« הקודםהמשך »
THE VOICE OF PRAISE.
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.
THERE is a voice of magic power,
To charm the old, delight the youngIn lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In every clime, in every tongue, Howe'er its sweet vibration rung, In whispers low, in poet's lays,
There lives not one who has not hung Enraptur'd on the voice of praise.
The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts for a moment's space the eye; It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepared to fly :
'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh, And flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty Shrink back with hesitating grace.
The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek
At that sweet voice still deeper glows; Her quivering lips in vain would seek
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows Oft springs from some low broken word :
O praise ! to her how sweetly flows Thine accent from the loved one heard!
The hero, when a people's voice
Proclaims their darling victor near, Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear ?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dearIt pierces to their inmost core;
He weeps, who never shed a tear; He trembles, who ne'er shook before.
The poet toomah! well I deem,
Small is the need the tale to tell ;' Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight, dwell ? Who knows not that thy magic spell Can charm his every care away ?
In memory cheer his gloomy cell; In hope can lend a deathless day.
'Tis sweet to watch Affection's eye;
To mark the tear with love replete; To feel the softly-breathing sigh, When Friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet The praise of those we love to hear !
Like balmy showers in summer heat, It falls upon the greedy ear.
The lover lulls his rankling wound,
By dwelling on his fair one's name;
Of her young warrior's growing fame.
Thy voice can sooth the mourning dame,
That voice can quiet passion's mood;
Can humble merit raise on high;
It breathes of immortality !
There is a lip, there is an eye,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh-
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
Who fell at Corunna in 1808.
- HAILY. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried bim darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few-and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We cary'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
THE SOLITARY TOMB.
Nor a leaf of the tree which stood near me was
stirr'd, Tho' a breath might have mov'd it so lightly;
Nor a farewell note from a sweet-singing bird,
Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.
The sky was cloudless and calm, except
In the west, where the sun was descending;
As his beams with their beauty were blending.
And the evening star with its ray so clear,
So tremulous, soft, and tender,
And I stood all alone on that gentle hill,
With a landscape so lovely before me;
Seem'd silently gath'ring o'er me.
Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood
By its windy banks was sweeping;
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.
How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd!
An enclosure which care could not enter;
When, at morn or at eve, I have wander'd near,
And in various lights have view'd it;
Hath the magic of fancy endued it!
It hath sometimes seem'd like a lonely sail,
A white speck on the emerald billow;