

Of Bruce and Wallace; land where, vainly brave, Ill-fated Stuart made his final stand,

Ere yet the shivered sword fell hopeless from his hand.

I love you! I remember you! though years
Have fleeted o'er the hills my spirit knew,
Whose wild uncultured heights the plough forbears,
Whose broomy hollows glisten in the dew.
Still shines the calm light with as rich a hue
Along the wooded valleys stretched below?

Still gleams my lone lake's unforgotten blue? Oh, land! although unseen, how well I know The glory of your face in this autumnal glow !

I know your deep glens, where the eagles cry ;

I know the freshness of your mountain breeze,
Your brooklets, gurgling downward ceaselessly,
The singing of your birds among the trees,
Mingling confused a thousand melodies!
I know the lone rest of your birchen bowers,

Where the soft murmur of the working bees
Goes droning past, with scent of heather flowers,
And lulls the heart to dream even in its waking hours.

THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

POPE.

Character of Addison.

WERE there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

POPE.

297

[From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot."]

To the Willow Tree.

THOU art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crowned.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn;

Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedewed with tears, are worn.

When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,

For their love lost; their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.

HERRICK.

BURNS

Je Fond Kiss.

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I 'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

299

BURNS.

Lord Ronald's Child.

THREE days ago Lord Ronald's child
Was singing o'er the mountain-wild,
Among the sunny showers

That brought the rainbow to her sight,
And bathed her footsteps in the light
Of purple heather-flowers.

But chilly came the evening's breath-
The silent dew was cold with death-
She reached her home with pain ;
And from the bed where now she lies,
With snow-white face and closed eyes,
She ne'er must rise again.

Still is she as a frame of stone,

That in its beauty lies alone,

With silence breathing from its face,
For ever in some holy place!

Chapel or aisle! on marble laid

With pale hands o'er its pale breast spread—

An image humble, meek, and low,

Of one forgotten long ago!

Soft feet are winding up the stair—
And lo! a vision passing fair!

All dressed in white-a mournful show

A band of orphan children come,

« السابقةمتابعة »