« AnteriorContinuar »
Move o'er sea-shells and bright sands,
Is heard the sound of dipping oars.
Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs,
Love's midnight hour draws lingering near: And list!--his tuneful viol strings
The young Venetian Gondolier.
Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,
On earth, and her embosomed lakes, And where the silent rivers sweep
From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.
Soft music breaths around, and dies
On the calm bosom of the sea; Whilst in her cell the novice sighs
Her vespers to her rosary.
At their dim altars bow fair forms,
In tender charity for those,
Have never found this calm repose.
The bell swings to its midnight chime,
Relieved against the deep blue sky! Haste!-dip the oar again!—'t is time
To seek Genevra’s balcony.
My hour has come, I lay me down
One sense remains. I feel a hand
I asked of God an easy death,
I deemed of tortures in death's hour, Of fevered brain and limb,
And of unearthly forms that lower,
I'm sinking as a bird on wing
A SONG OVER THE GRAVE OF A LOVER.
Aye, flowers may glow In new born beauty, and the rosy spring To deck the earth its sparkling wreaths may bring,
But where art thou ?
The early bloom
Upon thy tomb.
And I have sought The lowly violet, that in shade appears, Shrinking from view like young love's tender fears,
With sweetness fraught;
And rosebuds too, Crimson as young Aurora's blush, or white As woman's cheek when touched by sorrow's blight,
O'er thee I strew;
And flowers, that close
and pale Ope their sweet blossom ’neath the dewy veil,
That evening throws.
The fragrant leaves
Where true love grieves.
There will be none To deck thy grave with flowers, and chant for thee These snatches of remembered melody,
When I am gone.
But thou shalt have
Upon thy grave.
REFORMED TOM BELL.
I never knew a man profaner
Than him they call reformed Tom Bell;
His father-mother died of sorrow
And many a maiden, fondly trusting,
And as for orisons and preaching
And thus Tom Bell went on despising