Exceeding peace had made Bon Athem bold, he said, "What writest thou?" "The vision raised its head And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord ?" " and is mine one," said Abou. "Wey, not to " so." Replied the engel.. Abou spoke more low, But chearly still; and said, "I pray there then, Write me as one, that loves his fellow men. The angel wrote, and venishd. _ the west night with a great wakening light. It came again, And shewd the names whom love of god had blesid, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the vest Leigh Hunt ABOU BEN ADHEM. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) "What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head, Answered- "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not so," Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low, The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! LEIGH HUNT. MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS. My dear and only love, I pray Which virtuous souls abhor, As Alexander I will reign, He either fears his fate too much, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. But I will reign and govern still, Thou storm or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind, I'll never love thee more. TOO LATE I STAYED. And in the empire of thy heart, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to share with me; But if no faithless action stain I'll deck and crown thy head with bays, JAMES GRAHAME, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. TOO LATE I STAYED. Too late I stayed-forgive the crime; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers! And who, with clear account, remarks The ebbings of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE. Ah! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, Their plumage to his wings? ROBERT WILLIAM SPENCER. SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE. SHE is a maid of artless grace, Gentle in form, and fair of face. Tell me, thou ancient mariner, Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, If steed, or sword, or battle-field, Be half so fair as she! Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock Beneath the shadowy tree, If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge, Be half so fair as she! Translation of HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. GIL VICENTE. (Portuguese.) |