Page images
PDF
EPUB

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not, Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They 've hushed the minster bell:
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes-she 's here, she's past!
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE.

SIE is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face.
Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,

If ship, or sail, or evening star,
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,

If steed, or sword, or battle-field,
Be half so fair as she!

[blocks in formation]

Look out upon the stars, my love,
Aud shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony
Of blending shades and light:
Then, lady, up,-look out, and be
A sister to the night!-

Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast;

Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay,

With looks whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

LOVE SONG.

SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty

slumbers,

Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through

her hair!

numbers

The wild bird, though most musical,
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply;
The streamlet, and the waterfall,

Could only weep when thou didst sigh!
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word
Either with billow, or with bird.

Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
Winds have a soft, discoursing way;
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air! Heaven's starry talk is all its own,—
It dies in thunder far away.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is

teeming

[blocks in formation]

E'en when thou wouldst the moon be

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »