Sweet mother! you fear while no longer you guide | Thou art not mine-upon thy sweet lip lingers
Thy mother's smile
The Past will be lost in the Present's gay show; And while I press thy soft and baby fingers
But ah! whether joy or misfortune betide me,
In mine the while-
I love you too dearly your love to forego!
Mrs. Osgood's Poems.
And still, when the chill wing of woe darkens o'er me,
I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee; While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile be. fore me,
I sigh-"Could she know it, how glad she would be!"
Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd,
For me to forget you wherever I go;
Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd;
I love you too dearly to turn from you so!
Mrs. Osgood's Poems.
I am one who hold a treasure
And a gem of wondrous cost;
But I mar my heart's deep pleasure
With the fear it may be lost.
Oh! for some heavenly token,
By which I may be sure
The vase shall not be broken
In the deep eyes so trustfully upraising
Their light to mine-
I deem the spirit of thy mother gazing
To my soul's shrine.
They ask me with their meek and soft beseeching
A mother's care-
They ask a mother's kind and patient teachingA mother's prayer
Not mine-yet dear to me-1 Of a fair tree
Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable;
Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth
But instantly receives into his soul
A sense, a feeling that he loses not,
A something that informs him 'tis a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and forever?
Rogers's Italy
A herdsman on the lonely mountain top,
Oh then how beautiful, how bright appear'd
The written promise! Early had he learn'd
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life that cannot die;
But in the mountains he did feel his faith!
Wordsworth
Mountains have fallen,
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock
Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up
The ripe green vallies with destruction's splinters;
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made
Their fountains find another channel.
Byron's Manfred.
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty
By the touch of the mountain sod.
My mountain home, my mountain home!
Though vallies fairer lie,
My spirit pines amid their bloom-
It shuts me from the sky;
The mountains holier visions bring
Than e'er in vales arise,
As brightest sunshine bathes the wing
That's nearest to the skies.
MOURNING.
We must all die!
All leave ourselves, it matters not where, when,
Nor how, so we die well: and can that man that
does so
Need lamentation for him? children weep,
Because they have offended, or for fear;
Women, for want of will and anger: is there
In noble man, that truly feels both poises
Of life and death, so much of this set weakness,
To drown a glorious death in child and woman.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Valentinian
They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
Baron's Mirza.
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe,
There is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, To midnight dances and the public show!
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage worn.
By all the embosom'd woods--a silvery green,
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
Mrs. Hemans's Poems.
I stand upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that in the summer
sky,
With garniture of waving grass and grain,
Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie,
While deep the sunless glens are scoop'd between,
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
Bryant's Poems.
Here mountain on mountain exultingly throws
Through storm, mist, and snow, its bleak crags
to the sky;
In their shadow the sweets of the valley repose,
While streams, gay with verdure and sunshine
steal by.
William Peter.
These mountains, piercing to the sky
With their eternal concs of ice,-
Change not, but still remain as ever,
Unwasting, deatn.ess and sublime,
and will remain while lightnings quiver,
Or stars the hoary summits climb,
Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.
Many, my friend, have mourn'd for thee,
And yet shall many mourn,
Long as thy name on earth shall be
In sweet remembrance borne;
For while thine absence they deplore,
"Tis for themselves they weep,
That they behold thy face no more.
James Montgomery, Thou art lost to me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore,
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine.
Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,―thy heart is still and cold,
And I at one stride have become most comfortless
Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the
A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark
a night!
Thou are lost to me, forever, Isadore.
Albert Pike
Oh! thou who dry'st the mourners' tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone;
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.
A voice upon the prairies,
A cry of woman's woe
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, hold, hold!
Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives;
Moore's Poems. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low;
It is a mother's wailing:
Hath earth another tone
Like that with which a mother mourns
Her lost, her only one?
One cry'd, God bless us, and Amen, the other; As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen, When they did say, God bless us.
Shaks. Macbeth The bell invites me.
Mrs. Sigourney's Poems. Hear it not, Duncan: for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's sum- We'd jump the life to come.-But, in these cases,
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'è chalico
To our own lips.
Shaks. Macbeth
I will have blood, they say; blood will have blood: | Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it.
Stones have been known to move, and trees to
Augurs, and understood relations, have
By magot-pies, and coughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret'st man of blood.
Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake,
And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch.
Could not a worm, an adder do so much?
An adder did it; for with deadlier tongue
Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green one, red.
The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre,
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did subborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness, and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.
Shaks. Richard III.
The great king of kings
Hath in the table of his law commanded,
That thou shalt do no murder; wilt thou then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's.
Shaks, Midsummer Night's Dream.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals!
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!
You have no children, butchers! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
This is the man should do the bloody deed;
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast.
Shaks. King John,
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted and sign'd, to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind.
Shaks. King Joha
Shaks. Richard III. See, his face is black and full of blood;
His eye-balls further out, than when he liv'd;
Staring full-ghastly, like a strangled man;
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with strug.
gling:
Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull;
Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;
And I would have it suddenly perform'd,
What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief.
Shaks. Richard III.
Your eyes drop mill-stones, when fools' eyes drop
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd
Look on the sheets; his hair, you see is sticking;
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdu'd.
His well-proportion'd beard, made rough and rug-
ged,
Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd:
It cannot be, but he was murder'd here:
The least of all these signs are probable.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part IL
Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies:
The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.
Chapman's Widow's Tears
Blood hath strange organs to discourse withal;
It is a clam'rous orator, and then
Ev'n nature will exceed herself, to tell
A crime, so thwarting nature.
Gomersall's Lodovic Sforzs
Judgment itself would scarce a law enact
Against the murd'rer, thinking it a fact
That man 'gainst man would never dare commit;
Since the worst things of nature do not it.
Goffe's Orestes
Murder itself is past all expiation,
The greatest crime that nature doth abhor.
Other sins only speak, murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
Webster.
Is there a crime
Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of man, with more infernal hue, than damn'd
Assassination.
Cibber's Cæsar in Egypt.
Twice it call'd, so loudly call'd, With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature; And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry. A third time it return'd with feeble strength, 'But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words Were smother'd rudely in the grappl'd throat, And all was still again, save the wild blast Which at a distance growl'dOh! it will never from my mind depart! That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd. Joanna Baillie's De Montford. Villains,
I know you both, ye are slaves that for a ducat Would rend the screaming infant from the breast, To plunge it in the flames:
Yea, draw your keen knives 'cross a father's throat,
And carve with them the bloody meal ye earn'd.
Maturin's Bertram.
Aye, heaven and earth do cry, impossible,
The shuddering angels round the eternal throne,
Veiling themselves in glory, shriek, impossible,
But hell doth know it true.
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Effsoons they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that might delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
To rede what manner of music that might be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear,
Was there consorted in one harmony;
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree
Spenser's Fairy Queen
But soon the eyes rendered the ears their right;
For such strange harmony he seem'd to hear,
That all his senses flock'd into his ear,
And every faculty wish'd to be seated there.
Spenser's Britain's Ida.
Give me some music; music moody food
For us that trade in love.
Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
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