医学微生物学 9th Edition 李凡 徐志
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PIGGERY.
GROUND PLAN.
THE INTERVIEW.
BY T. HEMPSTEAD.
THERE are oracles true in the depths of the mind,
There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,
There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,
To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;
There are voices of night with a language as plain
As the accents of love or the moanings of pain,
And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,
To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.
There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,
There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,
And thy summer of beauty has faded away,
Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray
Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,
And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen
As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,
As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,
Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,
As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.
Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;
Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,
And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart
Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.
In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,
In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,
In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,
Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,
In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,
My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!
My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,
Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,
From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,
Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;
Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,
The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;
I th l f th hill b th bl hi t
In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,
I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;
Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,
Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!
Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,
Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,
But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,
There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,
And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine
Has died with the lustre that made it divine.
Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows
Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs;
By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,
Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!
Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour—
May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;
They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,
But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!
Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,
From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,
Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,
On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.
Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,
Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,
Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,
Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,
Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,
To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!
Had thy heart been as true—ah, no! never my tongue
May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;
'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,
On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,
Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore
Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.
As I slept o'er my spirit strange terrors there came
As I slept, o er my spirit strange terrors there came,
Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,
Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,
When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.
On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,
Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,
Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyss
Of black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,
It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,
Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.
There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,
Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;
Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,
Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the dome
Of the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanse
Of chill vapor and spray by the terrible glance
Of the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;
From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;
By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine path
Of the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,
I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,
In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.
Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear
Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;
The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,
To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;
With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,
Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;
Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain
Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;
Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,
I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!
That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,
Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;
No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;
While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;
e t e su o e bea s, ay e e be t e;
Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,
Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!
Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,
And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.
SONNET.—CLOUDS.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
YE welcome clouds! what praises have ye won!
Host after host ye ever thronging come,
Careering on athwart the ethereal dome,
To tell of tempests past or hastening on.
With magic hues ye often deck the sky,
Enamelling it with red and purple, gold;
Like molten silver oft ye are unrolled,
And oft changed into palaces, ye lie.
The rainbow oft is pictured on your breast,
To tell of peace and plenty ye do bring;
Hail, snow, ye bear oft 'neath your ebon wing,
And tempests in your blackest mantle rest.
The thirsty earth ye wet with freshening showers,
Floods flowing from ye speak your desolating powers.
WILLIE MAYLIE.
BY CORNELIA M. DOWLING.
OH! do you not remember, love,
The sunny morn when we were plighted?
Your eye was bright in loving light,
And dancing like a star benighted.
That eye is dim and sunken now,
But still around it love reposes;
And bright the smile upon your cheek,
Though withered long are all its roses.
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My true, my noble Willie Maylie,
Years have rolled,
And we are old,
But still together, Willie Maylie!
And do you not remember, love,
The baby bright we used to cherish,
Not dreaming that so fair a bud
Might early fade away and perish?
Oh! sad it seemed to lay the form
So bright upon an earthy pillow;
Now, she is softly sleeping, love,
Alone, beneath the drooping willow!
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My loving, earnest Willie Maylie,
Roses bloom
Upon the tomb
Of her we loved, my Willie Maylie!
And do you not remember, love,
That we have journeyed long together,
The heart-light ever gilding o'er
The path of life in wintry weather?
We've almost crossed the ocean now,
Still breasting every billow gayly;
We soon shall reach the heavenly shore,
And rest together Willie Maylie!
And rest together, Willie Maylie!
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My own true-hearted Willie Maylie,
Heart to heart,
And ne'er to part,
We'll rest together, Willie Maylie!
ELLIE MAYLIE.
BY JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.
THE light of other days, my love,
Is o'er my vision softly stealing;
The music of thy bridal vows,
Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing.
But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow,
Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted,
Were half so dear to me as now,
When years have proved the love we plighted.
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My ever-winning Ellie Maylie,
Love like thine
To hearts like mine
Is air and sunlight, Ellie Maylie.
Down Youth's bright tide, our shallop light
Went floating on through banks of flowers;
But riper years brought clouds and night,
For Life must have both sun and showers
Well might thy Willie brave the storm,
And "breast the adverse billow gayly;"
For what were Youth and Flowers to Love,
Or all the world to Ellie Maylie
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My artless, clinging Ellie Maylie,
Breath to being,
Eye to seeing,
Wert thou to me, my Ellie Maylie.
Not where above a little grave
The early summer buds are springing,
Where willows in the sunlight wave,
Not there—not there my heart is clinging;
But there, amid those deathless flowers,
That up from Heav'n's pure soil are springing,
Where waits that angel-babe of ours,
'Tis there 'tis there my heart is clinging!
Tis there— tis there my heart is clinging!
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My gentle, trusting Ellie Maylie,
Lulled to rest
On Jesus' breast,
We'll meet in Heav'n, my Ellie Maylie!
THERE'S MUSIC.
BY HORACE G. BOUGHMAN.
THERE'S solemn music in the billows
Of the mighty, restless sea;
Lively music poured from brooklets,
As they gambol in their glee.
There's stirring music in the gale;
Soft music in the breeze;
Music sweet when winged minstrels
Carol 'mid the verdant trees.
There's awful music in the thunders;
Lulling music in the rains;
Music echoed from the forest,
In a thousand living strains.
There's silent music in the flowers,
And in the planet's genial fires;
Music grandest in the rivers,
Where they tune their cat'ract lyres.
There 's cheering music all around us,
Thrilling music from above;
And those magic tones should teach us
Sweeter, nobler strains of love.
DREAM PICTURE.
AN IMPROMPTU.
BY MRS. A. F. LAW.
BEHOLD, upon Life's swelling tide,
A little boat doth gently glide!
Its freight a Soul; Sin guides the helm,
And steers for Pleasure's baseless realm:
At prow, the gay-robed Tempter stands,
Obscuring, with his jewelled hands,
The Spirit's view; whilst shines afar
Hope's radiant, but deceiving star;
For, see, it fades, e'en as we gazing stand,
And leaves that bark a wreck upon the strand!
I WAS ROBBED OF MY SPIRIT'S
LOVE.
BY JARONETTE.
ON! give me some strong human will,
To lull this dream of woe;
It binds me with its iron chain,
And will not let me go.
Oh! give me strength to curb this strife,
And make my spirit know
My early days of happy life,
Of days long, long ago.
But now there's darkness on my path,
A shadow on my heart;
I each fond feeling seek to hide,
Trembling in ev'ry part!
They think that I'm forgetting thee;
But ah! they do not see
The coursing tears, when I'm alone,
Flowing so fast and free!
I list my bird's sweet matin song,
Its wild and gladsome chants;
But no, the dead'ning weight is here,
And still my spirit pants
For long-lost dreamy hours of joy,
When thou wert by my side,
And care seemed but a thing of name,
Not to my life allied.
Now, when the smile is on my lip,
It turns that smile to tears,
Stemming the life-blood of my heart
With weary weight of years.
It makes the strong proud limbs refuse
To roam this gladsome earth,
And sends me reeling, mad, within,
From out the sounds of mirth.
I pet each blossom from my shrubs,
And call them by thy name;
I ask them if their spirits tell
That I am still the same.
A pure white rose that bloomed this morn
I went this eve to take;
"The spirit of the flow'r" had fled,
The cold its heart did break!
They tell me that thou carest not
For woman's love or fame;
That thou speak'st lightly of them all
That bear the gentle name.
But oh! I heed them not the while,
They have not read thy heart;
I know you have not chang'd so much
Since we were forced to part.
And though they bid me see thee not,
My spirit meets thee oft
In dream-land, where the flow'rs bloom bright,
The air so calm and soft.
The angels then are by my side,
They kiss me with thy lips,
And clasp hope's rainbow round my heart,
In that dream-hour of bliss.
And sometimes in thy weary hours
Recall the past, and weave
The dream of hallowed love and hope
I'll ever for thee breathe.
Then wander forth amid the throng,
And seek some gentle one,
One that will honor thy dear name,
And take her to thy home.
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.
BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.
The following lines were suggested by a remark in Washington
Irving's "Student of Salamanca," that the old alchymist died just as
he was on the point of discovering the philosopher's stone.
THE walls were sweating with a festering damp,
An icy coldness filled the dreary room,
A little solitary flickering lamp
With sickly radiance glimmered through the gloom,
While on a tattered couch an old man lay,
Half-starved with hunger, weary, gaunt, and gray.
His feeble eyes with ardor yet were strained
Upon a yellow parchment dull with age,
As, while one lingering ray of life remained,
That single ray must shine on Learning's page;
And while he lay immersed in study deep,
He murmured thus, as one who speaks in sleep:—
"One little hour more, and all is mine!
Mine the bright prize so long I've sought in vain!
Mine the lost secret, which for countless time
Philosophers have labored to regain!
Mine wealth, and youth, and joy, and nevermore,
O Death! shall I be subject to thy power!
"One hour more, and all these golden dreams
Which still have cheered me on from day to day,
Shall be no more like fleeting radiant beams,
Glancing one moment bright, then snatched away;
But all my visions, howe'er bright their hue,
No more be false, no more be aught but true!
"Ye elementary spirits, who so long
With ready wiles have baffled all my art
One hour more, and I in power strong
Shall see ye all in helpless rage depart!
At last your devilish malice all o'erthrown,
At last the great elixir all my own!"
Thus spoke the alchymist; but ruthless Death,
Who strikes alike the mighty and the low,
And stops the monarch's and plebeian's breath
With equal haste, and with the selfsame blow,
Had laid his icy hand upon his heart,
While bidding him in iron tones "depart!"
The lamp burnt lower, still his eye was fixed
Upon the parchment, while his trembling hand
Within a crucible the compound mixed,
With which completed he would soon command
Unending treasure, boundless glittering wealth,
The priceless draught of endless youth and health.
But from his stiffening band the parchment dropped,
As from his lips broke forth a hollow moan,
The coursing current of his life-blood stopped,
His spirit fled just as its task was done!
Closing his eyes upon the lifelong strife,
He left untouched the sparkling cup of Life.
THE SONG-BIRDS OF SPRING.
BY NORMAN W. BRIDGE.
FROM out the airy balcony
Of many a sylvan cot and dome,
Is poured soul-melting minstrelsy,
That cheers my lonely heart and home.
Around each warbler's chosen haunt
Are heard sweet notes of joy and praise;
From fruit-trees comes the robin's chant,
And from each bush the sparrow's lays.
Amid the poplar's trembling lyre,
That o'er the lawn its shadow throws,
Rich warblings of a linnet-choir
My soul with melody o'erflows;
While from a willow waving near,
And where the vine its trellis girds,
Steals softly o'er the tuneful ear
The symphony of yellow-birds.
Upon the elm-tree's lofty bough
The oriole serenely sings,
While from a puerile branch below
His loved one in her castle swings:
And in the flower-enamelled leas,
Where alders grace the streamlet's brink,
I hear the charming melodies
Of many a sweet-voiced bobolink.
And from yon wildwood's emerald crown
Come oft, in notes of heavenly tone,
The hymns of thrushes, "wood," and "brown,"
And warbling throats to me unknown.
Bird-notes are all so rich and clear,
It seems as though their vocal powers
Were borrowed from some higher sphere
Than this discordant world of ours.
Nor is their magic gift of song
The only charm they o'er me throw;
They ne'er the poor and helpless wrong,
Nor swell the tide of human woe.
Their voice is ne'er with slander fraught,
Or friendships in misfortune change,
Nor speech or deed betrayeth aught
Of av'rice, hatred, and revenge.
They seek not, with malicious tongue,
To stir the bosom with mistrust,
By telling what 's been said and sung,
How all our faults have been discussed;
Till Jealousy within awakes,
And Love with doubt is much annoyed,
The golden clasp of Friendship breaks,
And peace of families destroyed.
No rival's fame they derogate,
A brother falsely charge with sin,
Hoping thereby to elevate
Their name above more worthy kin:
They seem not e'er to envy those
Whose brilliant plumes their own outshine,
Or to rejoice at others' woes
Whose powers of song are more divine.
Nor have their hearts the cruel pride
O'er humbler garbs and gifts to sneer;
The lame, their hapless fate deride,
Or o'er the weak to domineer.
No bitter taunt, unfeeling jest,
The boast of pow'r, wealth, rank, or birth,
E'er flow from soaring warbler's breast,
To wound the heart of lowly worth.
Nor do they play the hypocrite
Nor do they play the hypocrite
With faithful, fond, confiding friends,
Looks, manners, language counterfeit,
To gain ignobly selfish ends.
No word or act their aim belies,
Or yield they e'er to sin's control,
And sell, for worldly merchandise,
The jewels of a virtuous soul.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
BY MARY NEAL.
THY heart is young and light, maiden;
Thy sunny brow is fair;
For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave
Life's brightest sunbeams there.
Brothers and sisters turn to bless
Thy ever-welcome form,
And a father's arm is near to shield
Thee from life's lightest storm.
But more, still more than this, maiden—
A mother's heart is near,
To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush—
To note each starting tear—
To gaze upon thy happy face,
And pray that thy young heart
May long be spared the bitter woe
From cherished friends to part.
Oh, Love will make fond hearts, maiden,
To offer at thy shrine;
And Friendship many a blooming wreath
Around thy path entwine:
But the tears that o'er thy restless couch
From a mother's eyes were shed,
Will moist a green spot in thy heart
When those bright flowers are dead!
Then watch those loving eyes, maiden,
That beam upon thee now;
And cherish every silver hair
That stealeth o'er that brow:
For a mother's love's the purest ray,
The brightest day-star given,
To light us o'er Life's darkened way,
And lead us up to Heaven.
TO AN ABSENT DEAR ONE.
BY FANNIE M. C.
OH, where art thou, beloved one, at this hour,
So meet for fond affection's holy power,
For all the tender memories that will
The lonely bosoms of the absent fill?
Far, far away! Yet as my tearful eye
Dwells on yon little watchfire in the sky,
This thought comes stealing on its beam of light,
Our hearts shall meet at Mercy's throne to-night!
TO IDA.
BY HORACE PHELPS, M. D.
