"But the wretched soul, that darts
Passion-fire at every touch,
Wounding loved and loving hearts,
Suffers wrongfully and much.
"None his hasty speech forgives,
None suspects his mental strife;
Thanks to Heaven, one Being lives
Who can judge the inward life."
"Weep for yourselves, and for your
We mourn for those who TOIL,
The slave who ploughs the main,
Or him who helpless tills the soil
Beneath the stripe and chain;
For those who in the world's hard race
O'erwearied and unblest,
A host of restless phantoms chase,
Why mourn for those who REST?
We mourn for those who SIN,
Bound in the tempter's snare,
Whom syren pleasure beckons in
To prisons of despair,
Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn,
Are wrecked on folly's shore,
But why in sorrow should we mourn
For those who sin no more?
We mourn for those who weep,
Whom stern afflictions bend
With anguish o'er the lowly sleep
Of lover or of friend; -
But they to whom the sway
Of pain and grief is o'er,
Whose tears our God hath wiped away,
Oh! mourn for them no more!
As on a hill-top rude, when closing day
Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,
Borne from its native genial airs away,
That scarcely can a tender bud display;
So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare,
Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there.
While thus, Oh, sweetly scornful! I essay
Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown,
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;
So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown,
That what he wills, he never wills in vain.
Oh! that this hard and sterile breast might be
To him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free.
Though many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birth-day strain
Confine not heart and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!
Delicious odors! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
Oh! for a deathless song to meet
The soul's desire, a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And winter's dreary hour.
Earth, sea, thy presence feel, - nor less,
If yon ethereal blue
With its soft smile the truth express,
The heavens have felt it too.
The inmost heart of man, if glad,
Partakes a livelier cheer;
And eyes that cannot but be sad,
Let fall a brightened tear.
Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,
How many wan and faded cheeks
Have kindled into health!
The old, by thee revived, have said,
"Another year is ours; "
And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon their flowers.
Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers?
The tender infant who was long
A prisoner of fond fears;
But now, when every sharp-edged blast
Is quiet in its sheath,
His mother leaves him free to taste
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.
Thy help is with the weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;
No cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favors may be found;
But most on some peculiar nook
That our own hands have dressed,
Thou, and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.
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