As the tears of the even,Illumined at dayBy the sweet light of heaven,Seem gems on each spray;So gladness to-morrowShall shine on thy brow,The more bright for the sorrowThat darkens it now.Yet if fortune, believe me,Have evil in store,Though each other deceive thee,I'll love thee the more.As ivy leaves clusterMore greenly and fair,When winter winds blusterRound trees that are bare.
As the tears of the even,Illumined at dayBy the sweet light of heaven,Seem gems on each spray;So gladness to-morrowShall shine on thy brow,The more bright for the sorrowThat darkens it now.
Yet if fortune, believe me,Have evil in store,Though each other deceive thee,I'll love thee the more.As ivy leaves clusterMore greenly and fair,When winter winds blusterRound trees that are bare.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
There is a voice, I shall hear no more—There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;Sweet as the odours of spring were they,—Precious and rich—but they died away;They came like peace to my heart and ear—Never again will they murmur here;They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.There were eyes that late were lit up for me,Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;Whose affections were fresh as a stream of springWhen birds in the vernal branches sing;They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,And my lyre is breathing their requiem.I remember a brow, whose serene reposeSeemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,As I mused on their eloquent power the while,Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brainWith raptures, that never may dawn again;Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed—Alas! for the doom of the early dead!Alas! for the clod that is resting nowOn those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow;Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom—For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;Alas for the hopes that with thee have died—Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side!Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;I hear thy voice in the twilight air;Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I seeWhen the visions of evening are borne to me;Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm—My arm embraceth thy graceful form;I wake in a world that is sad and drear,To feel in my bosom—thou art not here.Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest—A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;My heart was full of a sense of love,Likest of all things to heaven above.Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hallWhere my budding raptures have perished all;To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid—Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;—All that was lovely to me is there,Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
There is a voice, I shall hear no more—There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;Sweet as the odours of spring were they,—Precious and rich—but they died away;They came like peace to my heart and ear—Never again will they murmur here;They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes that late were lit up for me,Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;Whose affections were fresh as a stream of springWhen birds in the vernal branches sing;They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene reposeSeemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,As I mused on their eloquent power the while,Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brainWith raptures, that never may dawn again;Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed—Alas! for the doom of the early dead!
Alas! for the clod that is resting nowOn those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow;Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom—For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;Alas for the hopes that with thee have died—Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;I hear thy voice in the twilight air;Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I seeWhen the visions of evening are borne to me;Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm—My arm embraceth thy graceful form;I wake in a world that is sad and drear,To feel in my bosom—thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest—A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;My heart was full of a sense of love,Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hallWhere my budding raptures have perished all;To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid—Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;—All that was lovely to me is there,Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
[Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend.]
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
As playful boys by ocean's sideUpon its margin trace,Some frail memorial which the tideReturning must efface;Thus I upon this brittle glassThese tuneless verses scrawl,That they, when I away shall pass,May thought of me recall.The waves that beat upon the strandWash out the schoolboy's line,As soon some rude or careless handMay shiver those of mine.But though what I have written hereIn thousand fragments part,I trust my name will still be dear,And treasured in the heart.
As playful boys by ocean's sideUpon its margin trace,Some frail memorial which the tideReturning must efface;Thus I upon this brittle glassThese tuneless verses scrawl,That they, when I away shall pass,May thought of me recall.
The waves that beat upon the strandWash out the schoolboy's line,As soon some rude or careless handMay shiver those of mine.But though what I have written hereIn thousand fragments part,I trust my name will still be dear,And treasured in the heart.
BY WILLIAM L. STONE.
"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the cities, both withoutand within his own kingdom: and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus,who had been king before him, had opened David's sepulchre, and takenout of it three thousand talents of silver, and that there was agreater number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice all his wants,he had a great while an intention to make the attempt; and at this timehe opened that sepulchre by night and went into it, and endeavouredthat it should not be at all known in the city, but he took only hismost faithful friends with him. As for any money, he found none, asHyrcanus had done, but that furniture of gold, and those precious goodsthat were laid up there, all which he took away. However, he had agreat desire to make diligent search, and to go farther in, even as faras the very bodies of David and Solomon; where two of his guards wereslain by a flame that burst out upon those that went in, as the reportwas. So he was severely affrighted, and went out and built apropitiatory monument of that fright he had been in, and this of whitestone, at the mouth of the sepulchre, and that at a great expense also.—Josephus.—High on his throne of state,A form of noblest mould,The Hebrew monarch sate,All glorious to behold.With purest gold inwrought,Full many a sparkling gem,From distant India brought,Enriched his diadem.A crystal mirror bright,Beneath the canopy,Shot back in silvery lightThe monarch's panoply!All round the lofty halls,Rich tapestries of goldHung from the glittering walls,In many an ample fold.And breathing sculptures thereIn living beauty stood,Borne by the monarch's careFrom o'er the Ægean flood.Dipt in the rainbow's dyes,Apelles's magic hand,To please the wondering eyesOf Judah's haughty land,In liquid colours bright,And traced with matchless care,Had left, in glorious light,Its richest beauties there!The silver lamps by day,Hung massive, rich, and bright;And from the galleries gayShone brilliantly by night.And by the monarch's side,His guards, a noble band,Arrayed in regal pride,In burnished armour stand.Proud chiefs and ladies fair,Swept the broad courts along:—In pleasures mingled there,—A gay and gallant throng!Apollo's tuneful choir,And Korah's sons of song,With psaltery, harp, and lyre,Were mingled in the throng.[O]And from each trembling string,Sweet sounds of music stole;Gentle as Zephyr's wing,The tuneful numbers roll.Beyond the portals wide,Beneath the sylvan bower,Cool founts, in sparkling pride,Send forth their silvery shower.The flowerets gay and wild,In beauty bloomed not less,Than erst when Eden smiled,In pristine loveliness.And through the gorgeous hallsRich odours filled the air,Sweet as the dew that fallsOn Araby the fair!All that could foster pride,All that could banish care,Was gathered by his side,And richly lavished there.Lost to the splendid show,The monarch's restless mindDarkened an anxious brow,Which furrows deep had lined.He rose and left the hall,The night was drear and wild—Above the embattled wallTempestuous clouds were piled.Deep in the deeper gloom,He held his sullen way—To David's hallowed tombTo where his ashes lay.The haughty monarch came,—Earth trembled at his tread—With sacrilegious aimTo rob the royal dead.No treasures found he there,Nor precious gems, nor gold—The walls were damp and bare—The region drear and cold.He cast his anxious eyeWhere slept greatDavid'sson,WhereWisdom'sashes lie,The peerlessSolomon!He raised his ruthless armAgainst the low-arched wall—While wild and dread alarmRang through the vaulted hall.Loud on the monarch's earBroke the hoarse thunder's crash—And blazed around the bierThe vivid lightning's flash.Death came upon the blast;As by the lurid lightThey saw that he had passed,And triumphed in his might:For on the chilly ground,Inanimate as clay,The troubled monarch foundHis favourite captains lay.Aghast and pale he fled,—And shook through every limb—Cold drops rolled down his head,Lest death should follow him!He raised a marble faneUpon the hallowed spot,But ne'er, O ne'er againCould that night be forgot!And oft in after yearsHe woke in wild affright,And wailed, with scalding tears,The deed of that dread night!
"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the cities, both withoutand within his own kingdom: and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus,who had been king before him, had opened David's sepulchre, and takenout of it three thousand talents of silver, and that there was agreater number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice all his wants,he had a great while an intention to make the attempt; and at this timehe opened that sepulchre by night and went into it, and endeavouredthat it should not be at all known in the city, but he took only hismost faithful friends with him. As for any money, he found none, asHyrcanus had done, but that furniture of gold, and those precious goodsthat were laid up there, all which he took away. However, he had agreat desire to make diligent search, and to go farther in, even as faras the very bodies of David and Solomon; where two of his guards wereslain by a flame that burst out upon those that went in, as the reportwas. So he was severely affrighted, and went out and built apropitiatory monument of that fright he had been in, and this of whitestone, at the mouth of the sepulchre, and that at a great expense also.—Josephus.—
High on his throne of state,A form of noblest mould,The Hebrew monarch sate,All glorious to behold.
With purest gold inwrought,Full many a sparkling gem,From distant India brought,Enriched his diadem.
A crystal mirror bright,Beneath the canopy,Shot back in silvery lightThe monarch's panoply!
All round the lofty halls,Rich tapestries of goldHung from the glittering walls,In many an ample fold.
And breathing sculptures thereIn living beauty stood,Borne by the monarch's careFrom o'er the Ægean flood.
Dipt in the rainbow's dyes,Apelles's magic hand,To please the wondering eyesOf Judah's haughty land,
In liquid colours bright,And traced with matchless care,Had left, in glorious light,Its richest beauties there!
The silver lamps by day,Hung massive, rich, and bright;And from the galleries gayShone brilliantly by night.
And by the monarch's side,His guards, a noble band,Arrayed in regal pride,In burnished armour stand.
Proud chiefs and ladies fair,Swept the broad courts along:—In pleasures mingled there,—A gay and gallant throng!
Apollo's tuneful choir,And Korah's sons of song,With psaltery, harp, and lyre,Were mingled in the throng.[O]
And from each trembling string,Sweet sounds of music stole;Gentle as Zephyr's wing,The tuneful numbers roll.
Beyond the portals wide,Beneath the sylvan bower,Cool founts, in sparkling pride,Send forth their silvery shower.
The flowerets gay and wild,In beauty bloomed not less,Than erst when Eden smiled,In pristine loveliness.
And through the gorgeous hallsRich odours filled the air,Sweet as the dew that fallsOn Araby the fair!
All that could foster pride,All that could banish care,Was gathered by his side,And richly lavished there.
Lost to the splendid show,The monarch's restless mindDarkened an anxious brow,Which furrows deep had lined.
He rose and left the hall,The night was drear and wild—Above the embattled wallTempestuous clouds were piled.
Deep in the deeper gloom,He held his sullen way—To David's hallowed tombTo where his ashes lay.
The haughty monarch came,—Earth trembled at his tread—With sacrilegious aimTo rob the royal dead.
No treasures found he there,Nor precious gems, nor gold—The walls were damp and bare—The region drear and cold.
He cast his anxious eyeWhere slept greatDavid'sson,WhereWisdom'sashes lie,The peerlessSolomon!
He raised his ruthless armAgainst the low-arched wall—While wild and dread alarmRang through the vaulted hall.
Loud on the monarch's earBroke the hoarse thunder's crash—And blazed around the bierThe vivid lightning's flash.
Death came upon the blast;As by the lurid lightThey saw that he had passed,And triumphed in his might:
For on the chilly ground,Inanimate as clay,The troubled monarch foundHis favourite captains lay.
Aghast and pale he fled,—And shook through every limb—Cold drops rolled down his head,Lest death should follow him!
He raised a marble faneUpon the hallowed spot,But ne'er, O ne'er againCould that night be forgot!
And oft in after yearsHe woke in wild affright,And wailed, with scalding tears,The deed of that dread night!
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
No star in yonder sky that shinesCan light like woman's eye impart,The earth holds not in all its minesA gem so rich as woman's heart.Her voice is like the music sweetPoured out from airy harp alone,Like that when storms more loudly beat,It yields a clearer—richer tone.And woman's love's a holy lightThat brighter burns for aye,Years cannot dim its radiance bright,Nor even falsehood quench its ray.But like the star of BethlehemOf old, to Israel's shepherds given,It marshals with its steady flameThe erring soul of man to heaven.
No star in yonder sky that shinesCan light like woman's eye impart,The earth holds not in all its minesA gem so rich as woman's heart.Her voice is like the music sweetPoured out from airy harp alone,Like that when storms more loudly beat,It yields a clearer—richer tone.
And woman's love's a holy lightThat brighter burns for aye,Years cannot dim its radiance bright,Nor even falsehood quench its ray.But like the star of BethlehemOf old, to Israel's shepherds given,It marshals with its steady flameThe erring soul of man to heaven.
AN APOLOGUE.
BY G. P. MORRIS.
Two children, "once upon a time,"In the summer season,Woke to life—the one was Rhyme,The other's name was Reason.Sweet Poesy enraptured prestThe blooming infants to her breast.Reason's face and form to seeMade her heart rejoice;Yet there was more of melodyIn Rhyme's delicious voice;But both were beautiful and fair,And pure as mountain stream and air.As the boys together grew,Happy fled their hours—Grief or care they never knewIn the Paphian bowers.See them roaming, hand in hand,The pride of all the choral band.Music with harp of golden strings,Love with bow and quiver,Airy sprites on radiant wings,Nymphs of wood and river,Joined the Muses' constant songAs Rhyme and Reason pass'd along.But the scene was changed—the boysLeft their native soil—Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,Reason's manly toil.Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,While Reason grew exceeding rich.Since that dark and fatal hourWhen the brothers parted,Reason has had wealth and power—Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted.And now, on bright or stormy weather,They twain are seldom seen together.
Two children, "once upon a time,"In the summer season,Woke to life—the one was Rhyme,The other's name was Reason.Sweet Poesy enraptured prestThe blooming infants to her breast.
Reason's face and form to seeMade her heart rejoice;Yet there was more of melodyIn Rhyme's delicious voice;But both were beautiful and fair,And pure as mountain stream and air.
As the boys together grew,Happy fled their hours—Grief or care they never knewIn the Paphian bowers.See them roaming, hand in hand,The pride of all the choral band.
Music with harp of golden strings,Love with bow and quiver,Airy sprites on radiant wings,Nymphs of wood and river,Joined the Muses' constant songAs Rhyme and Reason pass'd along.
But the scene was changed—the boysLeft their native soil—Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,Reason's manly toil.Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,While Reason grew exceeding rich.
Since that dark and fatal hourWhen the brothers parted,Reason has had wealth and power—Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted.And now, on bright or stormy weather,They twain are seldom seen together.
To a Favourite Child.
BY JAMES NACK.
In life, perhaps, thou hast only trodAs yet in a path as soft and sweetAs the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod,Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet.In the path thou hast only begun to tread,Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting;And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled,By innocence chased on her snow-white wing:For often a paradise seems to attendOur earliest steps in this world below;But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end?Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!"The tree with verdure adorns the shoreWhile the laving spray at its foot is thrown;But the waves roll on to return no more,And the tree stands withering all alone.Each friend of our early years is a waveIn the sea of joy we are flourishing by;But they roll away to the gulf of the grave,And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh.And such is the doom I must bear—for now,While yet in my boyhood I find it so—But never, dear cherub, may heaven allowSuch doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!
In life, perhaps, thou hast only trodAs yet in a path as soft and sweetAs the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod,Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet.In the path thou hast only begun to tread,Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting;And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled,By innocence chased on her snow-white wing:For often a paradise seems to attendOur earliest steps in this world below;But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end?Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!"
The tree with verdure adorns the shoreWhile the laving spray at its foot is thrown;But the waves roll on to return no more,And the tree stands withering all alone.Each friend of our early years is a waveIn the sea of joy we are flourishing by;But they roll away to the gulf of the grave,And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh.And such is the doom I must bear—for now,While yet in my boyhood I find it so—But never, dear cherub, may heaven allowSuch doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!
BY MISS ELIZABETH C. CLINCH.
Ob. 1832: æt. 17.
Fill high the cup!—the young and gayAre met with bounding hearts to-night;And sunny smiles around us play,And eyes are sparkling bright:Let wit and song the hours beguile,But yet, amid this festal cheer,Oh, let us pause to think awhileOf him who is not here.Fill high the cup!—yet ere its brimOne young and smiling lip has pressed,Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to himNow far o'er ocean's breast!The cordial wish each lip repeats,By every heart is echoed here;For none within this circle beats,To whom he is not dear.A sudden pause in festive glee—What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth,Hath checked each heart's hilarity,And given to sadness birth?O! read it in the shades that stealAcross each animated brow;The wish none utters, yet all feel,"Would he were with us now!"Yet chase away each vain regret,And let each heart be gay;Trust me, the meeting hour shall yetEach anxious thought repay.Is not his spirit with us now?Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam,The wanderer's yearning heart can knowNo resting-place—but home!Then smile again, and let the songPour forth its music sweet and clear—What magic to those notes belongWhich thus chain every ear!Soft eyes are filled with tears—what spellSo suddenly hath called them there?That strain—ah, yes! we know it well;It is his favourite air.With every note how forciblyReturn the thoughts of other days!The shaded brow, the drooping eye,Are present to our gaze.With all around his looks are blent;His form, is it not gliding there?And was it nothisvoice which sentThat echo on the air?One wish, with cordial feeling fraught,Breathe we for him ere yet we part,That for each high and generous thoughtThat animates his heart,That Power which gives us happiness,A blessing on his head would pour!Oh! could affection wish him less?Yet, could we ask for more?
Fill high the cup!—the young and gayAre met with bounding hearts to-night;And sunny smiles around us play,And eyes are sparkling bright:Let wit and song the hours beguile,But yet, amid this festal cheer,Oh, let us pause to think awhileOf him who is not here.
Fill high the cup!—yet ere its brimOne young and smiling lip has pressed,Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to himNow far o'er ocean's breast!The cordial wish each lip repeats,By every heart is echoed here;For none within this circle beats,To whom he is not dear.
A sudden pause in festive glee—What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth,Hath checked each heart's hilarity,And given to sadness birth?O! read it in the shades that stealAcross each animated brow;The wish none utters, yet all feel,"Would he were with us now!"
Yet chase away each vain regret,And let each heart be gay;Trust me, the meeting hour shall yetEach anxious thought repay.Is not his spirit with us now?Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam,The wanderer's yearning heart can knowNo resting-place—but home!
Then smile again, and let the songPour forth its music sweet and clear—What magic to those notes belongWhich thus chain every ear!Soft eyes are filled with tears—what spellSo suddenly hath called them there?That strain—ah, yes! we know it well;It is his favourite air.
With every note how forciblyReturn the thoughts of other days!The shaded brow, the drooping eye,Are present to our gaze.With all around his looks are blent;His form, is it not gliding there?And was it nothisvoice which sentThat echo on the air?
One wish, with cordial feeling fraught,Breathe we for him ere yet we part,That for each high and generous thoughtThat animates his heart,That Power which gives us happiness,A blessing on his head would pour!Oh! could affection wish him less?Yet, could we ask for more?
BY DAVID S. BOGART.—1791.
Almighty King, who reign'st above,Thou art the source of purest love;The splendid heavens thy glories show,Thy wisdom shines in all below;Seraphs before thee humbly fall,Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all;And, wrapt in high transporting joy,Thy attributes their thoughts employ.Shall mortals, then, refuse to joinIn works so heavenly and divine,Mortals who live and move in thee,And thy continual goodness see;Thou God of Grace, make it my choiceIn praising thee, to lend my voice;Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm,And make my troubled soul all calm;Teach me the duty of my life,Preserve me from unhappy strife,Conduct me safe through all my days,And keep me in thy peaceful ways.When time is done, and death draws nigh,Then leave me not alone to sigh;Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart,And, sure of heaven, let me depart.
Almighty King, who reign'st above,Thou art the source of purest love;The splendid heavens thy glories show,Thy wisdom shines in all below;Seraphs before thee humbly fall,Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all;And, wrapt in high transporting joy,Thy attributes their thoughts employ.Shall mortals, then, refuse to joinIn works so heavenly and divine,Mortals who live and move in thee,And thy continual goodness see;Thou God of Grace, make it my choiceIn praising thee, to lend my voice;Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm,And make my troubled soul all calm;Teach me the duty of my life,Preserve me from unhappy strife,Conduct me safe through all my days,And keep me in thy peaceful ways.When time is done, and death draws nigh,Then leave me not alone to sigh;Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart,And, sure of heaven, let me depart.
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.
Oh, who would flee the melodyOf woodland, grove, and stream—The hoar cliff pencill'd on the skyBy morning's virgin beam;To wander 'mid the busy throngThat threads each city's street,Where cank'ring care and folly's glareIn unblest union meet?Emilia! o'er the fleeting hoursThy smile once bathed in light,Fond memory hovers pensively,And joins them in their flight;And lovelier far than sunset's glow,By rainbow beauties spann'd,Comes o'er my soul the joys we stoleWhen first I press'd thy hand.The south wind, on its joyous way,Came fraught with balmier breath,And frolic life, in thousand forms,Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,Re-tuned the shepherd's song;And bird and bee, in reckless glee,Pour'd melody along.The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shadeUpon the streamlet's breast,The red bird, on the chesnut bough,Re-builds its fairy nest;But through the thicket's leafy screenFancy alone can traceThe sparkling eye—the vermeil dyeThat mantled o'er thy face.Though since that hour, upon my pathAre graven hopes and fears,And transient smiles, like April beams,Have gilded sorrow's tears;From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,My soul with rapture fliesTo the sweet grove, where faith and loveBeamed from Emilia's eyes!Then woo me not to sculptured halls,Where pride and beauty throng;Far lovelier is my mountain-home,The wild-wood paths among;And though the hopes by boyhood nursedHave vanish'd like the dew,In Memory's light they bless my sightWith charms for ever new.
Oh, who would flee the melodyOf woodland, grove, and stream—The hoar cliff pencill'd on the skyBy morning's virgin beam;To wander 'mid the busy throngThat threads each city's street,Where cank'ring care and folly's glareIn unblest union meet?
Emilia! o'er the fleeting hoursThy smile once bathed in light,Fond memory hovers pensively,And joins them in their flight;And lovelier far than sunset's glow,By rainbow beauties spann'd,Comes o'er my soul the joys we stoleWhen first I press'd thy hand.
The south wind, on its joyous way,Came fraught with balmier breath,And frolic life, in thousand forms,Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,Re-tuned the shepherd's song;And bird and bee, in reckless glee,Pour'd melody along.
The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shadeUpon the streamlet's breast,The red bird, on the chesnut bough,Re-builds its fairy nest;But through the thicket's leafy screenFancy alone can traceThe sparkling eye—the vermeil dyeThat mantled o'er thy face.
Though since that hour, upon my pathAre graven hopes and fears,And transient smiles, like April beams,Have gilded sorrow's tears;From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,My soul with rapture fliesTo the sweet grove, where faith and loveBeamed from Emilia's eyes!
Then woo me not to sculptured halls,Where pride and beauty throng;Far lovelier is my mountain-home,The wild-wood paths among;And though the hopes by boyhood nursedHave vanish'd like the dew,In Memory's light they bless my sightWith charms for ever new.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
While you, my friend, with tearful eye,These soft elegiac lines read o'er,And while you heave the tender sighFor lov'd Amanda now no more.This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,This lesson from Amanda learn,—That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.That he alike his ruthless reignDoes o'er each age, each sex, extend,That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.But in the height of Beauty's bloom,Each dear connexion of the heart,He points them to the gloomy tomb,He bids them—and they must depart.
While you, my friend, with tearful eye,These soft elegiac lines read o'er,And while you heave the tender sighFor lov'd Amanda now no more.
This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,This lesson from Amanda learn,—That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.
That he alike his ruthless reignDoes o'er each age, each sex, extend,That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.
But in the height of Beauty's bloom,Each dear connexion of the heart,He points them to the gloomy tomb,He bids them—and they must depart.
BY W. G. CLARK.
The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling—There are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale;A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale;The desolate reign of old winter is broken—The verdure is fresh upon every tree;Of Nature's revival the charm,—and a tokenOf love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;He welcomes the gladness and glory, returningTo rest on the promise and hope of the year.He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers—He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.The young bird is out on his delicate pinion—He timidly sails in the infinite sky;A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:Around, above, there are peace and pleasure—The woodlands are singing—the heaven is bright;The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!—The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;The song in the wild-wood—the sheen of the blossom—The fresh-welling fountain,—their magic is o'er!When I list to the streams—when I look on the flowers,They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,And sigh that their transports are over and gone.From the wide-spreading earth—from the limitless heaven,There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth—I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;—But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended—'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;But thenewnessand sweetness of Being are ended—I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping—There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.It is shut to the glow of this present existence—It hears, from the past, a funereal strain;And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish—Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given,Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven—I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;—O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.
The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling—There are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale;A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale;The desolate reign of old winter is broken—The verdure is fresh upon every tree;Of Nature's revival the charm,—and a tokenOf love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.
The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;He welcomes the gladness and glory, returningTo rest on the promise and hope of the year.He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers—He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.
The young bird is out on his delicate pinion—He timidly sails in the infinite sky;A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:Around, above, there are peace and pleasure—The woodlands are singing—the heaven is bright;The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!—The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;The song in the wild-wood—the sheen of the blossom—The fresh-welling fountain,—their magic is o'er!When I list to the streams—when I look on the flowers,They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,And sigh that their transports are over and gone.
From the wide-spreading earth—from the limitless heaven,There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth—I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;—But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended—'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;But thenewnessand sweetness of Being are ended—I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping—There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.
It is shut to the glow of this present existence—It hears, from the past, a funereal strain;And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish—Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.
It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given,Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven—I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;—O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.
BY MRS. ANN E. BLEECKER.
Written in 1778.
Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by,Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye;Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?Like him, I lost my fair one in my flightFrom cruel foes, and in the dead of night.Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs,And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours?See York on fire—while, borne by winds, each flameProjects its glowing sheet o'er half the main,The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.Far from these scenes of horror, in the shadeI saw my aged parent safe conveyed;Then sadly followed to the friendly landWith my surviving infant by the hand:No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed,To load my shoulders and my flight impede;Protection from such impotence who'd claim?My Gods took care of me—not I of them.The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his lastWhen all domestic dangers he had passed;So my lov'd parent, after she had fled,Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed:—He held his way o'er the Cerulian main,But I returned to hostile fields again.
Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by,Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye;Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?Like him, I lost my fair one in my flightFrom cruel foes, and in the dead of night.Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs,And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours?See York on fire—while, borne by winds, each flameProjects its glowing sheet o'er half the main,The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.Far from these scenes of horror, in the shadeI saw my aged parent safe conveyed;Then sadly followed to the friendly landWith my surviving infant by the hand:No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed,To load my shoulders and my flight impede;Protection from such impotence who'd claim?My Gods took care of me—not I of them.The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his lastWhen all domestic dangers he had passed;So my lov'd parent, after she had fled,Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed:—He held his way o'er the Cerulian main,But I returned to hostile fields again.
BY W. G. CLARK.
"O Domini Deus speravi in te,O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me:In dura catena, in misera pena,Desidera te—Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo,Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!"[P]It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glideAlong the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide;When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen,When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men;And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye,A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set,And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul—When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her bursting tears,The phantasies of early hope—dreams of departed years;When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flungTheir rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among—When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye,When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's mysterious flame;When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one,Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun;Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow—The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow:But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven,Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given;They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway,And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way;It was the last dim night of life—the sun had sunk to rest,And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth;The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory roundOn the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground;And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar,Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star;I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light,And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night."Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring—While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing?Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?—the syren voice which flungThe chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred?Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death,As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its chilling breath?"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone,And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one!Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath been spoken,And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bendIn humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend!Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee,Give me the eagle's fearless wing—the dove's to mount to thee!"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears—How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years!I give my heart to earth no more—the grave may clasp me now—The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough;The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away,And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast,'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"
"O Domini Deus speravi in te,O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me:In dura catena, in misera pena,Desidera te—Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo,Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!"[P]
It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glideAlong the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide;When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen,When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men;And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye,A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set,And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.
Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul—When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her bursting tears,The phantasies of early hope—dreams of departed years;When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flungTheir rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among—When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye,When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.
Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's mysterious flame;When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one,Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun;Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow—The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow:But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.
And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven,Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given;They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway,And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way;It was the last dim night of life—the sun had sunk to rest,And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:
"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth;The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory roundOn the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground;And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar,Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star;I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light,And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night.
"Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring—While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing?Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?—the syren voice which flungThe chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred?Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death,As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its chilling breath?
"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone,And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one!Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath been spoken,And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bendIn humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend!Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee,Give me the eagle's fearless wing—the dove's to mount to thee!
"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears—How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years!I give my heart to earth no more—the grave may clasp me now—The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough;The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away,And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast,'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"
[From the French of Beranger.]
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
They'll talk of him, and of his glory,The cottage hearth, at eve, around;Fifty years hence no other storyShall 'neath the lowly thatch resound.Then shall the villagers repairTo some gray ancient dame,And bid her long-past times declare,And tell his deeds, his fame."Ah, though it cost us life and limb,"They'll say, "our love is still the same,And still the people love his name;Good mother, tell of him!"My children, through this very regionHe journey'd with a train of kings,Followed by many a gallant legion!(How many thoughts to me it brings,That tell of days so long gone by!)He climbed on foot the very hillWhere, seated on the bank, was ITo see him pass. I see him still;The small, three-coloured hat he wore,And the surtout of gray.I trembled at his sight all o'er!—Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!""Mother, he spoke to you, you say?""Ay, said 'good day' once more."Next year at Paris, too, one morning,Myself, I saw him with his court,Princes and queens hissuiteadorning,To Notre Dame he did resort;And every body blest the dayAnd prayed for him and his;How happily he took his way,And smiled in all a father's bliss,For heaven a son bestowed!""A happy day for you was this,Good mother!" then they say:"When thus you saw him on the road,In Notre Dame to kneel and pray,A good heart sure it showed.""Alas! ere long, invading strangersBrought death and ruin in our land!(Alone he stood and braved all dangers,The sword in his unconquer'd hand.)One night, (it seems but yesterday,)I heard a knocking at the door—It was himself upon his way,A few true followers, no more,Stood worn and weary at his side.Where I am sitting now he sat—'Oh what a war is this!' he cried.Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that?Did he, then, sit in that same chair?""My children, yes!—he rested there!""I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladlyI brought him country wine and bread;The gray surtout was dripping sadly;He dried it by this fire. His head,He leaned against this wall, and slept—While, as for me, I sat and wept.He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer!I go to Paris, France to free,And better times, be sure, are near!'He went, and I have ever keptThe cup he drank from—children, see!My greatest treasure!" "Show it me,""And me!"—"and me!" the listeners cry—"Good mother, keep it carefully!""Ah, it is safe! but where is he?Crowned by the pope, our father good,In a lone island of the seaThe hero died. Long time we stoodFirm in belief he was not dead,And some by sea, and some by land—But all, that he was coming, said.And when, at length, all hope was o'er,Than I, were few that sorrowed more!""Ah, mother, well we understand!Our blessings on you; we too weep,We will pray for you ere we sleep!"
They'll talk of him, and of his glory,The cottage hearth, at eve, around;Fifty years hence no other storyShall 'neath the lowly thatch resound.Then shall the villagers repairTo some gray ancient dame,And bid her long-past times declare,And tell his deeds, his fame."Ah, though it cost us life and limb,"They'll say, "our love is still the same,And still the people love his name;Good mother, tell of him!"
My children, through this very regionHe journey'd with a train of kings,Followed by many a gallant legion!(How many thoughts to me it brings,That tell of days so long gone by!)He climbed on foot the very hillWhere, seated on the bank, was ITo see him pass. I see him still;The small, three-coloured hat he wore,And the surtout of gray.I trembled at his sight all o'er!—Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!""Mother, he spoke to you, you say?""Ay, said 'good day' once more."
Next year at Paris, too, one morning,Myself, I saw him with his court,Princes and queens hissuiteadorning,To Notre Dame he did resort;And every body blest the dayAnd prayed for him and his;How happily he took his way,And smiled in all a father's bliss,For heaven a son bestowed!""A happy day for you was this,Good mother!" then they say:"When thus you saw him on the road,In Notre Dame to kneel and pray,A good heart sure it showed."
"Alas! ere long, invading strangersBrought death and ruin in our land!(Alone he stood and braved all dangers,The sword in his unconquer'd hand.)One night, (it seems but yesterday,)I heard a knocking at the door—It was himself upon his way,A few true followers, no more,Stood worn and weary at his side.Where I am sitting now he sat—'Oh what a war is this!' he cried.Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that?Did he, then, sit in that same chair?""My children, yes!—he rested there!"
"I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladlyI brought him country wine and bread;The gray surtout was dripping sadly;He dried it by this fire. His head,He leaned against this wall, and slept—While, as for me, I sat and wept.He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer!I go to Paris, France to free,And better times, be sure, are near!'He went, and I have ever keptThe cup he drank from—children, see!My greatest treasure!" "Show it me,""And me!"—"and me!" the listeners cry—"Good mother, keep it carefully!"
"Ah, it is safe! but where is he?Crowned by the pope, our father good,In a lone island of the seaThe hero died. Long time we stoodFirm in belief he was not dead,And some by sea, and some by land—But all, that he was coming, said.And when, at length, all hope was o'er,Than I, were few that sorrowed more!""Ah, mother, well we understand!Our blessings on you; we too weep,We will pray for you ere we sleep!"
BY JOHN INMAN.