Of gentle, merry, laughing girls,-
Of moon-lit, glittering seas;
Of gardens dense with musky blooms,
The beds of drowsy bees.
They chant me lays of gallant deeds, -
Of brave hearts lying low,
To wake, when comes their Spring-time,
From the Winter's sheltering snow.
They carol, too, of feuds that end,
Of foes who may be friends;
Of the oak-tree shattered by the storm,
Of the willow-shoot that bends.
They cheer my heart, those happy birds,
As the smoke-wreaths come and go;
Ah! that the thoughts they sing to me,
My feeble Muse might show!
THE wintry dawn gleams from the opal East,
O'er swelling hills, enwrapt with wreathing snow-
A fairy mantle beauteous on Earth's breast-
The mist still lingers, like a virgin's veil,
Coyly withdrawing, as the round, red sun
Peers like an amorous bridegroom, half ashamed
To cast hot glances on so pure a bride.
The stalwart trees, their dusk limbs decked with
Brighter than diamonds, glitter 'gainst the skies;
While each frail herb that nestles at their feet,
Is clad with lace that frost-elves quaintly weave
With one night's labour. All the air is hushed;
Even the chiming of the matin bell
Breathes fainter melody, and chanticleer
Forgets to challenge, ere his favourites roam,
The fancied rival of his harem home.
Where, from the ghostly woods, a snow-strewn path,
Full-flecked with foot-prints of night-wandering hares,
Leads to the open-through the rimy boughs--
Strides with firm step, a sun-burnt, bearded man.
Then, gazing o'er the misty meads below,
He stops, and stretching forth his brawny arm
Toward a castle, grey with countless years,
Bosomed in woods, and girt with teeming farms,
He shouts, half-maddened, through the frosty air-
"From right to left, as far as eye can see,
What boundless wealth is there!" and then he sighs,
And slowly murmurs, "Fifteen years ago!
Ah! what events have run their course the while,
What years of utter agony to me,
On that stern island gaolered by the sea!"
Then, passing onward through red-berried lanes, He hastes where curling smoke from village firesIncense of homely hearths-to Heaven aspires.
In that poor hamlet, many years ago,
An old man lying at the point of death,
Called his two sons before him-sturdy youths
Just 'scaping from their teens :-addressing them,
With voice that faltered from his ebbing life,-
"You, Everard, my first-born, you, my Charles,
Take each a hand and hold it to your heart,
And tell me you forgive me from those hearts,
For that I leave you poor and penniless;
Ah! poverty is near akin to crime.
I gave you more the sin-a noble name;
For that our blood be blue, it reckons nought,
When close allied to pinching penury.
Ask our proud kinsman, in his lordly halls,
To aid and entertain the tradesman's sons,
And he will treat you as he treated me ;
Because I passed his paltry pittance back,
And begged for place and favour for my boys,
He told me he had nephews of his own,
And bade me not presume on cousinship
So distant that he knew not whence it came.
Then I embarked in trade, and sank my pride;
Yet, though degraded, held my honour high,
To lose, by honest dealing, half I owned.
Now listen, Everard: sometimes dying men
Have clearer vision than when pulse runs strong:
Let Charles, though younger, guard our village tradeHe has more thought, more aptitude than you.
I speak not to offend you, Everard,
But he is more his mother; you, like me,
Have hotter blood-are much too sensitive---
Would throw a whole year's earnings in the lap
Of some poor wanderer asking you for aid.
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