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النشر الإلكتروني

I have turn'd to thee, moon, from my love,

And from all that once bless'd me in sadness;
And can marvel no more that, abandoned above,
Thou shouldst lend thy bright face to make madness.
I have turn'd to thee, moon, from my heart,

That in love hath long labour'd and sorrow'd;

And have hoped it might mix, as I watch'd thee depart, Like thyself, with the morn which had morrow'd.


A passage from BYRON's Childe Harold.

EXISTENCE may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode,
In bare and desolate bosoms. Mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestow'd
In vain, should such examples be. If they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,

Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay,
May temper it to bear. It is but for a day.

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd,
Ev'n by the sufferer; and in each event,
Ends. Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd,
Return to whence they came with like intent,

And weave their web again. Some bow'd and bent,
Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time,
And perish with the reed on which they leant.
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime,
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb.

But ever and anon, of grief subdued,

There comes a token, like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen but with fresh bitterness imbued.
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever. It may be a sound,

A tone of music, summer's eve, or spring,

A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind;
Which out of things familiar, undesigned,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,

The cold-the changed-perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd-the loved-the lost, too many, yet how few!



THE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burn'd on the water; the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that

The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver; Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat, to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description: she did lie
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue),
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see,
The fancy out-work nature: on each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids
With diverse-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.



WHEN first I met thee warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou could'st not wander.

But go, deceiver! go;

The heart whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou should'st break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled th' unwelcome story,

Or found in ev'n the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong or slight thee:
The heart that now thy falsehood rends
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,

Some day perhaps thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Ev'n now though youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee,

The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.

The midnight cup is pledged to slaves;
No genial ties enwreath it:

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go! go! though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine,

For all thy guilty splendour.

And days may come, thou false one, yet
When ev'n those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call with vain regret
On her thou'st lost for ever;
For her who in thy fortune's fall

With smiles had still received thee;

And gladly died to prove thee all,
Her fancy first believed thee.

Go! go! 'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;

Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.


This poem is taken from the Edinburgh Guardian newspaper, where it appeared anonymously.

I BEHELD a golden portal in the visions of my slumber,
And through it stream'd the radiance of a never-setting


While angels tall and beautiful, and countless without number,

Were giving gladsome greeting to all who came that way. And the gates for ever swinging, made no grating, no harsh ringing,

Melodious as the singing of one that we adore;

And I heard a chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

And the burden of that chorus was Hope's glad wordEvermore!

And as I gazed and listen'd, came a slave all worn and weary,

His fetter links blood-crusted, his dark brow clammy damp, His sunken eyes gleam'd wildly, telling tales of horror dreary,

Of toilsome strugglings through the night amid the fever


Ere the eye had time for winking, ere the mind had time for thinking,

A bright angel raised the sinking wretch and off his

fetters tore;

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

"Pass, brother, through our portal, thou'rt a freeman evermore!"

And as I gazed and listen'd, came a mother wildly weeping,— "I have lost my hopes for ever, one by one they went


My children and their father the cold grave hath in its keeping,

Life is one long lamentation, I know nor night nor day!” Then the angel softly speaking,-"Stay, sister, stay thy shrieking,

Thou shalt find those thou art seeking beyond that golden door!"

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

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Thy children and their father shall be with thee evermore!"

And as I gazed and listen'd, came one whom desolation Had driven like a helmless bark from infancy's bright land;

Who ne'er had met a kindly look,-poor outcast of creation,— Who never heard a kindly word, nor grasp'd a kindly


"Enter in, no longer fear thee, myriad friends are there to cheer thee;

Friends always to be near thee, there no sorrow sad and sore!"

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

Enter, brother, thine are friendship, love, and gladness evermore!"

And as I gazed and listen'd, came a cold, blue-footed maiden, With cheeks of ashen whiteness, eyes fill'd with lurid


Her body bent with sickness, her lone heart heavy laden ; Her home had been the roofless street, her day had been the night.

First wept the angel sadly, then smiled the angel gladly, And caught the maiden madly rushing from the golden door.

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

"Enter, sister, thou art pure, and thou art sinless evermore!"

I saw the toiler enter to rest for aye from labour;

The weary-hearted exile there found his native land; The beggar there could greet the king as an equal and a neighbour:

The crown had left the kingly brow, the staff the beggar's hand.

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