Infantine effusions By Ernest Charles Jones, written by him, between the eighth and tenth years of his age |
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| [RODOLSKI] |
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 | Infantine effusions |  |
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[RODOLSKI]
EXTRACTS FROM A SMALL POEM, written by the Author called Rodolski.
Describe will I, a ruined tower,
Where sing the birds of night
Or some damp-dew'd lonely bower—
Beneath the meteors flight.
Where sing the birds of night
Or some damp-dew'd lonely bower—
Beneath the meteors flight.
Where whistling winds—that pierce the heart,
And cavern'd echo's round—
A foreboding dread impart—
Repeating every sound;
And cavern'd echo's round—
A foreboding dread impart—
Repeating every sound;
When the heavy rain drops fall
From the high beech tree,
And frown the night-clouds like a pall,
And fiery light'nings flee;
From the high beech tree,
And frown the night-clouds like a pall,
And fiery light'nings flee;
And here, and there, from out the pile—
Half ruin'd—where it stand,
And mouldering—to its native soil
—Half even—with the land;
Half ruin'd—where it stand,
And mouldering—to its native soil
—Half even—with the land;
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There,—on the moss-o'er—grown wall,
And in a ruin'd bower—
A fountain play'd—with silver fall—
And echoed—thro' the tower.
And in a ruin'd bower—
A fountain play'd—with silver fall—
And echoed—thro' the tower.
Interlaced—the moon appears—
With clouds that float in air—
And as she—her crescent—rears—
The clouds—the west winds bear.
With clouds that float in air—
And as she—her crescent—rears—
The clouds—the west winds bear.
She trembles o'er the dark—green vale—
And lights the Hermit of the dale—
Majestic shines—the nights fair lamp,
Through misty fogs—and vap'ry damp—
Unconquer'd thou—by earthly light—
Hail!—fair regent of the night!
And lights the Hermit of the dale—
Majestic shines—the nights fair lamp,
Through misty fogs—and vap'ry damp—
Unconquer'd thou—by earthly light—
Hail!—fair regent of the night!
Where rivers through the green fields wind
And gently murmur round—
Ruffled by the western-wind—
O'er pebble studded ground;
And gently murmur round—
Ruffled by the western-wind—
O'er pebble studded ground;
Or waft the roses balmy sigh
To some sequester'd glade
Ascend the azure concave high—
Perfume the olive shade.
To some sequester'd glade
Ascend the azure concave high—
Perfume the olive shade.
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The night crept on with spreading wing—
That seem'd to shade the air—
While the mournful night-birds sing
And tune their sad song there.
That seem'd to shade the air—
While the mournful night-birds sing
And tune their sad song there.
Still was the air—still as the grave—
Still—as the ashes of the brave—
Where in the tomb forgotten lay—
Men mould'ring to their native clay.
What light is that—along the plain?
Aurora—now begins her reign!—
With wonted grace—and roseate hand—
She gilds yon distant mount!—
And draws the night dews from the land,
Reflected in the fount.
She radiant comes—her glory shines
On cities—temples—gardens—shrines.
Still—as the ashes of the brave—
Where in the tomb forgotten lay—
Men mould'ring to their native clay.
What light is that—along the plain?
Aurora—now begins her reign!—
With wonted grace—and roseate hand—
She gilds yon distant mount!—
And draws the night dews from the land,
Reflected in the fount.
She radiant comes—her glory shines
On cities—temples—gardens—shrines.
Goddess of the orient dawn!—
Deity—of purple morn!
Hear my song—my soul inspire!—
And waft unto me—Phoebus' fire.
The sun rose bright—in golden orb—
The vap'ry night damps to absorb;
He rose—in golden panobly—
That mark'd his glorious course on high;—
He rose—on steeple—tower—and dome—
He rose—upon the bulbul's home—
Where he tunes his mournful lay
Nor ceases—but at dawn of day.
Deity—of purple morn!
Hear my song—my soul inspire!—
And waft unto me—Phoebus' fire.
The sun rose bright—in golden orb—
The vap'ry night damps to absorb;
He rose—in golden panobly—
That mark'd his glorious course on high;—
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He rose—upon the bulbul's home—
Where he tunes his mournful lay
Nor ceases—but at dawn of day.
With gold—he tinted every mount—
Shone reflected, in the sea—
Smiled upon each murmuring fount—
But—Rodolski—not on thee!
Shone reflected, in the sea—
Smiled upon each murmuring fount—
But—Rodolski—not on thee!
From Lesta's chamber—you might see—
Stamboul—not far away—
And darkening groves of olive tree—
That seem'd to shade the day.
A veil o'er Lesta—lightly wreath'd
And moved as gentle zephyr breath'd;—
A purple robe that waved around—
By myrtle wreath was loosely bound—
Her brow—with fairest roses—crown'd.
Stamboul—not far away—
And darkening groves of olive tree—
That seem'd to shade the day.
A veil o'er Lesta—lightly wreath'd
And moved as gentle zephyr breath'd;—
A purple robe that waved around—
By myrtle wreath was loosely bound—
Her brow—with fairest roses—crown'd.
22
EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME.
Her silver veil, the night expandsO'er blest Cytherea's lands—
Like locks around the mountains brow—
The darker-spreading shadows grow.
Now dun—now bright—
With magical light
They grow—and show—
The cloud upborne Queen;
Whose silver reign—
Soft lights the plain
And dimly—she is seen.
Sweet zephyrs bear—
The clouds in air—
And as they fly—
Across the sky—
Die—upon the sinking wind.
The silver sound—
Of bulbul round—
Sad swelling oft
In notes more soft—
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Each twinkling star—
Lights from afar,
With silver shine—
Upon some shrine—
Upon the death—stone of the brave.
The night—is past
And dawning fast
The dark clouds fly—
And leave the sky—
Sublimely bright
With Phoebus light.
'Tis dawn—'tis dawn!—
The bell of morn—
Proclaims the day—
Enjoy sweet may—
And weave a garland of green;
Where rivers flow—
Reflecting glow—
And revel—in the scene.
24
EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME.
To slavery's land,—a long farewell!
Though mellow is the Bulbul's sound
Yet there—the bearded Sultan's dwell
And are the curse—of Eastern ground.
Though mellow is the Bulbul's sound
Yet there—the bearded Sultan's dwell
And are the curse—of Eastern ground.
And let th'enchanting Lyre swell
—Where the mourning cypress shades—
In mellow strains—sublimely tell—
The tales of—Stamboul's glades.
—Where the mourning cypress shades—
In mellow strains—sublimely tell—
The tales of—Stamboul's glades.
The tales of faithful Greece relate—
Her honor—fortune—and her fate.
Soon may Athenian banners wave!—
O'er the cruel Moslem's grave.
Farewell—yp urp le tints of air!
That winged zephyrs gently bear—
Where Aurora, with her rosy hand—
Brushes the dew-drops from the land—
And oft with double lustre shines—
O'er the false Mahomet's shrines.
Where zephyr is the Olive's fan—
Where sing the birds of—Franguestan.
A last farewell!—unto the land!—
Where waves in air—the Moslem's brand;—
A last farewell!—to yonder dome—
For it is—Mahomet's home—
Farewell!—while yet a glance I glean—
Of Stamboul—and her vallies green!
Her honor—fortune—and her fate.
Soon may Athenian banners wave!—
O'er the cruel Moslem's grave.
Farewell—yp urp le tints of air!
That winged zephyrs gently bear—
Where Aurora, with her rosy hand—
Brushes the dew-drops from the land—
And oft with double lustre shines—
O'er the false Mahomet's shrines.
Where zephyr is the Olive's fan—
Where sing the birds of—Franguestan.
25
Where waves in air—the Moslem's brand;—
A last farewell!—to yonder dome—
For it is—Mahomet's home—
Farewell!—while yet a glance I glean—
Of Stamboul—and her vallies green!
| Infantine effusions | |