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"The guardian oak Mourn'd o'er the roof it shelter'd: the thick air Labour'd with doleful sounds." ELLIOTT of Sheffield. MANY days had passed, and Alice was still alone; but she had heard twice from Maltravers. The letters were short and hurried. One time his father was better, and there were hopes; another time, and it was not expected that he could survive the week.
"The guardian oak Mourn'd o'er the roof it shelter'd: the thick air Labour'd with doleful sounds." ELLIOTT of /Sheffield/. MANY days had passed, and Alice was still alone; but she had heard twice from Maltravers. The letters were short and hurried. One time his father was better, and there were hopes; another time, and it was not expected that he could survive the week.
For one who for his sins has mourn'd and cry'd, To slight him, who for sin hath bled and died! What fool would sell his part in paradise, That has a soul, and that of such a price? What parallel can suit with such so well, As those, for sin cast down from heaven to hell!
Flitted that fond ideal world, And to the shore in tumult tost The realms of fairy bliss were lost. Yet, with a stern delight and strange, I saw the spirit-stirring change, As warr'd the wind with wave and wood, Upon the ruin'd tower I stood, And felt my heart more strongly bound, Responsive to the lofty sound, While, joying in the mighty roar, I mourn'd that tranquil scene no more.
He mourn'd for the fate of his darling mate, Well-a-day! when her song stopped suddenly. Jorindel turned to see the reason, and beheld his Jorinda changed into a nightingale, so that her song ended with a mournful jug, jug. An owl with fiery eyes flew three times round them, and three times screamed: 'Tu whu! Tu whu! Tu whu!
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourn'd! Every thing contributed to soften my heart, though not to lower my spirits. For when a Florentine asked me, how I came to cry so? I answered, in the words of their divine Mestastasio: "Che questo pianto mio Tutto non è dolor; E meraviglia, e amore, E riverenza, e speme, Son mille affetti assieme Tutti raccolti al cor."
As doves, drawn home from where they circled still, Set firm their open wings, and through the air Come sweeping, wafted by their pure good-will This last line has been greatly admired for the corresponding deadness of its expression. While thus one spoke, the other spirit mourn'd With wail so woful, that at his remorse I felt as though I should have died.
It was in the month of November that Mary Jane died, and was buried; reminding one of those lines of Bryant: "In the cold moist earth we laid her, When the forest cast his leaf; And we mourn'd that one so lovely, Should have a life so brief. Yet not unmeet it was, that one, Like that young child of ours, So lovely and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers."
The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet.
A wakeful nightingale who long Had mourn'd within, the Shade Sweetly renewed her plaintive song And warbled through the Glade." On the coming of the men the wakeful nightingale broke off her plaintive song abruptly. Lady Waverton, who was again at full length on her couch, then opened her eyes. "Delicious, delicately delicious," she sighed. "Why did you stop, dear?" she controlled a yawn.
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