COME, I come!
ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breath'd on the South, and the chesnut-flowers,
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loos'd the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home:
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!
The Summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn;
For me I depart to a brighter shore,-
Ye mark'd by care, ye are mine no more:
I go where the lov'd who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well, farewell! MRS. HEMANS.
THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE.
WOULDST thou view the Lion's den?
Search afar from haunts of men,—
Where the reed-encircled fountain
Oozes from the rocky mountain,
By its verdure far descried
'Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brim
Couchant lurks the Lion grim,
Waiting till the close of day
Brings again the destin'd prey;
Heedless at the ambush'd brink
The tall Giraffe stoops down to drink :
Upon him straight the savage springs
With cruel joy!-The desert rings
With clanging sound of desperate strife—
For the prey is strong and strives for life;
Now, plunging, tries with frantic bound,
To shake the tyrant to the ground;
Then burst like whirlwind through the waste,
In hope to 'scape by headlong haste;
While the destroyer on his prize
Rides proudly-tearing as he flies.
For life, the victim's utmost speed
Is muster'd in this hour of need-
For life-for life-his giant might
He strains, and pours his soul in flight;
And mad with terror, thirst, and pain,
Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
'Tis vain ;—the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood-his strength is sinking; The victor's fangs are in his veins—
His flanks are streak'd with sanguine stains;
His panting breast in foam and gore
Is bath'd-he reels-his race is o'er!
He falls—and, with convulsive throe,
Resigns his throat to the raging foe :
Who revels amidst his dying moans:-
While gathering round, to pick his bones,
The vultures watch, in gaunt array,
Till the gorg'd monarch quits his prey.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
FLOWER of light! forget thy birth,
Daughter of the sordid earth,
Lift the beauty of thine eye
To the blue ethereal sky.
While thy graceful buds unfold
Silver petals starr'd with gold,
Let the bee among thy bells,
Rifle their ambrosial cells,
And the nimble-pinion'd air
Waft thy breath to heaven, like prayer:
Cloud and sun alternate shed
Gloom or glory round thy head;
Morn impearl thy leaves with dews;
Evening lend them rosy hues,
Morn with snow-white splendour bless,
Night with glow-worm jewels dress;
Thus fulfil thy Summer-day,
Spring, and flourish, and decay;
Live a life of fragrance,—then
Disappear—to rise again,
When thy sisters of the vale
Welcome back the nightingale.
So may she whose name I write,
Be herself a flower of light,
Live a life of innocence,
Die to be transported hence,
To that Garden in the skies,
Where the Lily never dies.
THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.
O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen-tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor Summer-bud perfume the dew,
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue:
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen-tree!
Thrice twenty Summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carv'd many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whisper'd there,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar honour me.
Spare, woodman, spare the Beechen-tree!
"The Beech-tree, Fagus sylvatica, says Mr. White, is "the most lovely of all forest trees, whether we consider its smooth rind or bark, its glossy foliage, or its graceful pendulous boughs." Its autumnal hues are also exceedingly beautiful. It has been doubted, whether this tree be a native of Britain, as Cæsar in his Commentaries, B. v. 10. says, he did not meet with it; and it is a singular fact, that Shakspeare does not once mention it in his Dramatic Works. Virgil chose the Beech on account of its shade, for no tree forms so complete a roof; and for this reason no verdure will flourish beneath it. The nuts, called mast, are eaten by swine and several small animals. The timber is used for machinery and a variety of purposes, by turners, &c. Pliny tells us that beechen-cups were anciently esteemed, some of which received an additional value from the hand of the carver.-Nat. Hist. xvi. 37., and Virg. Ecl. iii. 36-46.
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