תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

30. "Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er
The still and pulseless world.

31. Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fireside

Dance upon the parlour wall.

G. D. PRENTICE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

32. Night's starry host gather'd in brightness high,
And not a cloud darken'd the shining sky;
The moon rode by, and all her glittering band
Bath'd in a flood of light the smiling land.

MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.

33. The sun now rests upon the mountain tops.

34. The hour of melancholy, mirth, and love.

CARLOS WILCOX.

MRS. BROOKS.

35. The busy world was still, the solemn moon
Smil'd forth her silvery beauty; and the stars,
Like living diamonds in a sea of glass,
Danc'd in the sapphire canopy of heaven.

P. B. ELDER.

36. The king of day had dipp'd his weary head
Within old father Ocean's billowy bed,
And "twilight grey" had spread its dusky veil
O'er all terrestrial objects, hill and dale.

J. T. WATSON.

1.

DEATH-GRAVE.

Death is a fearful thing:

The wearied and most loathed earthly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a Paradise

To what we fear of death!

SHAKSPEARE.

176

DEATH-GRAVE.

2. Is it not better to die willingly,

Than linger till the glass be all outrun ?

3. Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole, to keep the wind away :
O! that the earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, to expel the Winter's flaw!

4. Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

5. Can storied urn, or animated bust

6.

SPENSER.

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Death, grim death

Will fold me in his leaden arms, and press
Me close to his cold, clayey breast.

7. The sceptred king, the burthen'd slave,
The humble and the haughty, die;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,
In dust, without distinction, lie.

GRAY'S Elegy.

CONGREVE.

8.

Death is the crown of life:

Were death denied, poor man would live in vain.
Death wounds to cure; we fall, we rise, we reign;
Spring from our fetters, fasten to the skies,
Where blooming Eden withers from our sight.
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

9. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave, The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm! YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

10. A death-bed's a detector of the heart:
Here tired dissimulation drops her mask,

Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene;
Here real and apparent are the same.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

11. O death, all eloquent! you only prove

What dust we dote on, when 't is man we love.

POPE'S Eloisa.

12. Death, when unmask'd, shows us a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance.

13. The prince, who kept the world in awe,
The judge, whose dictate fix'd the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell'd: death confounds them all.

GOLDSMITH.

GAY's Fables.

14. There shall the yew her sable branches spread,
And mournful cypress rear her fringed head;
From thence shall thyme and myrtle send perfume,
And laurel evergreen o'ershade the tomb.

15.

Leaves have their times to fall,

GAY's Dione.

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set - but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!

MRS. HEMANS.

16. Let him who crawls, enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away,
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ;-
Ours the fresh turf, and not the fev'rish bed;
While, gasp by gasp, he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes control.

BYRON'S Corsair.

17. How peaceful and how powerful is the grave!

BYRON.

178

DEATH-GRAVE.

18. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest, when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown!

19. And dull the film along his dim eye grew.

BYRON.

BYRON'S Lara.

20. Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall;
The dome of thought-the palace of the soul.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

21. Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

22. At times, both wish'd for and implor'd, At times sought with self-pointed sword, And welcome in no shape.

BYRON'S Mazeppa.

23. What shall he be ere night?-Perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps his funeral wing!

24. Oh God! it is a fearful thing

To see the human soul take wing!

BYRON'S Corsair.

BYRON'S Prisoner of Chillon.

25. How sweetly could I lay my head
Within the cold grave's silent breast,
Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest!

26. O, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate,
In the wide world, without that only tie,
For which it wish'd to live, or fear'd to die!

MOORE.

MOORE'S Lalla Rookh.

27. Like one who draws the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. BRYANT.

28. Yet why should death be link'd with fear? A single breath-a low-drawn sighCan break the ties that bind us here,

And waft the spirit to the sky.

MRS. A. B. WELBY.

29. There lay the warrior and the son of song,
And there-in silence till the judgment-day-
The orator, whose all-persuading tongue

Had mov'd the nations with resistless sway.

MRS. NORTON's Dream.

30. Ah! it is sad when one thus link'd departs!

When Death, that mighty sev'rer of true hearts,
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth,
And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth!

MRS. NORTON's Dream.

31. Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung, When peals the requiem of the lov'd and young!

W. G. CLARK.

32. Oh, there is a sweetness in beauty's close, Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose !

33. His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurra,

And the red field was won;

They saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

FITZ-GREEN HALLECK.

34. All at rest now-all dust!-wave flows on wave,
But the sea dries not! What to us the grave?
It brings no real homily; we sigh,

Pause for a while, and murmur, "All must die!"
Then rush to pleasure, action, sin, once more,
Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore!

The New Timon.

« הקודםהמשך »