Her lips were parted, as one moment more
And then the heart would yield its hidden store.
'Twas so at length her thought found utterance,
Light, feeling, flashed from her awakened glance ;—
She paused then gazed on one pale star above,
Poured to her lute the burning words of love!
LEANDER heard his name! How more than sweet
That moment, as he knelt at HERO's feet,
Breathing his passion in each thrilling word
Only by lovers said, by lovers heard.
That night they parted—but they met again.
The blue sea rolled between them-but in vain!
LEANDER had no fear-he cleft the wave.-
What is the peril fond hearts will not brave!
Delicious were their moonlight wanderings,
Delicious were the kind, the gentle things
Each to the other breathed; a starry sky,
Music and flowers, this is love's luxury :
The measure of its happiness is full,
When all around like it is beautiful.
There were sweet birds to count the hours; and roses, Like those which on a blushing cheek reposes;
Violets as fresh as violets could be;
Stars over head, with each a history
Of love told by its light; and waving trees,
And perfumed breathings upon every breeze:
These were around them when they met.
Though each was from the other far away,
Had still its pleasant memories; they might
Think what they had forgotten the last night,
And make the tender thing they had to say
More warm and welcome from its short delay.
And then their love was secret!-Oh, it is
Most exquisite to have a fount of bliss
Sacred to us alone, no other eye
Conscious of our enchanted mystery,
Ourselves the sole possessors of a spell
Giving us happiness unutterable!
I would compare this secresy and shade
To that fair island, whither Love conveyed
His Psyche, where she lived remote from all :
Life one long, lone, and lovely, festival;
But when the charm, concealment's charm was known,
Oh then farewell to Love, for Love was flown!
Love's wings are all too delicate to bear
The open gaze, the common sun and air.
There have been roses round my lute; but now
I must forsake them for the cypress bough:
Now is my tale of tears.-One night, the sky,
As if with passion, darkened angrily,
And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main
Like hasty threats, and then were calm again;
That night, young HERO by her beacon kept
Her silent watch, and blamed the night, and wept,
And scarcely dared to look upon the sky:
Yet lulling still her fond anxiety—
With 'Surely in such a storm he cannot brave,
If but for my sake only, wind and wave.'
At length Aurora led young Day and blushed;
In her sweet presence sea and sky were hushed.
What is there beauty cannot charm? Her power
Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour;
And light and soft the breeze which waved the veil
Of HERO, as she wandered, lone and pale,
Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye
Roving in tearful dim uncertainty.
Not long uncertain, she marked something glide,
Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide
On rushed she in that desperate energy,
Which only has to know, and, knowing, die
It was LEANDER !
Literary Gazette.
WRITTEN ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
YE are gone to your narrow beds,
Ye forms of the martyred Brave!
The green grass sod springs o'er your heads,
And the wind blows round your grave.
But the green turf that blooms above
Is watered by the tears of love;
And the wild wind that wanders by,
Is mingled with affection's sigh.
Oh! when ye sank on your bed of death,
No gentle form hung over you;
No fond eye caught your parting breath,
Or shrunk in anguish from the view!
But o'er you, in that hour of fate,
Bent the dark Gaul's revengeful form;
And the stern glance of ruthless hate
Gleamed, dreadful, 'mid the hurrying storm.
No mourning dirge did o'er you swell,
Nor winding sheet your limbs enclosed ;
For you was tolled no passing bell;
No tomb was raised where you reposed,
For your bed of death was the battle-ground, 'Twas there they heaped your funeral mound, And all unhallowed was your grave,
Save by the ashes of the brave.
Then to the warriors' memory,
A monument of love we'll raise;
And veneration's heart-felt sigh
Shall waft their fame to distant days.
Daughters of Albion ! swell the strain!
More loudly raise the funeral song,
And, wide o'er all the fatal plain,
The record of their deeds prolong!
Ye fixed, oh ye brave! when for us ye died,
On every heart an endless claim;
When ye sank in the battle's blood-red tide,
Ye bought by your death a deathless name;
More great than the warriors of ages gone,—
More great than the heroes of Marathon :
They from one land, a tyrant hurled ;—
Ye crushed the tyrant of the world.
The hour that stayed your course for ever,
Checked many a gay heart's joyous swell;
Sweet hopes were nipt, to blossom never,
When, smote in Glory's lap, you fell.
The patriot to the hero's claim,
Bows his proud soul, with grief opprest;
But there are those, with whom his name
Is still more loved, more fondly blest ;
For wheresoe'er we cast our eyes,
This wide extended plain around,
The Father, Brother, Husband lies
Beneath the undulating mound.
How many an eye, ye truly brave!
Has thanked you for the lives you gave!
Ye fondly loved! how many a tear,
Has witnessed to your virtues here!
Call not the warrior's grave unblest,
Though 'mid this silent solitude,
The grey stone rise not o'er his breast,
Nor holy pile may here be viewed.
There is a charm more sweet,-more pure
Than human art has ever thrown ;
Yes, there are records, more secure
Than marble bust, or sculptured stone ;-
The gentle sigh of sorrowing love,
The hapless mourner's silent tear,
Shall here that better guerdon prove,
That holier calm, shall whisper here.
When Egypt's tombs shall all be rent, And earth's proud temples swept away, Your deeds, a deathless monument!Shall guard your glory from decay. Courier.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
Yet ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,.
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,
"Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! Morning Chronicle.
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