Winthrop Mackworth Praed

“ The light of day is sinking from the earth,
And Evening mantles in her dewy calm
The couch of one who cannot heed its balm. [1]
Lo! where the chieftain on his matted bed
Leans the faint form, and hangs the feverish head;
There is no lustre in his wandering eye,
His forehead hath no show of majesty,
His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer,
Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there,
And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear
The feather'd target, or the ashen spear,
Drops powerless and cold! the pang of death
Locks the set teeth, and chokes the struggling breath ”

“ Check their rude feasting and their barbarous song:
Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd,
The chief, the slave, the timid, and the proud;
Of various features, and of various dress,
Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless.
Where shall your temples, where your worship be,
Gods of the air, and Rulers of the sea!
In the glad dawning of a kinder light,
Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite.
And kneels in gladness on his native plain,
A happier votary at a holier fane. ”

“ Large streets, brave houses, sacred sepulchres,
Sure gates, sweet gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillars and fine imageries,—
All these (O pity!) now are turned to dust,
And overgrown with black oblivion's rust."
Spenser.
Muse of old Athens! strike thine ancient lute!
Are the strings broken? is the music mute? ”

“ With dropping jaw, weak step, and temples gray,
Go tott'ring forth, to find, across the wave,
A short sad sojourn, and a foreign grave;
And some, who look their long and last adieu
To the white cliffs that vanish from the view,
While youth still blooms, and vigour nerves the arm,
The blood flows freely, and the pulse beats warm. ”

“ We will not mourn for him! ere human ill
Could blight one bliss, or make one feeling chill,
In Learning's pure embrace he sunk to rest,
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Peace to his hallow'd shade! ”

“ Thou lingerest, lone, beneath thy laurel bough,
Glad in the incense of a poet's vow,
Bear me, oh, bear me, to the vine-clad hill,
Where Nature smiles, and Beauty blushes still,
And Memory blends her tale of other years
With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears! ”

“ This busy brain may find its grassy shrine,
And sleep, untroubled, in a shade like thine!
↑ This sketch of the death of a New Zealander, and of the superstition which prevents the offering of any consolation or assistance, under the idea that a sick man is under the immediate influence of the Deity, is taken from the narrative of the death of Duaterra, a friendly chieftain, recorded by Mr. Nicholas, vol. ii. p. ”