And anon there drops a tear, For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, Come away, away children, She will start from her slumber A pavement of pearl. Singing, ‘Here came a mortal, And alone dwell forever The kings of the sea.' But children, at midnight, We will gaze from the sand-hills, At the white sleeping town ; She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.' XLI. M. Arnold. SONG. O, lovely Rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, E. Waller. XLII. EVENING VOLUNTARY. COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR 1. AD this effulgence disappeared With flying haste, I might have sent, Of blank astonishment; But 'tis endued with power to stay, And sanctify one closing day, That frail Mortality may see What is ?-ah no, but what can be! While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both.-Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now From hill or valley, could not move Than doth this silent spectacle—the gleam— II. No sound is uttered,—but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, Called forth by wondrous potency Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread III. And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop-no record hath told where ! -Wings at my shoulders seem to play; On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower IV. Such hues from their celestial Urn Where'er it wandered in the morn This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light —'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; XLIII. W. Wordsworth. HYMN OF THE CITY. OT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty !—here, amidst the crowd, With everlasting murmur deep and loud— 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. |