Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast- Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, To rise before me-rise, O ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! COLERIDGE. CASABIANCA. THE boy stood on the burning deck, The flame that lit the battle wreck, Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A creature of heroic blood, The flames roll'd on-he would not go, "Speak, father!" once again he cried, And"-but the booming shots replied, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And looked, from that lone post of death, And shouted but once more aloud, My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud, They wrapped the ship in splendour wild; And streamed above the gallant child, Then came a burst of thundering sound- With mast and helm, and pennon fair, MRS. HEMANS. CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well, Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, Or whence this secret dread and inward horror 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, Eternity! thou pleasing dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; Through all her works), he must delight in virtue, But when, or where? This world was made for Cæsar. CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. ADIEU! adieu! My native shore Yon sun that sets upon the sea, . Farewell awhile to him and thee, A few short hours, and he will rise Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall- ADDISON. Come hither, hither, my little page, But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; 'Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I "Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, "A mother whom I love, "And have no friend save these alone, "But thee-and One above. "My father bless'd me fervently, "Yet did not much complain; "But sorely will my mother sigh, "Till I come back again." Enough, enough, my little lad, Such tears become thine eye-If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry! Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Or dost thou dread a French foeman, "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 66 "Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 'But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake; "And when they on their father call, "What answer shall she make ?" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, For who would trust the seeming sighs Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, For pleasures past I do not grieve, And now I'm in the world alone, Perchance my dog will whine in vain, With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves ! GERTRUDE VON DER WART. BYRON. She is supposed to be standing near the rack on which her husband is perishing. HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, Up to the fearful wheel she gazed— All that she loved was there. |