Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]
[graphic]

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO.

H, my golden days of child-, How we thronged the frozen streamlets Many, many years ago!

hood,

Many, many years ago! Ah! how well do I remem

ber

What a pride it was to

know,

my

When little playmates mustered

On this old familiar spot To select their infant pastimes,

That my name was ne'er forgot;
When with merry, rosy faces

They so eagerly would come,
Boasting of the longest top-string
Or a top of loudest hum,
Or, as proud and prancing horses,
Chase each other to and fro,
In my golden days of childhood,
Many, many years ago!

Oh, my balmy days of boyhood,

Many, many years ago,
When I ranged at will the wildwood

For the berry or the sloe,
Or the gentle, blue-eyed violet,

Traced by its own perfume sweet,
Or with light and cautious footstep
Sought the linnet's snug retreat,
Or with little blooming maidens

To the nutting groves repaired, And in warmth of purest boy-love The rich clusters with them shared! Or when hoary-headed Winter

Brought his welcome frost and snow,

Then my days of dawning manhood,

Many, many years ago,

When the future seemed all brightness,

Lit with Love's enchanting glow, When what hopes and blissful day-dreams

Would my buoyant bosom crowd
As I forth led my beloved one,

She as fair as I was proud-
Led her forth with lightsome footstep
Where some happy rustic throng
To old Robin's merry music

Would so gladly dance along!
Or when round came joyous Christmas.
Oft beneath the mistletoe
Have I toyed with blushing maidens,
Many, many years ago.

Ah, ye golden days! Departed,

Yet full oft on Memory's wing Ye return like some bright vision,

And both joy and sorrow bring. Where are now my boy-companions,

Those dear friends of love and truth? Death hath sealed the lips of many

Fair and beautiful in youth. Robin's lute has long been silent,

And the trees are old and bare; Silent too the rippling brooklets;

The old playground is not there; Time hath stolen my fair one's beauty, And he will soon strike the blow That will break those ties that bound us Many, many years ago.

T. LOKER,

FLY AS A HART TO THE MOUNTAİN. | A foe that is fair and open

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep,

When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep,

That all the forest rings, and every neighboring place,

And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase,

Rechating with his horns, which then the hunter cheers,

Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palmed head upbears,

His body showing state, with unbent knees upright,

Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.

But when, the approaching foes still following, he perceives

That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves,

And o'er the champain flies; which when | Some bank or quickset finds; to which his th' assembly find, haunch opposed,

Each follows as his horse were footed with He turns upon his foes, that soon have him the wind.

inclosed.

they lay,

But, being then imbost, the noble stately The churlish-throated hounds then holding deer him at bay, When he hath gotten ground (the kennel And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin cast arrear) Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth refreshing soil; deadly wounds. That serving not, then proves if he his scent The hunter coming in to help his wearied can foil, hounds,

And makes amongst the herds and flocks of He desperately assails, until, opprest by shag-wooled sheep, force,

Them frighting from the guard of those who He who the mourner is to his own dying had their keep,

corse

But whenas all his shifts his safety still Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears denies,

Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fal

lows tries;

Whom when the ploughman meets, his team

he letteth stand

T'assail him with his goad; so, with his hook in hand,

The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog

doth hallo,

lets fall.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

OPPORTUNITY.*

FROM THE ITALIAN OF NICCOLO MACCHIAVELLI.

WHO

HO art thou, glorious form, flashing by me,

So beautiful, so godlike? Wilt thou fly me? When with tempestuous speed the hounds Why o'er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses and huntsmen follow,

streaming?

gleaming?

Until the noble deer, through toil bereaved And why the airy pinions on thy white feet of strength, His long and sinewy legs then failing him at My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I length,

way

never:

The villages attempts, enraged, not giving Mortals rarely know me till I'm gone for ever.
To seize me passing on to few is granted;
To anything he meets now at his sad Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted,
decay.
Therefore the light wings bound on them, to

The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunt

ers near,

This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,

make me

So quick in flight that none shall overtake me.

*"Thoughts come again, convictions perpetuate themselves, opportunities pass by irrecoverably."-GOETHE.

Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veil- | And your heart can recall-and mine often ing,

That none may know me till to know be un

availing ;

Then mockingly I fling aside the veil and please me

With their vain hope, and vainer haste, to seize me.

And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping,

Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping?

Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them,

She stoppeth, weeping, vainly weeping, nigh them.

goes back

With a sigh and a tear to the hours— When we gazed on her form as she followed the track

Of the butterfly's wing through the flowers;

When in her young joy she would smile with delight

On its plumage of mingling dyes,

Till she let it go free, and looked after its flight

To see if it entered the skies?

But she wandered away from the home of her youth

One spring ere the roses were blown,

But thou, poor mortal, precious moments For she fancied the world was a temple of

[blocks in formation]

truth,

And she measured all hearts by her own; She fed on a vision and lived on a dream, And she followed it over the wave, And she sought where the moon has a milder gleam

For a home, and they gave her a grave.

There was one whom she loved, though she breathed it to none,

For love of her soul was a part,

And he said he loved her, but he left her alone.

With the worm of despair in her heart; And oh, with what anguish we counted, each day,

The roses that died on her cheek,
And hung o'er her form as it faded away,
And wept for the beautiful wreck!

Yet her eye was as mild and as blue to the last,

Though shadows stole over its beam,

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »