Sivut kuvina

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

The sky is changed !-and such a change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night :-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:

Itself expired, but leaving them an age

years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand :
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And Aing their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around : of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
His lightnings,-as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye!
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless, --if I rest.
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ?

like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?


Nay then, farewell ! I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ; And, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting : I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely


him :

His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ;
I feel my heart new opened : 0, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,

and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again. -

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And,

when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard-say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey,--that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me: Cromwell, I charge thee, Aling'away ambition; By that sin fell the angels : how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and Truth's ; then if thou fallest, O Crong

Thou fallest a blessed martyr. Serve the king :
And,-Pry'thee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's : my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own.

o Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

THROUGH shades and solitudes profound

The fainting traveller winds his way:
Bewildering meteors glare around

And tempt his wandering feet astray. Welcome, thrice welcome, to his eye,

The sudden moon's inspiring light, When forth she sallies through the sky,

· The guardian angel of the night. Thus mortals, blind and weak, below

Pursue the phantom Bliss, in vain : The world's a wilderness of woe,

And life a pilgrimage of pain, Till mild RELIGION, from above,

Descends, a sweet engaging formThe messenger of heavenly love,

The bow of promise in a storm. Then guilty passions wing their flight,

Sorrow, remorse, affliction cease; Religion's yoke is soft and light,

And all her paths are paths of peace.


Ambition, pride, revenge depart,

And folly flies her chastening rod; She makes the humble contrite heart

A temple of the living God. Beyond the narrow vale of time,

Where bright celestial ages roll, To scenes eternal, scenes sublime,

She points the way, and leads the soul.
At her approach the Grave appears

The Gate of Paradise restored ;
Her voice the watching Cherub hears,

And drops his double-flaming sword.
Baptized with her renewing fire,

May we the crown of glory gain ; Rise when the Host of Heaven' expire,

And reign with God, for ever reign!


If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you,—but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you.
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by ZAMPIERI—but by whom I care aot.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,

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