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In darkness, ere the all-forming God
Call'd from thy depths the rock and clod:-
THE COUNTRY GIRL.
ON A PICTURE BY HOLMES.
THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air
Of happiness that never flies
How can it where love never dies?
Of promise whispering, where no blight
What mortal form, what earthly face,
'Mid the soft air, those long-lost bowers,
That sweet illusion might have hung for hours! -Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,
That touchingly bespeaks thee born,
Life's daily task with them to share,
A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
In the wild waters labouring, far from home,
Companion of the sea and silent air,
The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;
Eternal ocean! old majestic sea!
Ever love I from shore to look on thee,
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Lady of the Lake.
OH! wild enchanting horn!
Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born.
Wake, wake again, the night
Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long, Barks at the melancholy moon.
Hark! how it sweeps away,, Soaring and dying on the silent sky, As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay!
Swell, swell in glory out!
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start, As boyhood's old remember'd shout.
Oh! have ye heard that peal,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, Like some near breath around you steal?
Or have ye in the roar
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Go, go-no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born,
THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed
I may not mount on thee again-thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell!-thou 'rt sold, my steed-thou 'rt sold!
Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare;
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home-from all of these, my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel-thou 'rt sold, my "Arab steed!
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood, that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill use thee? If I thought-but no, it can
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?