Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 2, August 1849

Name: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 2, August 1849
Author: Various

Various

Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals

I never was a careless child,
      For in my early years
    The founts within were gathering,
      Of anguish and of tears:

    And when I looked upon the stars
      In all their golden sheen,
    The presage of a broken heart—
      It always came between.

    And then the Voice of Song awoke
      Within my wayward soul,
    And bade the wearing tide of thought
      Forever o’er it roll.

    And dreams of words that should go forth
      To bless and elevate,
    Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,
      The passion to create;

    Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,
      Till with displacing power
    Came Love with gorgeous diadem,
      The phantom of an hour!

    And soon the mockeries of Hope
      Fled smiling from my breast,
    And left a dark and fearful curse,
      The cravings of unrest.

    And Life became a weary load,
      And Nature’s face a pall,
    And each red drop that passed my heart
      Was turned to seething gall.

    From day to day the lyre within
      Waxed passionate and frail;
    It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,
      How could it brook the gale?

    Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,
      I’ve seen his glancing eye,
    And watched the silvery gleaming of
      His pinion passing by.

    Go bring me back my harp again!
      I feel a strength for prayer,
    And o’er the shattered chords within
      Creeps an unearthly air.

    Go bring me back my harp again,
      I may not now restore
    The sounding strings I loved so well,
      Or tune it as before;

    But I would lay my hand upon
      The trembling chords and riven;
    I feel mine own are healing fast
      Beneath the eye of Heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   THE EIGHTEENTH SONNET OF PETRARCA.


                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.


    Had I but waited patient in the cell
      Where great Apollo erst became divine,
      One bard might call himself a Florentine,
    Like those who once in other lands did dwell.
    But here the holy ichor doth not swell,
      And fate hath willed another lot be mine.
      ’Tis meet that I relinquish high design
    And drink the waters of life’s turbid well.
      Sear are the olive branches now, the stream
        Near which they grew and looked toward the sky
          Hath sunken deep beneath the rock again.
      Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dream
        That made me fix my early hopes so high,
          Unless God will their height I should attain.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           JASPER ST. AUBYN;


                       OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.


                       BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.


                      (_Continued from page 15._)


                              CHAPTER II.

                            _The Wakening._

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 2, August 1849

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