I never was on the dull tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea! Barry Cornwall. XXIV. TO THE DAISY. ITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Common-place Oft on the dappled turf at ease Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising : And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, A nun demure of lowly port, Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A little Cyclops with one eye That thought comes next—and instantly The shape will vanish—and behold I see thee glittering from afar- In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;— May peace come never to his nest, Bright Flower! for by that name at last, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, Of thy meek nature ! W. Wordsworth. XXV. THE DEATH-BED. E watch'd her breathing through the night, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, For when the morn came dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed,-she had Another morn than ours. T. Hood. XXVI. THE BREEZE FROM SHORE. OY is upon the lonely seas, When Indian forests pour Forth to the billow and the breeze Their odours from the shore; Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh O welcome are the winds that tell Where, far away, the jasmines dwell The sailor at the helm they meet, They woo him, whispering lovely tales Of many a flowering glade, And fount's bright gleam, in island-vales Of golden-fruited shade. Across his lone ship's wake they bring A vision and a glow of Spring. And O, ye masters of the lay, Come not even thus your songs, Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part; Their tones are of the world, which time They tell us of the living light They call us with a voice divine Back to our early love, Our vows of youth at many a shrine, Whence far and fast we rove. Welcome high thought and holy strain, That make us Truth's and Heaven's again. XXVII. A PSALM OF LIFE. ELL me not, in mournful numbers, For the soul is dead that slumbers, Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; 'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! |