31.12.2010, 18:51
THE CATTLE TRAIN.
Penmaenmawr.
All light or transient gloom—no hint of storm —
White wreaths of foam, born in blue waters, broke
Among the mountain shadows ; all bespoke
A summer's day on Mona and the Orme.
My open window overlook'd the rails,
When, suddenly, a cattle-train went by,
Rapt, in a moment, from my pitying eye,
As from their lowing mates in Irish vales ;
Close-pack'd and mute they stood, as close as bees,
Bewilder'd with their fright and narrow room ;
'Twas sad to see that meek-eyed hecatomb,
So fiercely hurried past our summer seas.
Our happy bathers, and our fresh sea-breeze.
And hills of blooming heather, to their doom.
HUMAN SORROWS.
Our happy bathers,—pardon my romance !
I thought of gladness only, for the tide
Ran sparkling to the land in merry dance ;
But, oh ! what sorrows haunt our sweet seaside !
Man, child, and w^oman mourn the wide world o'er ;
Yon maiden's snowy foot, that meets the wave,
Has just come faltering from her lover's grave,
Just pass'd that orphan-group upon the shore ;
The yacht glides gaily on, but as it nears
The beach, I see a night-black dress on board ;
The lonely widow dreams of those three years
Of summer-voyaging with her lost lord :
Too oft, when human figures fill the scene.
We count from woe to woe, with no glad hearts between !
Penmaenmawr.
All light or transient gloom—no hint of storm —
White wreaths of foam, born in blue waters, broke
Among the mountain shadows ; all bespoke
A summer's day on Mona and the Orme.
My open window overlook'd the rails,
When, suddenly, a cattle-train went by,
Rapt, in a moment, from my pitying eye,
As from their lowing mates in Irish vales ;
Close-pack'd and mute they stood, as close as bees,
Bewilder'd with their fright and narrow room ;
'Twas sad to see that meek-eyed hecatomb,
So fiercely hurried past our summer seas.
Our happy bathers, and our fresh sea-breeze.
And hills of blooming heather, to their doom.
HUMAN SORROWS.
Our happy bathers,—pardon my romance !
I thought of gladness only, for the tide
Ran sparkling to the land in merry dance ;
But, oh ! what sorrows haunt our sweet seaside !
Man, child, and w^oman mourn the wide world o'er ;
Yon maiden's snowy foot, that meets the wave,
Has just come faltering from her lover's grave,
Just pass'd that orphan-group upon the shore ;
The yacht glides gaily on, but as it nears
The beach, I see a night-black dress on board ;
The lonely widow dreams of those three years
Of summer-voyaging with her lost lord :
Too oft, when human figures fill the scene.
We count from woe to woe, with no glad hearts between !