Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 329, March, 1843. Various

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      Browning o'er the pipes are simmering,

      Dip this fairy rod within;

      If like glass the surface glimmering,

      Then the casting may begin.

      Brisk, brisk to the rest—

      Quick!—the fusion to test;

      And welcome, my merry men, welcome the sign,

      If the ductile and brittle united combine.

      For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak,

      And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek,

      Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong:

      So be it with thee, if for ever united,

      The heart to the heart flows in one, love-delighted;

      Illusion is brief, but Repentance is long.

      Lovely, thither are they bringing,

      With her virgin wreath, the Bride!

      To the love-feast clearly ringing,

      Tolls the church-bell far and wide!

      With that sweetest holyday,

      Must the May of Life depart;

      With the cestus loosed—away

      Flies ILLUSION from the heart!

      Yet Love lingers lonely,

      When Passion is mute,

      And the blossoms may only

      Give way to the fruit.

      The Husband must enter

      The hostile life,

      With struggle and strife,

      To plant or to watch,

      To snare or to snatch,

      To pray and importune,

      Must wager and venture

      And hunt down his fortune!

      Then flows in a current the gear and the gain,

      And the garners are fill'd with the gold of the grain,

      Now a yard to the court, now a wing to the centre!

      Within sits Another,

      The thrifty Housewife;

      The mild one, the mother—

      Her home is her life.

      In its circle she rules,

      And the daughters she schools,

      And she cautions the boys,

      With a bustling command,

      And a diligent hand

      Employ'd she employs;

      Gives order to store,

      And the much makes the more;

      Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smelling,

      And the hum of the spindle goes quick through the dwelling;

      And she hoards in the presses, well polish'd and full,

      The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool;

      Blends the sweet with the good, and from care and endeavour

      Rests never!

      Blithe the Master (where the while

      From his roof he sees them smile)

      Eyes the lands, and counts the gain;

      There, the beams projecting far,

      And the laden store-house are,

      And the granaries bow'd beneath

      The blessings of the golden grain;

      There, in undulating motion,

      Wave the corn-fields like an ocean.

      Proud the boast the proud lips breathe:—

      "My house is built upon a rock,

      And sees unmoved the stormy shock

      Of waves that fret below!"

      What chain so strong, what girth so great,

      To bind the giant form of Fate?—

      Swift are the steps of Woe.

      Now the casting may begin;

      See the breach indented there:

      Ere we run the fusion in,

      Halt—and speed the pious prayer!

      Pull the bung out—

      See around and about

      What vapour, what vapour—God help us!—has risen?—

      Ha! the flame like a torrent leaps forth from its prison!

      What, friend, is like the might of fire

      When man can watch and wield the ire?

      Whate'er we shape or work, we owe

      Still to that heaven-descended glow.

      But dread the heaven-descended glow,

      When from their chain its wild wings go,

      When, СКАЧАТЬ