Full oft old Time, with stately pride, Hath paced each mount and mead, With young Spring blushing by his side, Since vainly, with my sylvan reed, I wooed thee for my bride. Yet still thine image fills my soul, Still burns that flame with fierce control; And should I breathe through years untold To me, a minstrel, than a King! Oh! fleet though fair their fate must prove, Whose hopes, whose hearts, to flesh are given, Who build no ark of rest above; Earth holds a grave for earthly love, But deathless is the love of heaven; And, source of all things pure and free, The love of heaven is loving thee! Great empress of the spirit-land, But high the rose o'ertops the thorn, A land where giftless eyes are blind, Hail to the poet-clime! Where'er thy angel foot doth fall, I'll laud thy lyre, still drink thy words, TO THE DEITY. FROM "TALES AND POEMS," BY THOMAS NICHOLSON, 1854. O THOU, Invisible, whose voice I hear Loud on the rushing tempest where Thou ridest; Thine airy car through boundless space Thou guidest, Where, through the regions of Thy dread career, Thy mighty hands the forked lightnings dart, And the deep soul-appalling thunders rollThe universal works own Thy control;Yet, Thou, Omnipotent, though great Thou art, 'Midst the innumerable orbs that through The infinity of Thine empyrean move, O show Thyself a God of mercy too! Regard us from Thy towering throne above With kind compassion, and benignant eye— Avert the lowering storm when it draws nigh, PROEM TO A VOLUME OF SELECTED POEMS. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, BORN AT PORTLAND, UNITED STATES, FEBRUARY 27, 1807. THE day is gone, and the darkness As a feather is wafted downward I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gush'd from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who through long days of labour, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be fill'd with music, ALONE AT EVE. CHARLES SWAIN, BORN AT MANCHESTER, IN OCTOBER, 1803. ALONE at eve, when all is still And memory turns to other years, With feeling's dark and bitter tears: Return at eve-when all is still! When all is still except the breast |