On that deep-retiring shore In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Through the golden mist of years; Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong; Though for frailer hearts the day And the past its Long-ago. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. Sunken Treasures. HEN the uneasy waves of life subside, WHE And the smoothed ocean sleeps in glassy rest, I see, submerged beyond or storm or tide, The treasures gathered in its greedy breast, SUNKEN TREASURES. There still they shine through the translucent Past, No fierce upheaval of the deep shall cast Them back-no wave shall wash them to the shore. I see them gleaming, beautiful as when Erewhile they floated, convoys of my fate; The barks of lovely women, noble men, 211 Full-sailed with hope, and stored with Love's own freight. The sunken ventures of my heart as well There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply won, There wait the recognitions, the quick ties, There lie the summer eves, delicious eves, The soft green valleys drenched with light divine, There lives the hour of fear and rapture yet, There are they all; they do not fade or waste, I see them all, but stretch my hands in vain ; BAYARD TAYLOR. Oft, in the Stilly Night. FT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. THOMAS Moore. HOW MANY NOW ARE DEAD TO ME. 213 How Many now are Dead to Me. HOW many now are dead to me, That live to others yet! How many are alive to me, Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look which we, Beyond the blue seas far away, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, Dead to the world, alive to me, Though months and years have passed, As when I saw him last. And one with a bright lip, and cheek, How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! Then for the living be the tomb, Of pulseless life, and senseless bloom :- Around the funeral pile. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. Break, Break, Break." BREAK, break, break On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. ALFRED TENNYSON. Too Late. "Ah! si la jeunesse savait-si la vieillesse pouvait !" HERE sat an old man on a rock, ΤΗ And unceasing bewailed him of Fate- Though our vote has no hearing or weight; That it could drown the old man's long, For he sang the song "too late! too late!" |