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Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steeld, And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proad away, The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day ! So perish all whose breast ne'er learn’d to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.”

What cau atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier : By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd and by strangers mourn'd! What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, thien mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances and the public show; What though no weeping love thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face; What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb; Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressid, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
E'en he whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle bus’ness at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

L'ALLEGRO

BY MILTON.

Hence, loathed Melancholy,

Of Ceberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sigbts unholy,

Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come thou goddess fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a Maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Fillid her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, Aud Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toc; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty: And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, aud live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Tili the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the re..r of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his danies before; Oft list’ning how the hounds and born Cheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the plowman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures While the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns, and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The lab’ring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chin.ney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat hand of Phyllis dresses ;And then in haste her bow'r she leaves, With Thesty lis to bind the sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecs sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade :

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