Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; 37.-SOMEBODY'S DARLING. MRS. LACOSTE. INTO a ward of the whitewash'd halls, Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Was it a mother's soft and white ? Been baptized in the waves of light? God knows best; he has somebody's love; Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he march'd away, Somebody's waiting and watching for him- 38. THE CHILD AND HIND. [Thomas Campbell, the author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was born at Glasgow in 1777; his father was a Scotch merchant, and was enabled to give him an excellent education in the University of his native city. On leaving college, Campbell went to reside at Edinburgh, in the capacity of a private tutor; he was but twenty-two when he wrote the celebrated poem with which his name is always associated. After making a tour on the continent, he set down in London to hard literary work-writing, reviewing, and frequently compiling books for the publishers. As a powerful and genuine lyric writer, his poems will always be cherished with pleasure by the scholar, while his songs will find an echo in the hearts of the people. Mr. Campbell was the first editor of the "New Monthly Magazine," and was relieved from the pecuniary struggle which generally accompanies the rising literary genius, by a pension of 2001. a year early in his career. How much more graceful than to offer the pension, as was done in Hood's and other cases, just as the recipient is about to drop into the grave! Campbell died June 15, 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.] COME, maids and matrons, to caress And, smiling, deck its glossy neck "Twas after church-on Ascension day- The deer-park's pleasant ground. Here came a twelve years married pair- Their Wilhelm, little innocent, By turns he gave his hand, so dear, And each, that he was safe and near, But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright, Unnoticed he contrived to glide And there, where under beech and birch, He strayed, till neither shout nor search, Still louder, with increasing dread, But 'twas like speaking to the dead— Hours passed, till evening's beetle roams, The night came on-all others slept But sleepless, all night watched and wept Betimes the town-crier had been sent And told th' afflicting accident The news reached Nassau's duke-ere earth Was gladdened by the lark, He sent a hundred soldiers forth To ransack all his park. But though they roused up beast and bird From many a nest and den, No signal of success was heard From all the hundred men. A second morning's light expands, And Wilhelm's household wring their hands, But, haply, a poor artisan His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers; There stood a female deer, Who dipped her horns at all that passed To this poor wanderer of the world, 39.--THE CLOUD. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. [See page 127.] I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest, on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii they move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer: And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. |