the last of the gascoignes.
155
The soft air felt like Love's own balm.
Phosphorescent bands passed o'er the sea,
Nothing breaking its calm tranquility!
Looking once more on the boundless main
He turned to Martin, then spoke again:—
"Oh! Martin, how balmy is the midnight air,
The moon-lit deep is so lovely and fair;
One would think that yon glist'ning waves
Bore the Peres from their bright ocean caves.
Yes, mark yon bright and beauteous star,
High as it is and from earth so far,—
Oh! does it not look calm and gently down?
Seeming to watch the earth and sea around.
As a messenger of God it appears to me
An omen of happiness I hope to see!
I know not why so silent and still a voice
Should now make my lonely heart rejoice."
Phosphorescent bands passed o'er the sea,
Nothing breaking its calm tranquility!
Looking once more on the boundless main
He turned to Martin, then spoke again:—
"Oh! Martin, how balmy is the midnight air,
The moon-lit deep is so lovely and fair;
One would think that yon glist'ning waves
Bore the Peres from their bright ocean caves.
Yes, mark yon bright and beauteous star,
High as it is and from earth so far,—
Oh! does it not look calm and gently down?
Seeming to watch the earth and sea around.
As a messenger of God it appears to me
An omen of happiness I hope to see!
I know not why so silent and still a voice
Should now make my lonely heart rejoice."
MARTIN'S TALE.
"Gascoigne, a tale of grief is mine,
In it a warning voice you may find;
Born in a country where the proud forest trees
Sighed, and bent to every gentle breeze,
And when eighteen summers I had seen,
Sorrow had ne'er shed a passing gleam.
"Gascoigne, a tale of grief is mine,
In it a warning voice you may find;
Born in a country where the proud forest trees
Sighed, and bent to every gentle breeze,
And when eighteen summers I had seen,
Sorrow had ne'er shed a passing gleam.
