Dewy with tear drops the bright day is fading The sound of the waterfall under the weir. White mists are rising o'er nature reposing ; Other dear eyes far away sleep is closing; High in the zenith night's planet is beaming, So in our heart's life, dear loved one! deep sinking And in sleep's ebon river from dream waves is drinking, I wake before the day and watch Lost in the deep dim forest where I ponder, past the hour of noon, I linger by the stilly lake Till pale the moonbeam lies; Are Nena's dark brown eyes. The curtain's folds are closed at last, AVORIA. A little ivory face, of hue between With which stern winter clothes volcanic hills. Do summer suns ne'er melt those mountain snows? Or do the fires weaker burn beneath Because of their cold niveous shrouds of white? With the sun full upon them are they quite EAUTONTIMORE. Ah those mournful, mournful waves! Plashing on the lonely shore, Feed a tide that coldly laves My lorn bosom evermore; Plashing on a lonely shore, Love a lover's wrongs doth wreak, Those mournful waves Cruel when we should be kind!— As I sorrowing sit and gloar, By the foam-vexed shingled shore, Sounds a wail of "Nevermore," Bring a palette-box and pencil for a sketch in water Take some greyish blue to put in for those gates of ancient make, Such as Matsys might have wrought at, ere with canvas maul and muller. He unvulcanized his smithy for a beauteous maiden's sake. Indian red and Roman ochre, with a tinge of pale ver milion, For the moulded piers of red brick reared when reigned our great Queen Bess; And a crimson-lake stain here is, like a dash of old roussillon, Just one bright part kept unfaded in Times's weatherbeaten dress. Through the writhed fantastic grille-work, faintly show each Doric column, And the dentil cornice over, running down the left hand side Of our picture, looking partly like a classic temple solemn, With a modern clock tower over and a vane in gilded pride. All along those Doric bases runs a pathway much neg lected, Leading on through yew tree archways to a pinery at last; And a dial sun directed, that will tell you if inspected, It has never marked an hour that serenely has not passed.* Indian yellow, blue, and carmine; for the white streaked tulips growing On the dexter side, where daffodils look like gamboge old maids; And the margins all unshorn are, in the want of care bestowing, And the gillie-flowers are rain-drenched, and their golden umber fades. On the walls that meet the gate piers, changing leaves the ivy freckle, And a white thorn throws its shadow on the pathway where we stand; And, two glorious oaks embracing, spangling sunbeams sparkling speckle, Where the foliage fails in shutting out the light on either hand. Now a splash of smalt or cobalt for the sky that backs the griffin, Looking much exasperated and remarkably unwell; Mourning for his brother, missing! but as I must go to tiffin, With dark green and brown we'll fill up ere they ring that tocsin bell. So the aquarelle is finished, and cui bono? was the time, in Reproducing such a picture, worth the subject some may ask, Yes, this scribbling, and this rhyming, and the grateful thoughts that chime in Are all votive to a loving face well worth a harder task. |