Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss; I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, "Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thine own hand, till iresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile :) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast My boast is not that I deduce my birth To have renewed the joys that once were mine, And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, THE SULIOTE MOTHER. HEMANS. [So strong was the love of freedom implanted in the breasts of the Greeks, that it is authentically related that when the Turkish troops under Ali Pasha penetrated the mountain passes, the Sufiote women, ascended a rugged peak, and after chanting a song of defiance, threw themselves and their children headlong into an abyss-preferring frightful death to slavery.] SHE stood upon the lofty peak, "Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy? For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son : They had heaped high the piles of death, "They have crossed the torrent, and on they come; Woe for the mountain hearth and home! There, where the hunter laid by his spear, There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!" And now the horn's loud blast was heard, Till even the upper air was stirred "Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! Still! be thou still! there are brave men low; Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now." But nearer came the clash of steel, "Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth? And from the arrowy peak she sprung, GENEVIEVE. COLERIDGE. [Byron has said of the harmonious Tuscan, that it is a softer "Latin, that sounds as if it should be writ on satin." But not ever the most honied sentences of Petrarch exceed in rich melody this matchless piece of versification. Nor is it a mere chime of sweet sounds" 81g. nifying nothing." The matter is worthy of the manner. The musi cal prelude fitly ushers in the bold dramatic description of the Knight, crazed by love; while the ending is charmingly delicate and tender.] ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of love. And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, She leaned against the armed man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving storyAn old, rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But look upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined,-and ah! She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly in her face. But when I told the cruel scorn, That crazed that bold and loyal knight, And that he crossed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night. |