« AnteriorContinuar »
Youth and Age.
VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a beeBoth were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young! When I was young? Ah, woful When! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along :Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in 't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Ere I was old !
Ere I was Old ? Ah woeful Ere,
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
When we are old :
When in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes,
For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings,
“ O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
THERE 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; ”T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; It cannot feel for other's woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So 'midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
Lucy Gray; or Solitude.
OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
“ To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.”