Ay, call him by his name! To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave! ANSWER. Campbell. WINTER.- Burns. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine. Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil; Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want, (O, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 149 LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY.-Watts. Ir was a brave attempt! adventurous he I see the surging brine; the tempest raves; Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land, (Her faith can govern death ;) she spreads her wings The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies; She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight, ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. - Mrs. Hemans. AND was thy home, pale, withered thing, Wert thou a nursling of the spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy? Those suns, in golden light, e'en now Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. The flowers o'er Posilippo's* brow May cluster in their purple bloom, But on the o'ershadowing ilex-bough Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. Thy place is void,- O, none on earth, Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain! Another leaf ere now hath sprung On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ? THE MAY QUEEN.- Tennyson. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the blithe New Year; *A mountain skirting the shores of the Bay of Naples, on one of the most beautiful heights of which stands the tomb of Virgil. THE MAY QUEEN. 151 Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice, in all the land, they say, So. I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If ye do not call me loud when the day begins to break; For I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and gar lands gay; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye I should see But Robin, leaning on the bridge, beneath the hazletree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash o' light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to De Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, - but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother, but what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad 'll woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, For the shepherd lads on every side 'll come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint, sweet cuckoo-flowers, And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; |