THE STUDENT. Ar midnight, in his lonely room, Like lights that gleam around the dead, The shadowy streams of light that spread Round wandering souls unblessed. He leaned his burning brow upon Hours when he held communion high The forms of all that once were dear But every lip was mute and pale, And every eye was dim, And they passed on to death's lone vale, Where wailed the funeral hymn. He wandered back to earlier years, And dreamed he saw those welcome tears, THE STUDENT. But, as he gazed, the scene became And voices shrieked aloud his name, The light, that long had beamed among Grew dim-the spirit, high and strong, He felt that life's last hope had fled, Like moonlight, o'er a marble tomb, 275 AUTUMN FLOWERS. THOSE few pale Autumn flowers! Than all that went before, Than all the summer store, And why?They are the last- O, by that little word, How many thoughts are stirred! 276 AUTUMN FLOWERS. Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers! Last hours with parting dear ones Last looks of dying friends! Who but would fain compress The last day spent with one, O, precious, precious moments! Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers! I leave the summer rose- Tell me of change and death! STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delightThe winds, the birds, the ocean floods: The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweed strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walked with inward glory crowned- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. LYRE. A a 278 STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are: My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Some might lament that I were cold, Whom men love not :-and yet regret, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. BY JOHN MALCOLM. As sweeps the bark before the breeze, |