THOMAS MILLER. JOHN KEBLE. 177 And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well. known tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. Fair child of art! thy charms decay, of And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime: But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And, rich with memory's sweet per fume, Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. THOMAS MILLER. EVENING SONG. How many days with mute adieu Come softened by the distant shore; And in this hushed and breathless close, The hive-bound bee, the building rook, All these their Maker own. Now Nature sinks in soft repose, JOHN KEBLE. [1796 - 1821.] MORNING. There shalt thou live and wake the O, TIMELY happy, timely wise, glee That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. Hearts that with rising morn arise! New every morning is the love Fast silent tears were flowing, THE MEN OF OLD. I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine for force As if they thus could check the course Still is it true and over-true, MARY HOWITT. They went about their gravest deeds, As noble boys at play. A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire, Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire. But, brothers, who up reason's hill THE PALM AND THE PINE. BENEATH an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses. Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound. Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows! MARY HOWITT. TIBBIE INGLIS. BONNY Tibbie Inglis! Through sun and stormy weather, She kept upon the broomy hills Her father's flock together. 181 She was made for happy thoughts, She had hair as deeply black As the cloud of thunder; I found her, whom a king himself She was sitting 'mong the crags, Tears were starting to her eyes, Solemn thought was o'er her; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her. Crimson was her sunny check, And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart;How could I help loving? On a crag I sat me down, Upon the mountain hoary, And made her read again to me That old pathetic story. Then she sang me mountain songs, Till the air was ringing With her clear and warbling voice, Like a skylark singing. And when eve came on at length, Among the blooming heather, We herded on the mountain-side Her father's flock together. And near unto her father's house I said "Good night!" with sorrow, And inly wished that I might say, “We'll meet again to-morrow.' I watched her tripping to her home; I saw her meet her mother. |