A Nonsense Anthology Part 10

Shall the soul's delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss.

_Francis G. Stokes_.

NONSENSE

Good reader, if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids with their tresses green Dancing upon the western billow; If you have seen at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding sh.o.r.e, The fairy train their ringlets weave Glancing along the spangled green;-- If you have seen all this, and more, G.o.d bless me! what a deal you've seen!

_Thomas Moore_.

SUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES

He comes with herald clouds of dust; Ecstatic frenzies rend his breast; A moment, and he graced the earth-- Now, seek him at the eagle's nest.

Hark! see'st thou not the torrent's flash Far shooting o'er the mountain height?

Hear'st not the billow's solemn roar, That echoes through the vaults of night?

Anon the murky cloud is riven, The lightnings leap in sportive play, And through the clanging doors of heaven, In calm effulgence bursts the day.

Hope, peering from her fleecy car, Smiles welcome to the coming spring, And birds with blithesome songs of praise Make every grove and valley ring.

What though on pinions of the blast The sea-gulls sweep with leaden flight?

What though the watery caverns deep Gleam ghostly on the wandering sight?

Is there no music in the trees To charm thee with its frolic mirth?

Must Care's wan phantom still beguile And chain thee to the stubborn earth?

Lo! Fancy from her magic realm Pours Boreal gleams adown the pole.

The tidal currents lift and swell-- Dead currents of the ocean's soul.

Yet never may their mystic streams Breathe whispers of the mournful past, Or Pallas wake her sounding lyre Mid Ether's columned temples vast.

Grave History walks again the earth As erst it did in days of eld, When seated on the golden throne Her hand a jewelled sceptre held.

The Delphian oracle is dumb, Dread c.u.mae wafts no words of fate, To fright the eager souls that press Through sullen Lethe's iron gate.

But deeper shadows gather o'er The vales that sever night and morn; And darkness folds with brooding wing The rustling fields of waving corn.

Then issuing from his bosky lair The crafty tiger crouches low, Or thunders from the frozen north The white bear lapped in Arctic snow.

Thus shift the scenes till high aloft The young moon sets her crescent horn, And in gray evening's emerald sea The beauteous Star of Love is born.

_Anonymous_.

WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS

When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells;

When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble all, Where England's loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures;

There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

_W.M. Thackeray_.

LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions, Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian G.o.ddess weeping, Mourned Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, tune the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Armed in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful Cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy, smooth Maeander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, So the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

_Alexander Pope_.

FRANGIPANNI