Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
* * * * *
ERNESTINA.
(OR THE GILIA TRICOLOR.)
BY ERNESTINE FITZGERALD.
Thus have ye named this modest flower,
Bright Gilia—of colors three:
What hath God given as its dower?
In what doth it resemble me?
Tiny, it hath persistent power—
It heedeth storm nor frost, ye see.
If therefore ye have named it thus,
More fitting fond ye will not find:
“But Ernestina makes more fuss,
At wintry frost and chilling wind,
Than hosts on hosts, robust like us!”
Persistence, love, is in the mind.
The little blossoms of her soul
Come forth at every sun-ray’s will:
Glance at the seed-calls! every stroll
Of warmth from heaven doth some one fill:
Let cloud and tempest o’er her roll,
The flowret and the fruit come still.
Well has love named the humble flower,
Meek Gilia, of colors three;
Well have ye placed it in your bower,
To emblem there, Humility;
Thus may it gain a higher power
Than it may ever claim from me.
* * * * *
ODE ON IDLENESS.
BY T. YARDLEY.
With walking wearied, sat I, at the time
When, pausing far above the world, the sun
Seems musing whether he shall higher climb
The pathway up to heaven; or the one
Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun;
Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade
Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done,
And where the rainbows by the saints are made,
O’er many a western wild and island everglade.
’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul
Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze
To chase the overheated air and roll
Away in music. Silent symphonies,
Among the olden avenues of trees,
The spirit gathered, weaving into wings,
To waft it up through space-encircling seas,
Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings
The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings.
My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst,
Drank in the glory of the scene. Before,
Commingling mountains, indistinct at first
And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er
The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar,
Like some vast army on the Appenines,
With all the bright artillery of war,
Banners of painted clouds, with proud designs,
Helmets and jeweled shields along the glitt’ring lines.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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