Since only those inspire my glow, Epitaph. BY GUY PENSEVAL, HERE in a little cave, The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale, Their heads into my little vault and mourn— I am not all forgot, A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow, Still questioning the air, "Why doth she sleep, Even the very winds Come to my cave and sigh: they often bring To strew O'er my earth; and leaves of violet blue, A Sketch. Fresh is my mossy bed: The frequent pity of the rock falls here, Sometime, a wild and melancholy bird Read this small tablet o'er, That holds mine epitaph upon its cheek of pearl; Like a pale flower nipp'd in its sweet spring tide A Sketch. "And what's her history? A blank, my lord." -Twelfth Night. 23 ES-I remember well how beautiful I used to think her, as she lay in slumber, In the cool evening hour, upon her couch, Before the open lattice, which the vines Half veil'd with drooping wreaths.-How like an angel And slight-arch'd brow, and cheek of ivory, And yet at times what heavy sighs she breathed In that so beautiful sleep, and from her eyelids Have wander❜d tears, like morning dew on roses. They said her heart was broken-but, a child, I knew not then the meaning of that speechYet never word, nor murmur of regret Linger'd upon that gentle lip. The spirit Was wean'd from this world, and it look'd on high In humble faith. The grave no terrors had For one to whom existence had no charms. Music alone still held its witching o'er her; In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave All on his angel watch as lone he linger'd. I do remember it well-though long, long past; The Illuminated City. She died-and died unknown to all around: The Illuminated City. BY MRS HEMANS HE hills all glow'd with a festive light, ΤΗ For the royal city rejoiced by night: There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree— Banners were lifted and streaming free; Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire- And the outline of many a dome on high Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; 25 The forests heard it, the mountains rang, Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? Gallant and true were the hearts that fell- And bowing the beauty of woman's head: moan, For the many brave to their slumber gone? I saw not the face of a weeper there Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare! I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd The music of victory was all too loud! Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; Through torches and streams its floods swept byHow could I listen for moan or sigh? Turn then away from life's pageants! turn, But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view So must thy spirit be taught to feel! |