LXXVII. PROSPICE. EAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote The power of the night, the press of the storm The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, For the journey is done and the summit attained, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest! R. Browning. LXXVIII. SONG. (FROM COMUS.') WEET echo, sweetest, Nymph! that liv'st unseen By slow Mæander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the lovelorn* nightingale : Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well : Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? Oh, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies. J. Milton. LXXIX. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. OW Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams But nocht can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. * Lorn, lost. 144 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots. Now lavrocks * wake the merry morn, The merle +, in his noontide bower, Now blooms the lily by the bank, The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, But as for thee, thou false woman! Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall go. The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe * Larks. + Blackbird. + Thrush. § Hillock. My son my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, God keep thee frae thy mother's foes, And where thou meetst thy mother's friend, Oh soon to me may summer suns And in the narrow house o' death And the next flowers that deck the spring R. Burns. LXXX. A POET'S EPITAPH. TOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, The Poet of the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, And honoured in a peasant's form *Wad, would. L But if he loved the rich who make Ill could he praise the rich who take A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man E. Elliott. LXXXI. FAITH. Unto the godly there ariseth up light in the darkness.' EAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, The night is dark, and I am far from home- Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou I loved to choose and see my path; but now, I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till And with the morn those Angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 7. H. Newman. |