And, all forgetful of my sorrow, unmindful of my pain, strays; And my patient heart must still await her, nor chide her long delays. But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, as many a time before; Her foot is ever at the threshold, yet never passes o'er. ROBERT LOWELL's beautiful poems evince great originality and power take, for instance, his lines entitled Our Inland Summer Nightfall:- Within the twilight came forth tender snatches Of birds' songs, from beneath their darkened eaves; This dimness: neither loves, nor joys, nor grieves. It hugs in ghostly shape the Old Deep's shore and cape, All As when, where night-hawks skim, swam fish with yawning maw. grows more cool, though night comes slowly over, And slowly stars stand out within the sky! The trampling market-herd and way-sore drover They sang of love, and not love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled. a But all different name, "Annie Lawrie"! Bayard Taylor, From out some lower dark comes up a dog's short bark; Now houseward troop, for Blind-man's-Buff or Tag ; There shouting, with a grass-tuft reared for flag. They claim this hour from night : But with a sure, still sleight, The sleep-time clogs their feet, and one by one they lag. And now the still stars make all heaven sightly : One, in the low west, like the sky ablaze; There is the golden Lyre, and there the Crown of fire: THACKERAY'S lines, At the Church Gate, are daintily put: Although I enter not, yet round about the spot And, near the sacred gate, with longing eyes I wait, The minster-bell tolls out above the city's rout, They've hushed the minster-bell; the organ 'gins to swell; My lady comes at last, timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; she comes,-she's here, she's past May Heaven go with her! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, to sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace round the forbidden place, Like outcast spirits, who wait, and see, through Heaven's gate, Angels within it. What a grand, heroic movement is there in MACAULAY'S celebrated lay of the Huguenots, entitled Ivry; we can only give two stanzas: Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! |