Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

Are they not bridled? - Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose!

Statues of glass — all shiver'd

[ocr errors]

the long file Of her dead Doges are declin'd to dust;

But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls.

BYRON.

THE FACTORY CHILD.

EVER a toiling child doth make us sad: 'Tis an unnatural and mournful sight,

Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, Because we know their eyes should be so bright. What is it, then, when, task'd beyond their might, They labour all day long for others' gain, Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, While uncompleted hours of toil remain? Poor little factory slaves for you these lines complain!

and Padua, 1379, the Venetians sent an embassy to sue for peace, but Peter Doria, the commander-in-chief, returned as answer, that the Venetians should have no peace until he had put a rein upon the unbridled horses that were upon the porch of St. Mark.

Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows Is that these little pent-up wretches feel, Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, And the low whirring of the incessant wheel Dizzies the head and makes the senses reel: There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, Vice premature and care's corroding seal Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful dye, Line the smooth open brow, and sink the sadden'd

eye.

For them the fervid summer only brings

A double share of stifling withering heat;
For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings,
No moss-grown walks refresh their
No river's murmuring sound;

sweet

weary

feet;

no wood-walk,

With many a flower the learned slight and pass: Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass, Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass.

[ocr errors]

Have we forgotten our own infancy,
That joys so simple are to them denied?
Our boyhood's hopes,-our wand'rings far and free
Where yellow gorse-bush left the common wide
And open to the breeze? — the active pride
Which made each obstacle a pleasure seem;
When, rashly glad, all danger we defied,

Dash'd thro' the brook by twilight's fading gleam, Or scorn'd the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow

stream.

In lieu of this, from short and bitter night,
Sullen and sad the infant labourer creeps;
He joys not in the glow of morning's light,
But with an idle yearning stands and weeps,
Envying the babe that in its cradle sleeps;

And ever, as he slowly journeys on,

His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps ; His fellow-labourers (playmates hath he none) Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning's sun. MRS. NORTON.

COLUMBUS. (1.)

THE crimson sun was sinking down to rest,
Pavilion'd on the cloudy verge of heaven;
And ocean, on her gently heaving breast,

Caught, and flash'd back, the varying tints of even;
When, on a fragment from the tall cliff riven,
With folded arms, and doubtful thoughts oppress'd,
Columbus sat; till sudden hope was given :
A ray of gladness, shooting from the West.
O what a glorious vision for mankind
Then dawn'd above the twilight of his mind;
Thoughts shadowy still, but indistinctly grand!
There stood his Genius, face to face; and sign'd
(So legends tell) far seaward with her hand:
Till a new world sprang up, and bloom❜d beneath
her wand.
SIR AUBREY DE VERE.

COLUMBUS. (2.)

He was a man whom danger could not daunt,
Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue:
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt,
And steel'd the path of honour to pursue :

1 Columbus always considered that he was inspired, and chosen for the great service of discovering a new world and conveying to it the light of salvation.

So, when by all deserted, still he knew
How best to soothe the heartsick, or confront
Sedition; school'd with equal eye to view
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want.
But when he saw that promis'd land arise
In all its rare and bright varieties,

Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ;
Then softening nature melted in his eyes;

He knew his fame was full, and bless'd his God: And fell upon his face, and kiss'd the virgin sod! SIR AUBREY DE VERE.

COLUMBUS. (3.)

BEAUTIFUL realm beyond the western main,
That hymns thee ever with resounding wave!
Thine is the glorious sun's peculiar reign;
Fruit, flowers, and gems, in rich mosaic pave
Thy paths like giant altars o'er the plain

Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering, 'mid the rave
Of mighty streams, that shoreward rush amain,
Like Polypheme from his Etnean cave.
Joy, joy, for Spain ! a seaman's hand confers
These glorious gifts, and half the world is hers!
But where is he?—that light, whose radiance glows
The load-star of succeeding mariners!

Behold him! crush'd beneath o'ermastering woesHopeless, heart-broken, chain'd1, abandon'd to his foes!

SIR AUBREY DE VERE.

1 When the officer appointed to conduct him back to Spain would have taken off his chains, Columbus refused his offer, and said, "I will wear them till the king orders otherwise, and will preserve them as memorials of his gratitude." He hung them up in his cabinet, and desired they should be buried in his grave.

B B

TO MY MOTHER.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree 1
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.

"Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be),

This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

MOORE.

ROME.

THE Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

1 The Banyan tree (Ficus Indica) the branches of which spread to a great extent, and throw out roots which descend to the earth, where they fix themselves, and increase rapidly in size, till they become as large as the parent trunk. In this manner they cover an immense extent of ground, sufficient to shelter a regiment of cavalry, and used by the Indians as a natural canopy under which to hold their great public meetings.

« VorigeDoorgaan »