’Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar,
Nor Pharos on Old Egypt’s coast afar,
Nor shrill reveille’s camp-awakening
sound,
Nor bivouac couch’d its starry fires around,
Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers,
Nor the red lancers ’mid their wood of spears
Blazing like baleful poppies ’mong the golden
ears.
No—’twas an infant’s image,
fresh and fair,
With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.
It lay beneath the smile,
Of her whose breast, soft-bending o’er its sleep,
Lingering upon that little lip doth keep
One pendent drop the while.
Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined,
He wept; that father-heart all unconfined,
Outpoured in love alone.
My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child.
Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled,
Forgot the world’s lost
throne.
Fraser’s Magazine
[V, vi., August, 1832.]
Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell
Where lurks the good invisible
Amid the depths of discord’s sea—
That seem, alas! so dark to me!
Oppressive to a mighty state,
Contentions, feuds, the people’s hate—
But who dare question that which fate
Has ordered to have been?
Haply the earthquake may unfold
The resting-place of purest gold,
And haply surges up have rolled
The pearls that were unseen!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Ainsi l’Hotel de Ville illumine.")
[VI., May, 1833.]
Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight,
From step to cornice one grand glare of light;
The noise of mirth and revelry resounds,
Like fairy melody on haunted grounds.
But who demands this profuse, wanton glee,
These shouts prolonged and wild festivity—
Not sure our city—web, more woe than bliss,
In any hour, requiring aught but this!
Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd
To sorrow’s sob, although its call be loud.
Better than waste long nights in idle show,
To help the indigent and raise the low—
To train the wicked to forsake his way,
And find th’ industrious work from day to day!
Better to charity those hours afford,
Which now are wasted at the festal board!
And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul
Virtue resides, and Vice has no control;
Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin,
So fair without—so chaste, so pure within—
Whose honor Want ne’er threatened to betray,
Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay;
Around whose modesty a hundred arms,
Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms;
For you this ball is pregnant with delight;
As glitt’ring planets cheer the gloomy night:—
But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad,
How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad!
Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere,
And like your own to you all lots appear;
For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes
Can see no dark horizon to the skies.
