(_For the Mirror._)
Why should their sleep thus silent be, from streams and flow'rs away,
While wanders thro' the sunny air the cuckoo's mellow lay;
Those forms, whose eyes reflected heaven in their mild depth of blue,
Whose hair was like the wave that shines o'er sands of golden hue?
Are these the altars of their rest, the pure and sacred shrines;
Where Memory, rapt o'er visions fled, her holy spell combines?
The sire, the child, oh, waft them back to their delightful dell,
When, like a voice from heavenly lands, awakes the curfew bell.
And have they no remembrance here, the cheeks that softly glow'd,
The amber hair, that, on the breeze, in gleaming tresses flow'd,
The hymn which hail'd the Sabbath morn,--the fix'd and fervid eye;
Must these sweet treasures of the heart in shade and silence lie?
Oh, no! thou place of sanctities! a ray has from thee gone,
Dearer than noontide's gorgeous light, or Sabbath's music tone;
A spirit! whose bright ark is far beyond the clouds and waves,
Albeit there is a sunless gloom on these, their lonely graves!
REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
* * * * *
BAGLEY WOOD.
(_For the Mirror_.)
Bagley is situated about two miles and a half from Oxford, on the
Abingdon-road, and affords an agreeable excursion to the Oxonians, who,
leaving the city of learning, pass over the old bridge, where the
observatory of the celebrated Friar Bacon was formerly standing.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25