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And saileth joyfully.
A lovely path before her lies,
She sails amid the loveliness
A glorious phantom of the deep,
The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall
To cheer the gliding vision sings.
Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend
Or bathe in brighter quietude
So far the peaceful soul of heaven
It seems as if this weight of calm
O World of Waters! the stedfast earth
Ne'er lay entranced like Thee!
Is she a vision wild and bright,
And lonely as she seems to be,
Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea,
In loneliness that rolls,
She hath a constant company
ON THE PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.
The following very sweet and touching verses are by N. P. WILLIS.
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind—
And nature is all bright;
And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky-
The moon's new silver shell
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee-
And the kind looks of friends
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot
Alas! sweet mother! that thou see'st them not!
But thou canst hear! and love
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
BERANGER TO HIS OLD COAT.
BERANGER is emphatically the poet of homely things; the minstrel of society. His ingenious fancy could weave the most beautiful thoughts out of themes that in other hands would have been barren, if not repulsive. Here is an address to AN OLD COAT, exquisite poetry, on the most prosaic theme in the world. The translation is executed fairly, almost elegantly.
BE faithful still, thou poor dear coat of mine!
Ten years these hands have brush'd that nap of thine,
When to fresh tear and wear the time to be
Shall force thy sore-thinn'd texture to submit, Be philosophic and resist like me :
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Full well I mind, for I forget not much,
The day that saw thee first upon me put:
Has never caused these kindly friends to flit;
A goodly darn I on thy skirts espy,
And thereby hangs a sweet remembrance still. Feigning one eve from fond Lisette to fly,
She held by thee to baulk my seeming will. The tug was follow'd by a grievous rent,
And then her side of course I could not quit ;
Have e'er I made thee reek with musky steams,
A strife for ribbons all the land of France,
From side to side, well nigh asunder split; From thy lapelle nothing but wild flowers glance: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Fear no renewal of those courses vain,
Those madcap sports which once employ'd our hoursHours of commingled joyfulness and pain,
Of sunshine chequer'd here and there with showers.
But wait awhile-one end will come to both :
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
The tone of this little poem, by LONGFELLOW, is in perfect accord with the theme.
I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
The calm majestic presence of the Night,
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
The welcome, the thrice-pray'd for, the most fair,
FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.
JOHN CLARE was one of our uneducated poets. He was a shepherd, actually keeping sheep on the hills, and there he composed verses which he committed to memory, for he could not write. After a while he taught himself to write imperfectly, and when the fame of his poetical powers was noised abroad, he could not spell three consecutive words correctly. We have some of his manuscript poems in our possession, and they are curious specimens of the combination of great genius with ignorance of arts now so common, that it is difficult to imagine the existence of genius without them. His end was most melancholy. He became insane, and was confined for many years in the County Asylum -a Parish Pauper. This is one of his poems.
FIRST LOVE will with the heart remain
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
I do not dare to call thee dear!
And burning blushes speak my shame,
That thus I love thee on.
How loth to part! How fond to meet
Had we two used to be!
At sunset with what happy feet
I hasten'd unto thee!
Scarce three days past, once, ere we met
Now three years' suns have risen and set,
Thy face was so familiar grown,
A moment's memory when alone,