Joyous it is in our fairy boat, When dolphins sport on the trackless main, Like viewless spirits of air to float, And steer to our sparry grot again. Joyous it is with the fairy crew To share the feast so daintily spreadTo quaff the honied and rainbow'd dew, And sip the perfume from roses shed. Oh! when will the twilight hour arrive, For who in this dull cold world would live, DEATH AND THE WORLD. MRS. FLETCHER (MARIA JANE JEWSBURY), DIED OF ASIATIC CHOLERA, OCTOBER 3, 1833, WHILST ON HER WAY FROM SHOLAPORE TO BOMBAY, I CALL the world gay, good world, Of its smiles and bounties free: But Death, alas! is the king of this world, And he holds a grave for me. The world hath gold-it is bright and red; Death will rust the gold, and the fervid love THE NIGHT OF THE NECKAR. FROM THE KEEPSAKE," FOR 1828. NECKAR, night is on thy stream, On thy wave by winter laid. And the breeze that now was clinging To thy flowers eternal springing; And the sounds that on it stole, Lulling all the sense, the soul: Where are they? Dark, chill, and strong, Sweeps the sudden gale along. Neckar, thy pellucid wave Loved these blossom'd banks to lave; Hark! a fearful melody! Swells it from the earth, or sky? Now upon the waters dance And upon the river's breast See a gleam above them plays; All is still! In blood and ashes, What is reeking by his side? Terrors on his vision rise: Murderer! thou hast had thy prize! As decays the final spark, Forms are flashing through the dark, Ever, till the endless night, Neckar, while thy stream shall run! LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. The fire that in my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle: No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile. The hopes, the fears, the jealous care, But wear the chain. But 'tis not here, it is not here, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now- Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. |