And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! ON A TEAR. OH! that the Chemist's magic art The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye; Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly'st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. The sage's and the poet's theme, In every clime, in every age; Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream, That very law which moulds a tear, TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST. Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor? Aëris et linguæ sum filia; Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.-AUSONIUS. ONCE more, Enchantress of the soul, *The law of gravitation. Or trembling, fluttering here below, In secret didst thou still impart Or in the wilds of Ether lost. Far happier thou! 'twas thine to soar, Thy triumphs who shall dare explore? Which taught thee first a flight divine, And nursed thy infant years with many a strain from Heaven! *Mrs. Sheridan's. THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 1812. "SAY what remains when Hope is fled?" At Embsay rung the matin-bell, In tartan clad and forest-green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, * In the twelfth century, William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David King of Scotland. He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See WHITAKER'S Hist of Craven. Blithe was his song, a song, of yore; But where the rock is rent in two, His voice was heard no more! 'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed; But that step-it was his last! As through the mist he winged his way, (A cloud that hovers night and day,) The hound hung back, and back he drew The Master and his merlin too. That narrow place of noise and strife Received their little all of Life! There now the matin-bell is rung; 66 The Miserere!" duly sung ; And holy men in cowl and hood Are wandering up and down the wood. The helpless and the innocent. |