Berea High School - Prima Luce Yearbook (Berea, NC)

Page 93 text:

FIRST LOVE ' Tis sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier ; By distance mellowed, o’er the waters sweep. ' Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, ’Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf ; ’tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. ’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. ’Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; Sweet to the father is his first-born’s birth ; Sweet is revenge, especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. ’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels, By blood or ink ; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend ; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam’s recollection of his fall ; The tale of knowledge has been plucked— all’s known— And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. — Lord Byron. | Page 100 )

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EXILE OF ERIN There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The clew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o ' er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the hold anthem of Erin go bragh. “Sad is my fate l” said the heart-broken stranger ; “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But 1 have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me, Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. “Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit they sea-beaten shore ; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me or live to deplore ! “Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ; And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? O, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast- fading treasure? Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they can not recall. “Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields — sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion — Erin mavourneen, — Erin go bragh !” — Thomas Campbell. [ Page 99

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PRIM A LUCE THE DEATH-BED We watched her breathing through the night — - Her breathing sofe and low — As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our weary hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied ; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, tier quiet eyelids closed ; she had Another morn than ours. - — Thomas Hood.