« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
CASABIANCA. — Mrs. Hemans.
THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
A proud, though childlike, form.
The flames rolled on,
- he would not go,
He called aloud,-"Say, father, say
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Speak, father!" once again he cried,
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And looked from that lone post of death,
LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
And shouted but once more aloud,
My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
There came a burst of thunder sound
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
Ar the gate of old Grenada, when all its bolts are barred,
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard ;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.
"What tower is fallen ? what star is set? what chicf come these bewailing ?"
"A tower is fallen! A star is set! — Alas! alas for
Three times they knock, three times they cry, the doors wide open throw;
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go! In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman holding in his hand a black and flaming torch.
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery,-"Alas! alas for Celin!"
Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage's blood; 'T was at the solemn jousting; around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Grenada's darling knight," Alas! alas for Celin!"
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless wailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry, "Alas! alas for Celin!"
The Moorish maid at her lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door;
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore;
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue;
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice, high and low, - "Alas! alas for Celin !"
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry,
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye; It's she who nursed him at her breast, who nursed him
She knows not whom they all lament, but ah! she soon shall know.
With one loud shriek, she forward breaks, when her ears receive their wailing,
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die! - Alas! alas for Celin !"
FLOWERS. — Leigh Hunt.
WE are the sweet flowers,
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;)
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath;
All who see us love us,
Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless
Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence,
In silence build our bowers,
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top,
O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,