They asked no clarion's voice to fire
Their souls with an impule high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre,
For the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes their path around,
Sent forth Eolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death.
So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan's shield,
Or on it proudly borne.
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
THE lights are fair in my father's hall,
The red wine is bright to see;
But I'll flee like a bird and leave them all,
My Ocean Love! for thee.
There is gold around my silken robe,
And white pearls are in my hair :
And they say that gems and the broidered vest
Are woman's chiefest care;
But dearer to me is one silent smile
Of thine eagle eye than them all; And dearer the deck of thy bark to me Than my father's lighted hall.
I have no home now but thy arms,
And they are the world to me;
And be thou but true, I'll never regret
All, dear love! I have left for thee.
ON A PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF NELL GWYN, BY SIR PETER LELY, IN THE POSSESSION OF R. CRACROFT, ESQ.
BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl!
I have heard of teeth of pearl,-
Lips of coral, cheeks of rose,—
Necks and brows, like drifted snows,-
Eyes, as diamonds sparkling bright,
Or the stars of summer's night,-
And expression, grace, and soul,
Softly tempering down the whole:-
But a form so near divine,
With a face so fair as thine,-
And so sunny bright a brow,-
Never met my gaze till now!
Thou wert Venus' sister-twin
If this shade be thine, NELL GWYN!
Cast that carcanet away,
Thou hast need of no display-
Gems, however rare, to deck
Such an alabaster neck!
Can the brilliant's lustre vie
With the glories of thine eye?
Or the ruby's red compare
With the two lips breathing there?
Can they add a richer glow
To thy beauties? No, sweet, no!
Though thou bear'st the name of one
Whom 'twas virtue once to shun,-
It were sure to Taste a sin,
Now to pass thee by NELL GWYN!
But they've wronged thee; and I swear
By that brow, so dazzling fair,-
By the light subdued that flashes
From thy drooping 'lids' silk lashes,-
By the deep blue eyes beneath them,
By the clustering curls that wreathe them,
By thy softly blushing cheek,-
By thy lips, that more than speak,-
By thy stately swan-like neck,
Glossy white without a speck,-
By thy slender fingers fair,--
Modest mien, and graceful air,
'Twas a burning shame and sin,
Sweet, to christen thee-NELL GWYN !
Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms,
Thine are, sure, no Wanton's charms!
Like the fawn's-as bright and shy-
Beams thy dark, retiring eye;-
No bold invitation's given
From the depths of that blue heaven ;
Nor one glance of lightness hid 'Neath its pale, declining lid ! No, I'll not believe thy name
Can be aught allied to Shame.
Then let them call thee what they will,
I've sworn and I'll maintain it still,
(Spite of Tradition's idle din,)
Thou art not-cans't not be-NELL GWYN!
THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek;
But pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before,
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
That mine might only press it more.
There is a bosom all my own-
Hath pillowed oft this aching head;
A mouth that smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet,
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,
They both must heave or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-They part?-Ah, no!
They cannot part! Those souls are one!
NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn
Wastes its pure waters on the rock below;
There no green herbage shall a leaf return,
No plant can flourish and no flower can blow ;-
Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals,
Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy waterfalls.
Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows,-
It cheers the wanderer in the dreary waste,
Awakes dull Silence from her deep repose,
And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste;-
For this the grateful muse in fancy twines
Around thy urn, the rose and waving wild woodbines.
And when far distant from the glowing scene
Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream, To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain-stream. English Minstrelsy.
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