To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness !
The Desolator desolate !
The victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope,
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
THEN rose from sea to sky the wild farewell—
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,—
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
'BRING forth the horse!'-the horse was brought.
In truth, he was a noble steed,
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,
Who look'd as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs; but he was wild,
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,
With spur and bridle undefiled-
'Twas but a day he had been caught; And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread
To me the desert-born was led :
They bound me on, that menial throng,
Upon his back with many a thong:
They loosed him with a sudden lash-
Away!-away!—and on we dash!—
Torrents less rapid and less rash.
"Away !-away !-my breath was gone--
I saw not where he hurried on:
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foam'd--away !-away!-
The last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,
Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout:
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And writhing half my form about,
Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread,
The thunder of my courser's speed,
Perchance they did not hear nor heed:
It vexes me-for I would fain
Have paid their insult back again."
Thomas Pringle.
WAS born at Blaiklaw in Roxburghshire, in 1788.
education, and after leaving the University he was appointed a clerk in the Register Office, Edinburgh, and his literary tastes had to be developed during his leisure hours. He became a contributor to, and afterwards editor of, "Blackwood's Magazine." Pringle afterwards emigrated to the Cape, where he remained some years, but ultimately returned to England. His poetical works are "Scenes of Teviotdale," Ephemerides," and "African Sketches." He died in 1834.
AFAR IN THE DESERT.
AFAR in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I turn to the past;
And the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And the shadows of things that have long since fled,
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead-
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon-
Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon-
Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft-
Companions of early days lost or left-
And my Native Land! whose magical name
Thrills to my heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood-the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time,
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening to view!
All-all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone:
And I, a lone exile, remembered of none,
My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone—
Aweary of all that is under the sun;
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the Desert afar from man.
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife;
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear;
And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear;
And malice and meanness, and falsehood and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh-
Oh, then! there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the Desert alone to ride!
A CLERGYMAN of the Church of England, and author of the "Christian Year" and "Lyra Innocentium." The following beautiful piece is founded on Proverbs xiv. 10.
TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
WHY should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has will'd, we die,
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart.
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow-
Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart.
And well it is for us our God should feel
Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer
May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal
On cloud-born idols of this lower air.
For if one heart in perfect sympathy
Beat with another, answering love for love,
Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie,
Nor listen for those purer strains above.
A NATIVE of Inverury, in Aberdeenshire, and author of some touching poetry. His occupation was that of a weaver. After publishing in the newspapers various pieces which attracted some notice, he issued in 1844 "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver," which were well received. But distress and penury hastened his end: he died at Dundee, in 1848.
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.
WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By auntie, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie-the mitherless bairn.
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
But morning brings clutches a' reekless and stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools where her mainmy is laid;
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak na him harshly-he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
WRITING under the nom de plume of Barry Cornwall, was born about the year 1790. He studied for the law, and was called to the bar in 1831. His first publication was "Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems," published in 1819, which established his reputation as a poet. His other publications are numerous, and he is especially admired for his English songs, which have become great favourites. Procter is also a prose writer of some eminence. He was for many years one of the Commissioners of Lunacy, a valuable appointment, but which he resigned in 1860.
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.
O THOU vast Ocean! ever-sounding Sea!
Thou vast symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath naught of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go:
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming;
|