ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEALE.
O PRECIOUS evenings! all too swiftly sped! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead!
How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages
Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, Anticipating all that shall be said!
O happy Reader! having for thy text
The Magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught
The rarest essence of all human thought!
O happy Poet! by no critic vext!
How must thy listening spirit now rejoice To be interpreted by such a voice!
GOD sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd.
gray, old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold.
And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be ; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart.
But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.
"These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."
TAKE them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves!
Take them, O great Eternity! Our little life is but a gust, That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust.
FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.
CHRIST to the young man said: If thou wouldst perfect be,
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow me!"
Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said, And his invisible hands to-day have been Laid on a young man's head.
And evermore beside him on his way The unseen Christ shall move, That he may lean upon his arm and "Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ?"
Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane Of pain and midnight prayer.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey or!
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE.
FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright:
Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
Ar the foot of the mountain height Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white, This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, Seemed from the clouds descending; When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels that kind Heaven had sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep, Of the hill-side steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry sallies Singing their chant:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day !”
It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is! To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens
Gaily frolicking,
A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking! Kissing, Caressing,
With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;
While the bride, with roguish eyes,
Sporting with them, now escapes
Those who catch me Married verily
And all pursue with eager haste, And all attain what they pursue, And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, And the linen kirtle round her waist.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among These youthful maidens fresh and fair, So joyous, with such laughing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? And yet the bride is fair and young! Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? Oh, no! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers! they give not a single caress! To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?
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