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قراءة كتاب The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 20, No. 564, September 1, 1832
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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 20, No. 564, September 1, 1832
fire—it can be nothing less—
Deserts its lonely shrine; but I must give
The last bright touch to this bewitching form,
This pictured rainbow of my solitude!
I have invested her with loveliness
More pure than beings of the earth assume,
And Memory calls her beauteous image back
From the forgotten things of distant years,
Warm, eloquent, and holy, as the balm
Of flow'rs impearl'd with dew, which summer skies
Diffuse around—I mark the marble brow
Of polish'd symmetry, the eyes more blue
Than violets in their vernal bloom, the neck
Swanlike, and moulded with ethereal grace;
And feel their magic influence on my mind.
I will embody them, and give the stamp
Of fervid genius to their various charms,
Ere this last aspiration is extinct
In the unbroken slumbers of the tomb!
For I have had prophetic monitors
To warn me of my fate, and I must leave
All that is lovely in this lovely world.
It is a summer eve—the sunbeams tinge
The glassy bosom of the quiet lake;
The music of the birds enchants the air,
And Nature's verdant robe is gemm'd with flow'rs.
From which the breeze derives its liquid balm.
Oh! in my youth, this hour has been to me
Bright as the fairy arch upon the clouds
Of earthly grief and gloom, and even now
It gives the silent fountain of my heart
A renovated action, and recalls
The energies that long ago were mine.
My fancy wanders as I thus portray
The lineaments on which 'tis bliss to gaze:
How beautiful their prototype! to whom
I breath'd in youth the most impassion'd words,
And felt as if Elysium had disclosed
Its glory to my eye—around this brow,
Stainless as marble, cluster golden curls
Like sunbeams on the bosom of the cloud,
And o'er the radiant azure orbs beneath,
The snowy lids suspend their glossy fringe.
Upon such beauty shall my pencil stamp
Its immortality, and make it seem
More beautiful in Fancy's softest glow;
And, my beloved! when this warm hand that traced
Thy pictured charms is mouldering in the dust,
Thou wilt proclaim the painter's mastery,
And consecrate the canvass with a power
Which shall defy the wasting hand of Time!
G.R.C.
PRESERVATION OF A HUMAN BODY.
In a vault under the Font of the Old Church of St. Dunstan in the West, has lately been discovered the leaden coffin of a "Mr. Moody," (without a Christian name,) who "died in the year 1747, aged 70 years." After this interment of 85 years, the face was found not decomposed, but perfect; the mouth extended—the teeth and eye-brows unimpaired, and to the touch, the flesh solid (covered with a cloth) and no appearance of worms; which puzzles the common opinion that such insects prey upon the dead:
"And food for worms brave Percy!"
exclaimed Prince Henry over the expiring body of Hotspur.
This observation was made by a person who saw the remains on the 8th of August, 1832, an older object by twelve years, and without teeth,—a gum-biter!
AN OLD INHABITANT OF CLIFFORD'S INN.
THE ROSE OF THE CASTLE.
A summer morn, with all its golden light,
Gilded the snowy bosom of the cloud,
And robed the verdant earth with sunny hues.
The bees sang music to their passion-flow'rs,
The birds, with melody which seem'd to gush
From joyful hearts, entranced the crystal air;
But, spectre-like, the ancient castle frown'd
Over the deep, whose softly-rippling waves
Reflected its array of ruined towers.
In times of old, the gallant chiefs for whom
Its stately walls arose, the men who made
Their names a terror to the Saracen,
Adopted as their symbol in the field,
The rose—that flower of faction and of blood!
I saw it sculptured on the marble shield
Which graced the lofty gate, it was enroll'd
Among the records of departed days;
Over the hearth, upon the pictured crest
It met mine eye, and to my mind recall'd
The glorious deeds of England's chivalry.
The Rose—it appear'd on the portal proud,
Which the ivy robed in its mournful shroud;
As the sunshine gleam'd in the silent hall
I traced its image upon the wall.
Although the castle was old and grey,
And its summer of glory had pass'd away,
Though the roof had fall'n, and the walls sunk low,
The rose still smiled in the sunbeam's glow.
But, oh! that symbol of purest faith
Had cheer'd the heart in the hour of death,
And shone triumphant o'er the brave
As they crush'd the power of the sceptred slave.
It seem'd like a spell on the lips of all
Whom the trumpet call'd from their festive hall,
And the soldier to it upturn'd his eye
As he lay on the grassy turf to die.
But it gleams no more on land or sea,
A star to the feudal chivalry!
On the silent hearth, and the ivied tower,
Hath it found a last forsaken bower. G.R.C.
Retrospective Gleanings.
SPIRIT DRINKING.
(To the Editor.)
Much as has been said about gin-drinking in the present times, it would appear from the following curious extract, that our forefathers (of the last century,) were more addicted to that pernicious custom, than we are even in the nineteenth century:—
"Several of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the County of Middlesex, having, in pursuance of an order of a former Quarter Session, made an inquiry into the houses and places where Geneva and other such pernicious distilled liquors are sold by retail, about this time made their report; by which it appears, to the great surprise and concern of those who have the trade and welfare of the public truly at heart, that there are in the limits of Westminster, Holborn, the Tower, and Finsbury divisions (exclusive of London and Southwark) 7,044 houses and shops, where the said liquors are publicly sold by retail, (which in several parishes, is computed to be, at least, every sixth house,) besides what is privately sold in garrets, cellars, back-rooms, and other private places.
"That of this number, no less than 2,105 are unlicensed; and that Geneva is now sold, not only by distillers and Geneva shops, but by above 80 other inferior trades; particularly chandlers, weavers, tobacconists, shoemakers, carpenters, barbers, tailors, dyers, labourers, &c. &c.; there being in the Hamlets of Bethnal Green, upwards of 90 weavers who sell this liquor."
"January 20th, 1736." G.K.
THE DEATH OF ADAM.
(From the German.)
When Adam was nine hundred and thirty years old, he felt in himself the word of the judge, "Thou shalt die." Then spoke Adam to the weeping Eve: "Let my sons come before me, that I may see and may bless them." They all came at their father's word, and stood before him, many hundred in number, and prayed for his life. "Who among you," said the old man, "will go to the holy mountain? Very likely he may find pity for me, and bring to me the fruit of the tree of life." Immediately, all his sons offered themselves; and Seth, the most pious, was chosen by his father for the message. He besprinkled his head with ashes, hastened, and delayed