I WANDERED by the brook-side, I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. THE BROOK-SIDE. I sat beneath the elm-tree ;. And, as it grew still longer, For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not no, he came not; The night came on alone: The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred; But the beating of my own heart Fast silent tears were flowing, For the beating of our own hearts RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. THE SONG OF THE DYING. WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And hurrah for the next that dies! Not here are the goblets glowing, Hurrah for the next that dies! Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall midst the winecup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. THE SONG OF THE DYING. So! stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis this that the respite buys: One cup to the dead already; Hurrah for the next that dies! Time was when we frowned at others; The thoughtless are here, and the wise: A cup to the dead already; Hurrah for the next that dies! There's many a hand that's shaking, 'Tis here the revival lies: A cup to the dead already; And hurrah for the next that dies! There's a mist on the glass congealing: A cup to the dead already; A PETITION TO TIME. Who dreads to the dust returning? A cup to the dead already; Hurrah for the next that dies! Cut off from the land that bore us, 'Tis all we have left to prize : A cup to the dead already; And hurrah for the next that dies! CAPTAIN DOWLING, East India Company's Service. A PETITION TO TIME. TOUCH us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are we: Husband, wife, and children three; (One is lost an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) |