Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest!“Peace” is thy banner and thy mottoed crest—An open boon to all. The weary wait—The weary wait and sigh to see the gateOf dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky.The merchant’s daughter, as each morn goes by,Looks on the scenes without, and counts the daysThat fly—six, five, four, three, two, one—and laysA hopeful joy upon the day to come,When she shall by her father sit, and someInspiring volume read, or, in a walkThrough wood or vale, employ the time in talk,Sweet and instructively. The widow waitsTo see her son come home, and anxious getsWhen near the hour has drawn that she shall hearThe step of her sole comforter draw near,With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy.The orphans wait, and every night employA time in prayer, that God be pleased to spareTheir elder brother, and bestow him fairAnd happy days. They long the Sabbath day;For then he comes among them, and doth layA cheerful spirit to the humble home;Pure and delicious truths he tells them fromA flowing heart, and they all love him well.All people love the Sabbath—they who dwellIn early years of innocence and joy,And they of lusty prime, whom cares employA thousand snares to tangle or to stem.But more than all, the Sabbath is to themA day of sweet delight who totter nearThe precincts of the grave without a fear—Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere longTo leave the weary ranks they now belong,Of feeble age, and, passing death’s dark throng,Attain the kingdom of eternal song.
Of late stood Time amid the scenes of life,With hoary locks and beard of silvery grey,And furrows deep upon his sage-like brow.Beside him was a dial of huge size,Whereby he shewed the minutes as they grewTo hours, and days, and years in silent haste.He was in wistful mood, and, while I saw,Did point his finger to the midnight hour.’Twas in a dream this wondrous scene appeared,Or in that stupor which is known betweenThe rule of sleep and wake, when neither claimThe power of holding a supreme command,Which may be call’d half slumber and half wake.Morpheus had drawn his stilly presence nigh,And hush’d all things into a calm profound.A thousand wondrous thoughts upon my mind,In order unaccounted, had gone by.Then as they passed a striking vision came;’Twas bright and lucent as the early dawn,Which pays obeisance to a smiling morn.The stage of life was there before me set;The curtain rose, and on it I beheldA maiden fair, the foremost in the act.Her mien was noble, and she held erectA form which was in Beauty’s garb arrayed.Her eye was sparkling as the morning dew,And full of language—full that it o’erflowed.Her teeth were white and pure as Winter snow;I saw them peer between her cherry lips,As these were moving in a gracious smile,Which traced her features like a silvery stream,And ran from view adown her dove-like neck.Her cheek was blooming as a new-blown rose;A modest flush came o’er it as she stood.Her voice was sweet like music on the air,Thrown from a harp touched by a fairy sprite;And in her look a happy tranquil dwelt.Bound with the crown of virtue which she woreUpon her brow (a diadem of gems)Were the sweet flowers of purity, which gaveA charm more sweet than all the rest to see.In short, she was perfection’s perfect choice,And Beauty’s fairest child of all the groupOf Eve’s unnumbered daughters, who abide,Or have abode, amid these mingled scenes.’Twas now the season of her noonday prime,Wherein she might have gloried if she would;But the calm spirit which within her movedWould not allow like vanities to rise.Amid the lucent streams of mellow light,Which showered its fullest softness down on her,She stood—the beauteous maiden stood adored.To see the gay perfection of her charmsCame wonder, peering forth; for he was luredWith an intense delight to see a formClothed and adorned in such simplicity,Yet of unbounded elegance the while.And far her fame had spread throughout the land.Then soon from town and city numbers came,And from the quiet of their country homes,To cast their admiration at her feet;For they had longed with their own eyes to seeHer nymph-like form, and with their ears to hearThe music of her voice, and for themselvesTo read the language of her sparkling eye.And many sought to win her as his own;And to her shrine they brought rich offerings all,Each of the best and choicest of his stores.And she beheld the riches which they brought,And heard the words of flattery which they bore,And marked the attentions lavished unto her,But gave no heed to these, and deemed them allAs idle and deluding vanities;For she beheld they sought the outward charms,But minded not the treasures of the heart,Which are more precious than all other gain.So she did make, in firm yet kindly words,An answer of refusal unto each,And held her from them in discreet reserve.Erewhile another came, whom she beheldSought more the secret worth than outward charms,And that he was in every purpose fair,And just and honorable, true and good,And that he brought no dazzling gifts to temptHer with, that he might win her heart and hand.And he in silent heed did note awhileHer nature and the ordering of her ways,And was much pleased to see them ordered well,And that the beauties of a virtuous mindWere not extinguished by her outward charms,As is, alas! the case too frequently.Then from this admiration yet awhileDid rise a love fair and reciprocal;And in due course he sought her heart and hand,And she did yield them gladly unto him.Thus they were in the bonds of wedlock joined,To mete the measure of their lives in one;And in their home was harmony and peace,And in all things they were together true.Time stood, and from his hand the hours, and days,Anon, and years dealt listlessly away;And, ere a while, she merged on ripened years,With many honors rising from her path,Had sons and daughters, and had trained them well,As it is fitting that a mother should,And had her mission filled in every way.Then was her act concluded, and she leftThe scenes of life and all the changes there,And came in gladness to a higher realm,And there abode together with the just,Who to their Maker give the glory due,And who in the affairs of life forgetNot to ascribe Him praise and worship most.The curtain fell, and, lo! a clear, strange voiceBroke from the hidden scenes, declaring thus,And with the words a thrilling power was borne,That every passer in amazement turned:“Blessed are they who walk in virtue’s way!A maid of virtue is a precious gem,More priceless than the pearl of many seas.Her mind is pure as snow which Winter breathes,White and unspotted with the stains of time.Her memory is like the gorgeous sun,Which hath gone down behind the distant hills,Yet sends a stream of glory from its seatUpon the firmament where once it rode,Diffusing there a sweet and golden light.So shall the recollections of her shineUpon the hearts of men, who in her timeDid know her worth and the fair fruits thereof.”Scarce had these words been uttered, when again.The curtain rose, which hid the stage of life;And, lo! I saw the like fair scenes were there,Which in the former act had been displayed;But she who stood the foremost in the actWas other maiden, yet as sweet and fair.Her every limb of beauty was adorned,And in her face did winning brightness shine.A manner gay she had, which unto menWas sweet and charmful, that whoe’er beheldWas at the sight of thrilling rapture filled;And all her mirth was gay and ever full,And all her laughter fraught of dancing fun.A roguish eye she had, from which went forthGlances askance, to plunder, as they wot,From simple hearts, which could not turn awayThe wily darts which she cast unto them.Her cheek was bright, and of a rosy hue,And wondrous was the fashion of her lips,And they did seem to speak soft tales of loveIn every motion which pervaded them.Which turned to rapture all who gazed thereon,So deep the passion which they pouted forth.Her locks were golden, and with braids entwinedIn such a magic manner, and they wavedUpon the breezes in a sportive way.Her raiment was of Fashion’s last design,And so arranged to shew her perfect formIn all the fine proportions it displayed.Her soft white arms were bared unto the view,And scarce she needed other charm to hold,Than did the vesture sideward drawn revealOf beauty lying in a tranquil sleepUpon a pillow of the sweetest form.And she was proud of graces like to these;And sadly well she did her beauty know.Forth from the ranks of town and city cameA host of pert admirers, to gazeUpon her sweet and all-bewitching charms,And cull a little frolic from her hand.And she was free and open unto all,And held to each full gaiety and wit,And on her manner kept no check at all,And strove to seem more pleasing every hour,And loved the admiration which they gave.Time stood, and from his hand the hours, and days,Anon, and years dealt listlessly away;And one by one her charms were seen to go;For every year, as it sped on its course,Plucked from the flower of purity a leaf,And from her beauty took the brightest gem,Until all virtue had been torn away,And beauty shorn of every single germ.Thus was her ruin sealed, and day by dayShe sank into more hopeless depths of sin,And was more hardened unto evil ways.Her form grew haggard and uncouth to see,And in her eye a dark defiance frowned.Her soul turned black unto its very core,And was polluted as a mountain streamDrugged with the fluid from a bloody war.Her brow was stamped with hatred and revenge.Woe and distraction, from these loathsome fonts,Fierce as hell-torrents, burst upon her path;And she did spurn repentance. And I sawThe Evil One from depths of darkness come;And in her way he set a fearful pit,And death appeared the entrance thereunto.Then it was opened wider in her way;I heard an awful shriek, and, lo! beheldThat she was swallowed in its boundless depths.Thus was the act concluded, and againThe curtain fell upon the stage of life;And all who saw it trembled at the scene,And deathlike was the calm which stood around,And every breath was held for very fear.Then the same voice was heard again which spokeSuch words of wisdom in the former scene.And now the curtain was again withdrawn,And every form had vanished from the view,Save he who spake and hoary-headed Time;And Time still stood and dealt the hours away.And over all a mighty change had come;Old things had gone, and others held their place;And he who was the speaker stood upright,And was adorned with raiment pure and white.He stood surrounded by a dazzling light;More bright his presence was than gorgeous suns,Whereas he had an eye of wondrous power.Imposing was his presence to behold,And these the words in stirring force he spake:“Pause, all ye young, ye thoughtless ones who runIn wild delight among the gay-borne paths,Which pleasure spreads enticingly around.O youth deluded! dwell not in the thoughtThat they shall prosper for eternal years.Truth is profound, and this more deep than all—That beauty is but like a passing charm,And youth a landmark by the way of Time—A stage which soon his chariot rolls by,And leaves in dark obscurity behind,As it drives on to the eternal gates.Then pause, and be not blinded by the showOf such an idle vanity. Ye knowAn end awaits the sojourn here below.”These were his warnings. Then methought I saw,One on each hand, the two eternal gates;Whereto he turned, and, opening one, disclosedRealms of most wondrous beauty, and thereinWere beings of a loveliness untold;And all around appeared to give them joy,And in their midst dwelt unity and love,And they were clothed in raiments purely grand,With diadems of honor on their brows;And sweet the music was which hovered round,And this appeared an everlasting feast.Then he did close, without a word or sign,This gate, and to the other mutely went,And, opening which, discloséd to the viewSuch ghastly scenes of torture, and thereinWere creatures seething in eternal flame;And loathsome was their presence to behold,And woe and agony were ever in their midst,And bitter were the strifes, in which they boreAn angry hate to other wretches doomedAlike with them to welter in its toil.These were the scenes. Then, mutely as before,He closed the gate, and vanished from the view.And every gazer stood in wonder bound,Until upon the distance came the soundOf chariots and horsemen; and, erewhile,Came rolling up the chariots of TimeIn quick succession; and I saw therein,Beings conveyed to the eternal gates;Some unto that o’er which these golden wordsWere traced in figures ever bold and bright:“Enter, ye blessed, to eternal joy;”And others unto that o’er which I saw,“Enter, ye cursed, to eternal doom.”Then fell the curtain on the scene, and, lo!I woke from slumber, and it was a dream.
While vigor lives, and youth’s brief time is still,Apply thy mind to wisdom, and fulfilLife’s noble purpose, which is “Good to all.”Thus cull a favor which shall never fall;Enriched of labors, so enshrine thy name;Repose at last in peace with honored fame.
The sun had risen but an hour,And spread his golden rayO’er sea, and land, and garden bower,—Thus dawned a glorious day.
A stilly calm prevailed to restOn the surrounding scene;Scarce could upon the ocean’s breastBe a faint ripple seen.
The soft, fresh air of Summer mornStood peacefully around,When we, upon the ocean borne,In view of Leith were found.
I rose in haste to hail the sightOf Scotland’s lovely shore,Which to my mind brought fancies brightAnd thoughts of days of yore.
The good old castle towering stoodMajestic o’er the scene;Defiance from its rocky roodWas alway frowning seen.
I thought, had it the power to speak,What stories could it tell;What deeds of darkness could it break,Or mysteries dispel.
Around its seat, in hidden gore,Foul deeds of vengeance sleep,Which causéd orphans to implore,And widows oft to weep.
And now, in close succession, seeThe smoky ringlets rise,From many a chimney-top set free,Ascending to the skies.
Then comes there to salute the earFaint fragments of a sound;And mingled noises soon I hear,—The bustle turns profound,
From slumber as the city wakes,And Duty gives her call,And for each man a mission makes,—A duty gives to all;
Then set I foot upon the shore—The shore I long to gain;It shall be dear for evermore,While memory I retain.
Let recollections, like the proud sun’s ray,Illuminate and cheer each lonely day,Restore a peace, afford a tranquil rest,Create a joy in your oft troubled breast;And when kind slumber doth its tendance lend,And angels sweet around thy pillow bend,May dreams of happy hours thy spirit cheer—Fond dreams of they who to thy heart are dear.But tell me, love, what is the lingering thoughtWhich seeks a presence, from the distance brought,Far, far away, and which, with pleasing spells,Doth mingle here and there a word which tells—Oh sadly true!—that ye shall meet no moreThe one you love? These thoughts are very sore;The spirit sinks in grief and sadness low,And thrilling shudders through the being flow.Farewell, farewell, my cup of earthly joy!I drain the dregs, and they are now alloy.
The day had passed as other days do pass,With record made of all the deedsPerformed by one, or two, or a whole mass,—It matters not, for all concedes.
The sun in turn had lit the eastern sky,Performed his circuit to the west,Diffusing light and heat below and high,And there had sunk his golden crest.
Monotony had likewise marked my course—By that I mean that nothing rareHad happenéd at all, to cause recourseTo friendly joy or cold despair.
A pleasant ramble by the ocean side—May be it was the companyThat added joy when I did watch the tideRoll on the shore of the great sea.
This o’er, thought turned to urge a night’s repose—An old, though ever new, retreat—To rest the weary body, and to closeThe mind awhile in tranquils sweet.
But, prior to this, I thought it might be wellTo store some food into the mind,And on the wonders of the day to dwell,There fitting nourishment to find.
The comic thoughts of famous “Punch” were read,Then something dry, but suited moreAs wholesome food—so some old fogies said—“The Daily News,” let none deplore.
For comfort’s sake—which people always mind,Excepting ladies, when the bookOf modes another pleasing style can find,And then they think more how they look.
An instance take of chignon (dead folk’s hair)—A lady, I know well, remarked,“I wish I was not forced those things to wear,But fashion must be always marked.”
Again I say, for comfort’s sake aloneThe couch I sought, and thought it bestAwhile to rest my weary body on;The weary always seek for rest.
The chronicle of news a time was used,At first with understanding clear;It gave instruction, and sometimes amused,(A mixture there for any seer.)
A nod then came, and soon I winged my flightAway into the land of Nod;All earthly things were lost to sense and sight;A fairy land my footsteps trod.
The distance might have been an inch, a mile,Or thousands,—ten, for what I know;It seemed a pleasant place, for still a smileWas on my face; I liked it so.
Wrapt in those fairy dreams of pleasant lands,A gentle pressure on my lips,Of softest touch, like that of fairy hands,And sweet as though with honey tips,
Saluted me, and such a silvery soundCame with it, which as magic fellUpon my ear, so sweet and so profound.It is a stolen kiss I tell.
See that poor, deserted, homeless boy,All lonely, sad, and weary;Nothing to cheer his wee heart to joy,All melancholy dreary.For his heart is heavy, and he sobs;Tear-drops trickle from his eye;As in solitude he sits and throbs,Gay people pass him by.The poor wee boy.
No mother has he, so kind and dear,To wipe his big tears away,His heavy heart to gladness cheer,Or soft words of kindness say;No father a home to provide,From the Winter’s chilly blast;But anywhere he may abide,—A deserted, poor outcast.The poor wee boy.
How smiling all the people seem!On every face behold a gleam;Each heart of joy must brimful teem,And thus send forth a cheering beam.
The gloomy clouds have passed away,And bright and glorious is the day;The sun gives forth a genial ray,And gentle breezes music play.
’Tis strange—but no more strange than true—That cloudy weather can construeUnto our thoughts a gloomy view,That all things seem of dismal hue.
But with a clear, transparent sky,All gloomy thoughts as quickly fly,And bright and happy ones supplyTheir place, and raise our spirits high.
And thus we in the world shall findThe rough and smooth will be combined,Ordained by One who meaneth kind,To brace the firmness of the mind.
Come, music sweet; come, music, to me here;In softest strains of melody appear;Pour on this wounded heart thy healing balm,Prepared to soothe, and troubled spirits calm.E’er since the time that on this mouldy ballMan held a place, and that before the fall,The youthful world was held in no reserve;For thy enchanting strains did pleasure serveThe young creation, and they hailed the sound.But then the Author’s work did all reboundWith perfect mirth, and music in it all,Till evil spirits causéd man to fall.But when the fruit was tasted and thought good,First by the woman, then the man, as food,Though the condition was at first so placed,That they might use or all the produce tasteOf the fair garden, save alone one tree,Which in the centre stood, and there to beUntouched; but, notwithstanding these commands,The rosy fruit looked tempting in Eve’s hands,Where it was by the cunning serpent placed.Her watering teeth the dimpled apple tracedIt suited well her palate when she ate;She gave to man, and then was sealed their fate.When in the book of record was inscribedThis scene so sad, as man to evil bribed,Music still came, but with it came alloy,For sounds of sadness came with sounds of joy.At first the music was but nature’s own;Yet who will not in ready justice ownThat nature’s notes in beauty far excelAll sounds that art’s production can impel?Who this can question, if they lend an earUnto the lark that, pouring music clear,Makes all the sphere for many miles aroundWith his gay song re-echo and resound;Or, pausing, marks the sweet, melodious layThe nightingale at stilly night doth lay;Or listens to the morn or evening praise,As the wild warblers blended chorus raise,The hum of bee, as duty it fulfils,The rippling stream that sports among the hills,The constant murmur of the mighty seas,Or pensive sighing of the Summer breeze,Which, rambling, rustles through the leafy trees,The choice of favor it may well command?Yet art’s production may in honor stand,And hear the praises which her lover tells.Who doth not love to hear the Sabbath bells?Or who attend, without an inward sigh,The gentle song which maidens’ lips supply,While on the harp with skilful touch is playedResponsive song, in harmony conveyed?Or who can hear the noble martial strain,And not be moved to long the sounds again?The deep, grand notes of noble organ whoCan mutely tend, as they go thrilling through,From aisle to aisle of some cathedral old,And, rising, still their richer sounds unfold?The love of music in the bud appearsFirst in the child of sweet and early years;Then in the youth its early leaves unfold;The fruit it bears in manhood’s time behold;Until the Autumn comes, old age enthrals,Decay sets in, and then the leaflet falls.
The Devil is out unfettered;His dens lie deep in hell;His power is scarcely bettered;Who can his cunning tell?
He roams in raving hunger;The world is his course;He’s dreadful more than thunderWhere’er he has recourse.
Destruction wanders with him,And death is in his hand;A mighty host is with him;Well arméd is his band.
He lies in ambush for thee;He hovers near thy path;He follows ever by thee;An aim on thee he hath.
Then haste thee, haste thee; surelyYe soon will feel his power.Be watchful, be not weary;Let not thy spirit cower.
The path is steep and narrow;’Tis rugged, rough, and torn;A harsh, a testing harrow,Beset with many a thorn.
There yawns a mighty chasm;The fearful pit is deep;’Tis terror but to see them;It makes the spirit creep.
No guide but One is ableTo lead thee safely through;All others are unstable,Unfit, untried, untrue.
Fly to the rock for safety—The rock he cannot climb!Fly! fly! nor think it hasty;And trust not fickle time.
And friendship is the sacred name—The name I love to hear;Gives to my heart a sacred flame,And music to my ear.
Yes, friendship is a joy indeed,A peaceful, fragrant bower;To which doth many a soul recedeIn tribulation’s hour;
And there its load of sorrow lays,Feels conscious of relief,Soothed by the balm which it displaysFor healing wounds of grief.
Its paths are pleasant and serene;They lie in pleasure’s way;It is true pleasure—there is seenNo base, no false array.
’Tis there true joy is to be found,And anger lays her downAmid the placid scenes around,To bask away her frown.
And there that childhood oft is seenTo spread its purest glee,And hold its dimpled arms in weenTo friendship pure and free.
’Tis there that riper manhood goesAnd feeble age reclines;For it the genial sunshine knows,Which on her pathway shines.
True friendship’s fervour ne’er grows cold;Its lamp doth alway burn;Its beauty never waxeth old;Its shadows never turn.
The waters are both sweet and pure,Which through its courses flow;Such as would souls of trouble lure;’Tis they who try them know.
Were old and young together joined,In friendship’s paths to tread,What blessings would thereby reboundOn many a sorrowing head!
Hail, spirit of poetic flame!Thine is the theme for me;Thine are the realms—the glorious realmsMy fancy longs to see.
What seraph on the wings of lightCan bear a charm like thee?And where, in fancy’s wide domain,Can fitter grandeur be?
Behold thy shadows on the sky,Thy glory in the sun;And o’er the earth, as light as air,Thy fairy footsteps run.
I see thee in the smiling mornAnd in the glowing noon,Thy sparkling brightness in the stars,Thy beauties in the moon.
I see thy bark go gliding onO’er all the mighty seas.I hear thy voice upon the storm,And gentler on the breeze,
Comes thrilling with the warbling notesThe lark pours out on high,And in the blackbird’s evening songFlows to my pathway nigh;
Comes with the brooklet’s murmuring voice,And from the ocean wave,Which Neptune in his choice sees fitUpon the shore to lave.
I hear the rude, prosaic lawPour out its vile abuse,In earnest with its bitter viceMy fancy to seduce.
Yet let the sceptic whet his scythe,Thy beauties to deplore;So shall I love them fonder still,And seek thy presence more.
The proud revilers who employTheir tongues as poisoned dartsI deem of rude, unpolished taste,Uncouth and shallow hearts.
Hail, happy thought—Sweet, happy thoughtOf boyish days!Can hope no more arise?Can I no more surmiseThat they will come again?All happy sport!All sweet resortTo merry games,To which, with spirit light,I often did uniteIn free and boy-like glee!The welcome callTo bat and ballI used to hearWith that intense delight,So free, and pure, and bright,Which only boys can know.The merry gambolsAnd country ramblesI loved to join,With admiration high,To which no fear was nigh.Are they for ever gone?Yes, they are gone—For ever gone;In time’s abyssI see them foundering fast;It soon will be the last—,The dying breath of them.’Tis sorrow nowBedecks my brow,And sorry careLies waiting in my path;Prevailing power it hathTo bear the spirit down.But let me riseTo win the prize,Which is for thoseWho triumph o’er despair,And, passing every care,Fight bravely to the end.
Beauty, as the rose of Summer,For a season looketh gay;Ere a while it fades and falleth;So doth beauty pass away.
Charms, the brilliant and enticing,Sparkle to allure awhile;But they are the world’s vain treasure,And an outward, fleeting wile.
There is yet a charm more pleasingThan the outward to behold;’Tis a humble spirit, easingPilgrims onward to the fold.
This the scythe of time shall neverRob of its adorning grace;But shall leave it laurels everTo bedeck its resting place.
’Tis the maiden who shall win themWalks in virtue’s modest way,Heeding not the world’s gay treasure,Minding not the worldling’s way.
Not the maiden who rejoicethTo abound in vaunting show;This shall in the time forsake her,When her hope hath sunken low.
Oh! where have all my schoolmates gone,With whom I used to play,In harmless sport and happy glee,For many a pleasant day?
It grieves me much whene’er I thinkThat I no more may seeThe happy faces of the fewWho schoolmates were to me.
To seek them would be fruitless toil;I know not where they are;For up and down the world wideThey’re scattered near and far.
Some still are in the native place,Some far beyond the sea,Some trading on the mighty main,Some in eternity.
Farewell, departed year!How swiftly have thy golden moments fled!Gone to the past,In the dark lays of record to repose;Whence might be culled a taleWhich would impeach our name—The way we spent the precious hours,Whereof to learn we shudder, in the thoughtThat they passed from us as a worthless thing,While all our heed to idleness was lent.Recall the olden deeds,Review the acts performed, and seeHow they will bear the scrutiny ye give.How do the deeds of illThrong round the retrospective glance!While few and feeble are the acts of truth.Where is the profit we have gained?Or where the good a brother took from us?Let us not spurn the many warnings shewn.Who may not from the ranks of friendship gleanOne name, or more, in sacred reverence held,Of some dear friend, departed now,But who, while we gave welcome to the year just gone,Was with us, and who heldA love deep rooted in our hearts,And who, we once had hope,Would seasons more remain to comfort us.The present ours.May we of wisdom learn the way to live;For who can know that we may liveTo see this year depart, or see another come?Now let us to the year departed say farewell;For it has gone, with all its joys and cares,Which, ere we knew, moved from our presence, andAnother came; which in the old seat sits, whereofWe wonder what its course may yield,And all around mysterious fancies rise.But darkness o’er the scene a curtain holds,And veils from view what is upon the timeWhich is to come.
Onward ever time is passing;Forward still it hies;By the way delaying never,In constant speed it flies.By days and years we number make,And lay out every stage;While change in many a form appears,To mark each passing age.
But, mid the changing scenes of time,Thy pale head still appears,To shew that, in her beauty clad,Loved Spring’s sweet presence nears.With soothing balms she comes supplied,Preparéd to bestowThem freely on each troubled head;For freely do they flow.
But thou, the first of all her band,The fairest of her gems,We hail thee as a welcome guest,Which Winter still contemns.For thou art still the harbinger(A credit to her choice)To tell that pleasant times draw nigh,For which let all rejoice.
What artist’s pencil e’er could trace,Or painter’s brush applyOn canvas, such a perfect formAs thy frail leaves supply?They are more pure than running brook,And whiter than the snow—The winter garment of the ground,Which soon will beauty shew.
No giddy grandeur vesteth thee;No fitless fashions flow;Thy mien retains a modest air,Whence hidden graces shew.From this might many a maiden fairA lesson good receive:—That gay appearance fades away,And tends but to deceive.
Blest bearer of peace, she comes in her grandeur;I hear the sweet echo, and hear it again,Through the forests of trees and o’er the green fields,In sounds of contentment, in music’s sweet strain.
She rides in the skies, and she comes on the breezeFrom her mansions so aerial, illumined, and fair;They stand in a mystery unfathomed by thought,And who can describe them, or who can tell where?
The sound of her footstep, the tone of her callIs hailed with rejoicings—rejoicings of joy;Her whisper so gentle, her breathings of peaceAll feelings of sadness allure and decoy.
The birds of the air, the warbling songsters,The thrush and the blackbird uniting send higher,By adding their songs to chorus of chorus,Redouble her welcome and sing a sweet lyre.
See, through the dark soil, in patient procession,The flowers are beginning again to appear;From beds of repose, from darkest of hidings,In caution most careful they cunningly peer,
And seemingly ask, in anxious desire,If ’tis the voice of Spring, if Winter’s no more;All longing the time when howling blasts go,To crown her their queen from shore unto shore;
To spread a rich carpet, by nature entwinéd,Pave all her pathways with richest of gems;To stud it with beauty in grandest profusion,With roses and daisies on stalks and on stems.
Then welcome right gladly, then welcome, sweet Spring!Let all be united, let every one sing;Blended in a lyric let every voice be,Your fairest of praises and sweetest notes bring.
Beside a bed of sickness satA maiden young and fair,Torn from the scenes of youth and joy,Her loved one was laid there.
She watched with an unceasing careFrom morning until night,Nor left him in the stilly hoursBefore the morning light.
She marked each feebly passing breathAnd every burdened sigh;Nor grew she weary of the task;No sleep came to her nigh.
She kissed his cheek, his pillow smoothed,His burning brow she bathed;And with a balmy fillet oftHis aching temples swathed.
Into the future deep and longHer brooding thoughts would pry;She could not think that he must soon—That he must truly die.
And yet she saw the ruddy huePass from his cheek away,And that the lustre of his eyeGrew fainter every day.
At last a gentle sleep he slept,And hope came in her breast,As she beheld the tranquil smilesWhich on his features rest.
She sat and sighed, “Ah me! ah me!Oh for the time againWhen I shall see thy happy smileIts wonted mirth regain!
Then shall we, as in time before,The tranquil hours employIn love and in a measure fullOf unpolluted joy.”
Oh, child of hope! She knew not thenThat he who by her layWas closed in death’s unyielding arms,His spirit borne away.
And when she turned from these fair dreams,And saw he breathed no more,Oh! woeful was it to beholdThe grief the maiden bore.
She grasped the pale and lifeless form;Her tears fell on it fast;She sat the long night through and wept,And wept the noonday past.
No more she cares for earthly things,Nor friendly presence nigh;These gladly now would leave behind,And now would gladly die.
Dear mourner, is there nought to calm—To soothe thy troubled breast?Is there no balm to heal its wounds,And give thy spirit rest?
Yes! there is one—a fragrant balm,A fountain filled with love,Which floweth ever full and freeIn the bright realms above.
’Tis there the weary and the sadCan comforts true receive,And there the bleeding heart aloneIts anguish can relieve.
Oh! brightly yet the star of hopeSends forth its radiant beams,And sweetly yet the voice of loveIn friendly welcome gleams.
Then raise thy tear-bedimméd eyes,And call its bounty down;Which, if in faith ye seek, will flow,And all thy sorrows drown.
Farewell! farewell! a sad farewellMy soul can only give.And can it beThat I may seeThy cherished face no more,—See it again no more?
I cannot tell, I must not tellThe sorrow that is mine;But while I liveYet will I giveA lingering thought to thee,A happy thought to thee.
And to those days, those happy days,I often will recur,Which we have spent,On pleasures bent,Together bound by peaceful joy—A fair, a pure, a loving joy.Farewell! farewell!
I lost myself in labyrinths of unexplored delight,In wandering from the paths of sterner truth;They seemed, beyond a doubt, all pleasing, fair, serene, and bright,Such as would charm the wonder of a youth.
Behind, before, and all around, appearing to the eyeAs one concerted scene of peaceful joy,With pleasing streams of unpolluted pleasure flowing by,And in it all I saw no base alloy.
The scope was boundless, and I wandered, still admiring all,Indulging oft in free, unfettered thought;In wonder wrapt, I wandered on, but found no rest withal,As each new scene was to my fancy brought.
And in the future I could see with an imagining eyeA cheering prospect, rising pure and bright.It seemed my future path in smooth, unchequered ways did lie,That cares were easy and life’s burdens light.
Amid the tranquils sweet around, and to my own design,I built me castles of a towering height,And thereto did my pleasures and my rising hopes resign,Thought that these bulwarks would resist all might.
But, lo! they fell in ruined heaps, and mighty was the fall,And my bright hopes lay ruined at my feet,And the deluding dream of fancy passed away, and allThe scenes so fair did from me now retreat;
Like as the mirage travellers see upon the desert waste,In view where cooling waters seem to rise,And which the body longs to reach, the parchéd tongue to taste—Alas! alas! such fancy is not wise.
Well do I love to rambleAmong the golden heath,To roam, and rove, and scrambleOn the soft turf beneath.
’Tis there that health is everAbounding to be found,And beauty faileth neverIn full charms to abound.
I pity oft and sorrowFor the poor city child,That ne’er the chance can borrowTo ramble free and wild;
It looks so pale and feeble,Its cheek is thin and white,Its sicknesses are treble,Its joys are never bright.
How different is the childlingThat roams the open lea!A rosy little wildling,And gay, and blithe, and free.
Thou hermit bird of tender sight!Ha! well thou fliest from the light,To lie in secret and repose,Hid in some crevice no one knows;And, wrapt in slumber’s lightest sleep,Thy ears their vigils ever keep,Lest some stray wanderer may intrude,To mar thy sacred solitude.Thy pinions only bear thee outTo search for plunder and to scoutFor prey, in soft and noiseless flight,When earth lies in repose, and nightHas drawn her curtain o’er the sky.’Tis then, ’tis then thy tender eyeIs keen to see, reviewing allWhich under its quick glance may fall.
A maiden came to Castletown;A tear stood in her eye;Soon on her cheek it trickled down;Sore did the maiden cry.
I called her to my side, and said,“Why, maiden, do you cry?”A while her weeping then was stayed,But she made no reply.
I spoke to her, in kindly tones,Of friendship and of love;I asked about her lovéd ones,And where she meant to rove.
She, with a voice in sadness lost,And choked with many a sigh,Said that her father’s form was toss’dBeneath the billows high.
Her mother had for many yearsBeen silent in the grave;Her brother, too, she told in tears,Was killed—a soldier brave.
And now her father’s friends withheldThe friendship once they gave;And she, an orphan lone, beheldNo succour but the grave.
She then besought some menial formOf duty to fulfil,And gladly would the child conformTo many a trying ill.
I said, “Dear maiden, come with me;My home shall too be thine,And with my daughters ye shall beAnother child of mine.”
And then she wept for very joy;Her tongue would not conveyThe words she sought it to employWhat thanks she longed to say.
And with, a trembling step she came,And, ere a little while,Her joys returned, of old the same,And came her olden smile.
And she by all was fondly loved;She was so good and kind,And gentle in her way, and provedA charm of charms combined.
Years rolled away, eight happy years,Since the memorial day;Then in the town gay joy appears,And merry minstrels play.
And loudly peal the merry bells;It is her wedding-day;It is my son who gladly tells“I will,” I love to say.
Mark well, and do not pass in heedless haste,Nor all your time in needless folly waste;But, if with you a solemn thought doth dwell,Pray lend it here, and think it may be wellAwhile to set aside the world’s stern care,And for a true, though passing, glance prepareUpon a theme which is too often hidBy pleasure’s streams and vanities which threadThe onward path which through the wide world wends,Which chequered is, and many a snare attends.The theme I speak of is the aim of life.Who fails to see, amid the passing strifeWhere man appears, and in a season dies,Forgotten soon in mouldering dust he lies,That he has strayed from the good purpose far,That all his joys are vain, and such as marHis hope to an unmitigated peace.The bonds grow stronger, and his lusts increaseThe while his chances are for ever lost,And he is now before the tempest toss’d.A thoughtful mind in question thus may dwell;And who is found an answer fit to tell?When man was formed, what aim was held in viewBy the Creator, ever just and true,Who all things made but for a purpose wise?Behold, his work an ample proof suppliesWhat feelings stirred His breast when man was made,And all creation to him subject laid.Discretion lent to shew the ill from good,Portrayed in him the Maker’s image stood;Nor was it meant that he should time employIn foolish pleasure and licentious joy,Less far that self should be his only theme;A fallen state soon had he to redeem.More thus the purpose, and the Maker’s lawHeld it as good, and man the duty saw—That God, the Maker, should true worship have,And reverence and love; and, as to proveObeyance, it was held that he should loveHis neighbour as himself. This from aboveBestowed, and from conditions free, save one,And which was sweet and pleasing to be doneIn the true spirit of a perfect life,Where no fear came, or jealousy, or strife—No earthly thing should have the honor dueUnto the Maker; yet how sadly fewCan say they have endeavoured to be true!
Not in a rosy bower,Not in a garden gay,Nor by a watchman’s tower,I saw the primrose play;
But by a meadow green—A meadow sweet and fair,In beauty it was seen;I saw the primrose there.
It sported with the breeze,It courted with the sun,And tried so hard to pleaseWith all its puny fun.
It flirted with the moon,And kissed the early dew;They left it both ere noon;These lovers were not true.
A little murmuring brookCame wandering by the way;It came to have a look,And with the flower to play.
It gave it drink so sweet,And sang a pretty song;The brook seemed to entreatTo be the lover long.
A sturdy old oak treeBent o’er it night and day,Its guardian feigned to be,And shelter it alway.
In time some courtiers tookTheir turn to have a woo.I came to take a look,And was a lover too.
I took the pretty flower,And set it in my breast,Rejoicing in that hour,But sorrowing left the rest.
Lest gossip wakes, be mute, breathe not a wordOf how, or where, or when, save that we met;To chance, or luck, or fortune bid the fault,Till ye can tell how else our friendship came.Improved occasions are not often rued,Except discretion fails in self-command.
As brief a while as may a friendship liveNo one can tell, so soon it dies, or how,Now as it came, and as a seed expands,In nurture soon springs up; so sprang, maturedEach time the more a favor in regard.
As first of chance, unsought till then, but nowLet favor choose if she may hold the powerDrawn from the font of pleasure to supplyEnticing sweets, which, though you took, rebelled.Reigned o’er the scene the silvery moon, which smiled,Together with the stars, in silent joy.Of that she deemed no harm, was sweetly pleased!Neptune breathed silence and supplied the chance.
Knew she not whence fair fancy rose,Audacious fun in vagrant throws,Turned random, loose, on purpose set,Elate to cope with those it met.
Now aptly sprung new forms around,As each advanced the most profound.She held to all a winning smile;How many took her heedful wile.
Lost love, I answer, since you make me tellOf every maiden who from prudence fellUnto the rambling tide, flirtation swell.I mete my mind, though ye regard in scorn;She gives her heart, in many fragments torn,A piece to each who have her flirtings borne.
Who spreads her charms to every wind that beats,Or loves a bit with every man she meets,Of constant love can never be possessed.Duped is the man who, for a mating nest,Sets choice on her; his life shall lack of rest.
Ha! the little rogue, I caught herAs she stole my heart away;Round and round she had entwined her,Reeling in her grasp it lay.In my fancy could I think herE’er so wicked as to playTorture on a helpless prey?
But how happy was the sorrowAs a captive there to be,Resting ever on the morrowTo advance new joys to me!Lost amid the vast abounding,Each endeavour found me moreTangled in the great surrounding,Turned obeying to adore.
By her sweet and silvery laughter,And the dimples on her rose cheek,Roguish languish in her black eye,Telling tales of love and romance—Oh how lovely to behold her!Never beauty sweeter, fairer.
A soothing balm, a cheering rayThy presence is to me,Though rising clouds may for a dayA darkening shadow be.
Yet I will hope the flame of loveA beacon bright will shine,And cast the hazy clouds away,And prove thee truly mine.
Oh! quickly fly the happy hoursThy presence doth beguile,As on thy cheek I sit and seeThe rosy dimples smile,
And hear the silvery sounds which riseLike music from thy lips,To dance upon the balmy air,Which every listener sips.
Oh call me not a faithless friend!The charge I cannot bear,When spoken by such lips as thine,By one so sweetly fair.
Pray yield me but the chance to tell,The time to give to theeA reason, and it will dispelThe doubts ye now can see.
Blest is the man whose onward courseIs free from every ill,Who also doth impartiallyLove’s golden censer fill.
Deceitful, yet so young;Deceitful, yet so fair;Who, gazing on those charms,Would think deceit was there?
Oh that I now must learnOf beauty to beware!For that it is a tempting baitUpon a hidden snare.