And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move . With hope toward the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: Though happy still-yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,
And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed! And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary Time! For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind, and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy lustrous soul-then harp and hymn, From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in Immortality.
To whom belongs this valley fair That sleeps beneath the filmy air,
Even like a living thing? Silent, as infant at the breast, Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring!
The heavens appear to love this vale; Her clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or mid the silence lie:
By that blue arch this beauteous earth, 'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth,
Seems bound unto the sky.
Oh that this lovely vale were mine! Then, from glad youth to calm decline, My years would gently glide; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, And memory's oft-returning gleams By peace be sanctified.
Then would unto my soul be given, From furnace of that gracious heaven,
And thoughts would come of mystic mood To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time.
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watch'd the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.
ROBERT GRANT was born at Glenelg, county of Inverness, in 1785. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated with distinction, and was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1807. He was member of Parliament for Inverness, and afterward for Norwich and Finsbury. He was knighted in 1834, on being appointed Gov
ernor of Bombay. He died at Dapoorie, in 1838. He wrote two treatises on Indian affairs, and some short poems,; but he is chiefly remembered for his hymns, which are among the best in the standard collections. His poetical works were published by his brother, Lord Glenelg, in 1839.
THE starry firmament on high, And all the glories of the sky, Yet shine not to thy praise, O Lord, So brightly as thy written word: The hopes that holy word supplies, Its truths divine and precepts wise- In each a heavenly beam I see, And every beam conducts to thee,
Almighty Lord! the sun shall fail, The moon forget her nightly tale, And deepest silence hush on high The radiant chorus of the sky;- But fixed for everlasting years Unmoved amid the wreck of spheres, Thy word shall shine in cloudless day, When heaven and earth have passed away.
SAVIOUR, when in dust to Thee Low we bow the adoring knee; When, repentant, to the skies Scarce we lift our weeping eyes- Oh, by all Thy pains and woe Suffered once for man below, Bending from Thy throne on high, Hear our solemn litany!
By Thy helpless infant years; By Thy life of want and tears; By Thy days of sore distress, In the savage wilderness; By the dread, mysterious hour Of the insulting tempter's power- Turn, O turn a favoring eye- Hear our solemn litany!
By the sacred griefs that wept O'er the grave where Lazarus slept;
WHEN gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark, and friends are few, On Him I lean, who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain; He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears.
If aught should tempt my soul to stray From heavenly wisdom's narrow way, To fly the good I would pursue, Or do the sin I would not do- Still He who felt temptation's power Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER, who in literature has been almost exclusively known under his pseudonym of BARRY CORNWALL, was born near London in 1787. He was educated at Harrow, where Byron was his schoolmate. From there he went to Calne, in Wiltshire, to study with a solicitor. During his four years' residence at Calne he met Crabbe, Moore, and several other literary men who then lived in the neighborhood; and Coleridge afterward lived in the same house where Procter had studied.
He next went to London, studied at Lincoln's Inn, and became a conveyancer. In 1831 he was admitted to the bar, and for many years he was a commissioner of lunacy, but resigned that post in 1860.
In 1819 he published "Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems," and in the same year his "Sicilian Story," the plot of which is from the "Decam
eron." In 1820 he published “Marcian Colonna," and in 1821 "Mirandola," a tragedy, was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre and was highly successful. This is generally accounted the most important of his extended works. But his songs, which are numerous, and many of which have enjoyed wide popularity, are his best literary work. A good collection of them was published in 1851. Mr. Procter also pub lished a large number of criticisms, sketches, and tales in prose. A collection of these was published in Boston in 1853. He died in Lon don, October 5, 1874. He was a year older than Byron, and was of age when Tennyson was born. He had outlived the school of Byron, and witnessed Tennyson's gray hairs and settled fame. His daughter, ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, who won a high reputation as a poet, died in 1864.
Ir may be that the rhymes I bring to thee (An idle offering, Beauty) are my last : Therefore, albeit thine eyes may never cast Its light on them, 'tis fit thine image be Allied unto my song; for silently Thou mayst connect the present with the past. 'Tis fit, for Saturn now is hurrying fast, And thou mayst soon be nothing, e'en to me. Be this the record then of pleasant hours Departed, when beside the river shaded
I walk'd with thee, gazing my heart away, And, from the sweetest of your garden flowers, Stole only those which on your bosom faded. -Oh, why has happiness so short a day!
There is a spirit within us, which arrays The things we doat upon with colorings
Richer than roses-brighter than the beams Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings His showers of light upon the peach, or plays With the green leaves of June, and strives to dart
Into some great forest's heart,
And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams. There is a spirit that comes upon us when Boyhood is gone-before we rank as men, Before the heart is canker'd, and before We lose or cast away that innocent feeling That gives life all its freshness. Never more May I feel this, and yet the times have been I have seen love in burning beauty stealing O'er a young cheek and run the bright veins through,
And light up like a heaven, eyes of such blue As in the summer skies was never seen. I was an idler then, and life was green, And so I loved and languish'd, and became A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame, And did abase myself before him: he Laugh'd outright at my fierce credulity,
And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet, And the same thought that pleased me haunts me still,
Chief at the hour when day and evening meet, And twilight, shadowy magician! calls Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls, And ranks them out before us till they fill The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hill, The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill, The waving wood and the evanishing sky, Tow'rd this subduing of the soul, ally Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band. If then the elements league against us, and The heart rebel against the mind's command, Why, we must sink before these sickly dreams Until the morning comes, and sterner themes Do fit us through this world to sail.
Hollow and subterranean noises deep, And all around the constellations hung Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky, As to do honour to that revelry.
Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd Sick at the soul with sorrow; her quick eye Ran restless through the throng, and then she bowed
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh Breathed sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy, The dark-eyed Guido whom she loved so well; (O how he loved Sicilian Isabel!)
Why came he not that night to share the joy That sate on every face, and from her heart Bid fear and all, ay, all but hope, depart- For hope is present happiness: Shapes and things That wear a beauty like the imperial star
Farewell to love,-and yet, 'tis woven in my tale. Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews,
A story (still believed through Sicily) Is told of one young girl who chose to die For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe, If that ye can believe so strange a story; That woman ever could so deeply grieve, Save she who from Leucadia's promontory Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy (Ungrateful he to work her such annoy ;) But time hath, as in sad requital, given A branch of laurel to her, and some bard Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven: And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar Along the Adriatic, in the wave
She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore Sings as the love-crazed Sappho sung of yore.
A low and silver-voiced music made: And there the frail perfuming woodbine stray'd, Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough, And as in female trust seemed there to grow, Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing: And every odorous plant and brighter thing Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain, That from the bosom of the spring Starts into life and beauty once again, Blossom'd; and there in walks of evergreen, Gay cavaliers, and dames high-born and fair, Wearing that rich and melancholy smile That can so well beguile
The human heart from its recess, were secn: And lovers, full of love or studious care, Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, And spirits that never till the morning sleep. And, far away, the mountain Etna flung Eternally its pyramid of flame
And like an arch of promise shine afar, When near cast off their skiey colourings, And all their rainbow-like and radiant hues Are shadowy mockeries and deceptive fire. But, Hope! the brightest of the passionate choir That through the wide world range, And touch with passing fingers that most strange And various instrument, the human heart,- Ah! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart?
Dark Guido came not all that night, while she (His young and secret bride) sate watching there, Pale as the marble columns. She search'd around And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry; But if she heard a quick or lighter bound Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight Drew her white hand to see her raven hair Come down in masses like the starless night, And 'neath each shorten'd mask she strove the while
To catch his sweet inimitable smile, Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore (He whom the wild and wanton nymphs of yore Stole from Alcmena's son.) But one and then Another passed, and bowed, and passed again. She looked on all in vain: at last more near A figure came, and, whispering in her ear, Asked in a hoarse, and quick, and bitter tone, Why there she sate alone,
The mistress of the feast, while all passed by Unwelcomed even by her wandering eye? It was her brother's voice-Leoni !-no It could not be that he would jeer her so. He breathed a name; 'twas "Guido:" trem blingly
She sate and sank from his inquiring eye, But hid the mighty secret of her soul. Again-ah! then she heard her terrible doom Sound like a prophecy, and to her room Like a pale solitary shade she stole.
And now to tell of him whose tongue had gain'd The heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came
High as the Heav'ns, while from its heart there (And he was of a line of fame)
From Milan, where his father perish'd.
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