« הקודםהמשך »
While in the beechen shade I rest
Upon a bank of daisies. It is the sabbath of the day,
Which every forest leaf is keeping ; The hum of life hath died away;
The passions all are sleeping.
It seems as conscious Nature yields
At her Creator's shrine devotion; There comes no music from the fields,
No murmur from the ocean.
A silent joy, a holy pride,
Steal on my swelling heart, and o'er me; The visions of my boyhood glide
In long review before me.
One lovely eve, at such an hour,
The woods were green, the sun was shining ; And I, within this beechen bower,
Upon the bank reclining;
When she for whom my bosom glows,
Came in the pride of vernal brightness, With brow of snow, and lip of rose,
And form of fairy lightness.
I clasp'd my seraph to my breast,
With ecstasy my heart was beating, And hers, within its joyous nest,
Was throb for throb repeating.
We roam'd about this woodland scene,
And down the hill, and thro’ the meadow, Till lowering, sombre and serene,
The evening threw her shadow.
The dews were softly falling round,
And in the south a star was twinkling ; And from afar, with fitful sound,
The curfew bell was tinkling.
Of meek and maiden perturbation
Which crimsons the carnation. I caught her gaze—it thrill'd my heart
In silence eloquently pleading ; From her my thoughts could not depart,
And of nought else were heeding. We parted with a fond embrace
I stood and gaz'd in melancholy,
To Mecca's temple holy.
The Peri of my hope had banish'a,
And like a spirit vanish'd ! Three summers since have pass'd; and all
My hopes divine, and dreams Elysian, Like sunbeams when night's shadows fall,
Have fled, and mock'd my vision. But fair is Nature-oh! how fair
Are all her beauties spread before me; The tearful star, with dewy hair,
Beams tremulously o'er me: The shades are darkening o'er the dell;
The night-fog hangs above the river ;O scenes belov’d, farewell-farewell !
For ever and for ever.
ANONYMOUS. . .,
voice Spoke to me, or at evening o'er her lute Breath'd some old melody, or clos'd the day With her due hymn to the Virgin, I have turn'd Ev'n from the glory of her eye, to weep With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears On earth I weep no more-She's in the grave.
ELTON. Sweet is the trance of slumber; sweet th' escape From life's realities to Fancy's world Of vision'd happiness: the throbs of hope, The smiles of rapture; voices breathing love, Delightful shapes, and scenes of fairy-land; To memory's pleasures and the fleeting joys That seem'd for ever flown; but nightly wing Their backward fight, and hover o'er my brow. Such recognitions, vivid and soul-felt, The work of wonder-shaping intellect, Wake when the body sleeps. No day-dream wild On river-brink, beneath the beech-tree's gloom, Can with such clear distinctness to the soul Picture the groupes of faded bliss; or call Such light, aërial fantasies of joy To float around the brain. Thou lovely Moon, Companion of my bed! I would invoke Thy influence : now from Ocean's trembling verge Lift thy full orb, that, reddening thro’ the woods, Gleams like a sanguine shield; till slow it climbs, And lessens as it climbs; and hovering high In the blue calm of ether, sheds abroad Its white éffulgence. Thro' my heart I feel Thy influence glide; thy beams of snowy light Steal on my eyes, and swimming slumber veils The consciousness of vision: Then awake The eye and ear of Fancy : 'then the soul Slides round the visionary sphere, more swift And wildly sportive than the swallow's wing That hovering skims the surface of the stream. Oh, happy! whom Imagination seeks Where'er he rests his head; on feathery down,
Or the hard pallet; on the reeling deck