1 SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. - Milton. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, Lodged with me useless (though my soul more bent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 'Tis ever thus, Mrs. Southey. -'t is ever thus, when Hope hath built a bower Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust." 'Tis ever thus, - 't is ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 269 That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. "T is ever thus, - 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this; One moment round about us their angel lightnings play, Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath passed away. 'T is ever thus, 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne heavenward) in their birth; The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute. 'T is ever thus, below, - 't is ever thus, with all that 's best The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go; The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock, The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock. "T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly creatures bear; A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above. EMPLOYMENT.- George Herbert. IF, as a flower doth spread and die, The sweetness and the praise were thine; But the extension and the room, Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine At thy great doom. For as thou dost impart thy grace, The measure of our joys is in this place, Let me not languish, then, and spend All things are busy; only I Neither bring honey with the bees, Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry To water these. I am no link of thy great chain, Lord, place me in thy concert, give one strain THE ISLES OF GREECE. 271 THE ISLES OF GREECE.— Byron. THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece ! The Scian and the Teian Muse, The mountains look on Marathon, - I dreamed that Greece might still be free; I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations; - all were his! And where are they? and where art thou, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, "T is something, in the dearth of fame, Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise, - we come, we come!" 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain,-in vain; strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? |