« PreviousContinue »
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.
The Power of Music.-PIERPONT.
How lovely is the Power that all obey !
Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock ;
Her voice is echoed by the desert rock;
For her the asp .withholds the sting of death,
And bares his fangs but to inhale her breath;
The royal lion leaves his desert lair,
And, crouching, listens when she treads the air ;
And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill,
Is tamed and led by this enchantress still.
Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal
Along his heart, thąt heart will never feel.
'Tis hers to chain the passions, soothe the soul,
To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl
From Murder's hand; to smoothe the couch of Care,
Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there;
Of pain's hot brow, to still the bounding throb,
Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob.
How vast her empire! Turn through earth, through air, Your aching eye, you find her subject there;
20 Nor is the throne of Heaven above her spell, Nor yet beneath it is the host of Hell.
To her, Religion owes her holiest flame:
Her eye looks heaven-ward, for from heaven she came.
And when Religion's mild and genial ray
Around the frozen heart begins to play,
Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light;
The fire is kindled and the flame is bright;
And that cold mass, by either power assailed,
Is warmed made liquid — and to heaven exhaled. 30
Nay then, farewell.
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting : I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man:— to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, – nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy.
20 Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. Vain
pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new opened : oh! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
25 The sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin, More pangs
and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let 's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 35
Of me must more be heard -
-say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 40 Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me: Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; 45 Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and Truth's; then, if thou fallst, O Cromwell! Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And, Pr’ythee, lead me in :
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 't is the king's ; — my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell !
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me to mine enemies.
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.
The Worth of Woman.-SCHILLER.
1. Honored be woman! she beams on the sight,
Graceful and fair, like a being of light;
Scatters around her, wherever she strays,
Roses of bliss on our thorn-covered ways,
Roses of Paradise, sent from above
To be gathered and twined in a garland of love.
2. Man, on Passion's stormy ocean
Tossed by surges mountain high,
Courts the hurricane commotion,
Spurns at Reason's feeble cry.
Loud the tempest roars around him,
Louder still it wars within,
Flashing lights of Hope confound him,
Stuns him life's incessant din.
3. Woman invites him, with bliss in her smile,
To cease from his toil and be happy awhile,
Whispering wooingly, — come to my bower!
Go not in search of the phantom of Power !
Honor and wealth are illusory : come!
Happiness dwells in the temple of Home.
4. Man, with fury stern and savage,
Persecutes his brother man ;
Reckless if he bless or ravage:
Action - action — still his plan.
Now creating ; now destroying;
Ceaseless wishes tear his breast.
Ever wishing ; - ne'er enjoying ; -
Still to be — but never blest.
5. Woman, contented in silent repose,
Enjoys in its beauty life's flower as it blows,
And waters and tends it with innocent heart;
Far richer than man with his treasures of art,
And wiser by far in her circle confined,
Than he with his science and flights of the mind.
6. Coldly to himself sufficing,
Man disdains the gentler arts,
Knoweth not the bliss arising
From the interchange of hearts.
Slowly through his bosom stealing,
Flows the genial current on,
Till, by age's frost congealing,
It is hardened into stone.
7. She, like the harp that instinctively sings,
As the night-breathing zephyr soft sighs o'er the strings,
Responds to each impulse with ready reply,
Whether sorrow or pleasure her sympathy try;