Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 346, December 13, 1828», страница 7

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. ⁷

BY MRS. HEMANS

"Tableau, aú l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redoubtable de la mort et de la vie." MADAME DE STAEL.

 
There was music on the midnight;
From a royal fane it roll'd,
And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.
Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.
 
 
There was hurrying through the midnight:—
A sound of many feet;
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,
Along the shadowy street;
And softer, fainter, grew their tread,
As it near'd the Minster-gate,
Whence broad and solemn light was shed
From a scene of royal state.
 
 
Full glow'd the strong red radiance
In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Sweep down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom;
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.
 
 
And within that rich pavilion
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
Midst the glare of light alone.
Her Jewell'd robes fell strangely still—
The drapery on her breast
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stone-like was its rest.
 
 
But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,
When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,
And from th' encircling band,
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound,
With homage to her hand.
 
 
Why pass'd a faint cold shuddering
Over each martial frame,
As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?
Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair.
Sit on the pale still face?
 
 
Death, Death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of Life?
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?
—It was a strange and fearful sight,
The crown upon that head,
The glorious robes and the blaze of light,
All gather'd round the Dead!
 
 
And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail;
King Pedro with a jealous eye
Watching the homage done
By the land's flower and chivalry
To her, his martyr'd one.
 
 
But on the face he look'd not
Which once his star had been:
To every form his glance was turn'd,
Save of the breathless queen;
Though something, won from the grare's embrace,
Of her beauty still was there,
Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
'Twas not for him to bear.
 
 
Alas! the crown, the sceptre,
The treasures of the earth,
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!
The rites are closed—bear back the Dead
Unto the chamber deep,
Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep.
 
 
There is music on the midnight—
A requiem sad and slow.
As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go,
And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,
Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay.
 
 
And tearlessly and firmly,
King Pedro led the train—
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.
—'Tis hush'd at last, the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart:
Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wert and art!
 

New Monthly Magazine.

ART THOU THE MAID?

 
Art thou the maid from whose blue eye
Mine drank such deep delight?
Was thine that voice of melody
Which charm'd the silent night?
 
 
I fain would think thou art not she
Who hung upon mine arm,
When love was yet a mystery,
A sweet, resistless charm.
 
 
It seemed to me as though the spell
On both alike were cast;
I prayed but in thy sight to dwell,
For thee, to breathe my last.
 
 
Mine inmost secret soul was thine,
Thou wert enthroned therein,
Like sculptured saint in holy shrine,
All free from guile and sin.
 
 
And, heaven forgive! I did adore
With more than pilgrim's zeal;
And then thy smile–But oh! no more!
No more may I reveal.
 
 
Enough—we're parted–Both must own
The accursed power of gold.
I wander through the world alone;
Thou hast been bought and sold.
 

Blackwood's Magazine.

It would be a very pleasant thing, if literary productions could be submitted to something like chemical analysis,—if we could separate the merit of a book, as we can the magnesia of Epsom salts, by a simple practical application of the doctrine of affinities.

The Gatherer

 
A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
 

SHAKSPEARE.

A GOOD FELLOW

The secretary of a literary society being requested to draw up "a definition of a good fellow," applied to the members of the club, individually, for such hints as they could furnish, when, he received the following:—

Mr. Golightly.—A good fellow is one who rides blood horses, drives four-in-hand, speaks when he's spoken to, sings when he's asked, always turns his back on a dun, and never on a friend.

Mr. Le Blanc.—A good fellow is one who studies deep, reads trigonometry, and burns love songs; has a most cordial aversion for dancing and D'Egville, and would rather encounter a cannon than a fancy ball.

Hon. G. Montgomery.—A good fellow is one who abhors moralists and mathematics, and adores the classics and Caroline Mowbray.

Sir T. Wentworth.—A good fellow is one who attends the Fox-dinners, who goes to the Indies to purchase independence, and would rather encounter a buffalo than a boroughmonger.

Mr. M. Sterling.—A good fellow is a good neighbour, a good citizen, a good relation; in short, a good man.

Mr. M. Farlane.—A good fellow is a bonnie braw John Hielandman.

Mr. O'Connor.—A good fellow is one who talks loud and swears louder; cares little about learning, and less about his neckcloth; loves whiskey, patronizes bargemen, and wears nails in his shoes.

Mr. Musgrave.—A good fellow is prime—flash—and bang-up.

Mr. Burton.—A good fellow is one who knows "what's what," keeps accounts, and studies Cocker.

Mr. Rowley.—A good fellow likes turtle and cold punch, drinks Port when he can't get Champagne, and dines on mutton with Sir Robert, when he can't get venison at my lord's.

Mr. Lozell.—A good fellow is something compounded of the preceding.

Mr. Oakley.—A good fellow is something perfectly different from the preceding,—or Mr. Oakley is an ass.

MERCHANT TAILORS' SCHOOL

 
At Merchant Tailors' School, what time
Old Bishop held the rod,
The boys rehearsed the old man's rhyme
Whilst he would smile and nod.
 
 
Apart I view'd a little child
Who join'd not in the game:
His face was what mammas call mild
And fathers dull and tame.
 
 
Pitying the boy, I thus address'd
The pedagogue of verse—
"Why doth he not, Sir, like the rest,
Your epigrams rehearse?"
 
 
"Sir!" answered thus the aged man,
"He's not in Nature's debt;
His ears so tight are seal'd, he can-
Not learn his alphabet."
 
 
"Why not?" I cried:—whereat to me
He spoke in minor clef—
"He cannot learn his A, B, C,
Because he's D, E, F."
 

New Monthly Magazine.

ROYAL LEARNING

The king of Persia made many inquiries of Sir Harford Jones respecting America, saying, "What sort of a place is it? How do you get at it? Is it underground, or how?"

COMPLIMENT MAL—APROPOS

Napoleon was once present at the performance of one of Pasiello's operas, in which was introduced an air by Cimarosa. Pasiello was in the box with the emperor, and received many compliments during the evening. At length, when the air by Cimarosa was played, the emperor turned round, and taking Pasiello by the hand, exclaimed, "By my faith, my friend, the man who has composed that air, may proclaim himself the greatest composer in Europe." "It is Cimarosa's," feebly articulated Pasiello. "I am sorry for it; but I cannot recall what I have said."

A gentleman taking an apartment, said to the landlady, "I assure you, madam, I never left a lodging but my landlady shed tears." She answered, "I hope it was not, Sir, because you went away without paying."

LOMBIRD'S EDITION OF THE Following Novels are already Published: