E'en then we soared to many a height sublime, And many a day-dream charmed the lazy time. At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, Endeared by Friendship's unrestrainèd talk, When to the upland heights we bent our way, To view the last beam of departing day; How calm was all around! no playful breeze Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, But all was still, save when, with drowsy soLg, The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along; And save when heard in soft, yet merry glee, The distant church bells' mellow harmony; The silver mirror of the lucid brook,
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took; The rugged arch, that clasped its silent tides, With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides, The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight; All, all was pregnant with divine delight. We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, In the bright azure of the vaulted sky; Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride Was scattered thinly o'er the welkin wide, And tinged with such variety of shade,
To the charmed soul sublimest thoughts conveyed. In these what forms romantic did we trace, While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space! Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky- Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, A ridge of glaciers in mural white,
Hugely terrific. - But those times are o'er, And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more; For thou art gone, and I am left below, Alone to struggle through this world of woe. The scene is o'er - still seasons onward roll, And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, One endless continuity of grief;
And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.
Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant For hoards of wealth which ye will never want: And lost to all but gain, with ease resign The calms of peace and happiness divine! Far other cares be mine!-Men little crave In this short journey to the silent grave;
And the poor peasant, blessed with peace and health, I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree Paternal acres to await on me;
She gave me more, she placed within my breast A heart with little pleased with little blest: I look around me, where, on every side, Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride; And could my sight be borne to either zone, I should not find one foot of land my own.
But whither do I wander? shall the muse, For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, And prattles on in desultory song.
the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.
The song must close. Once more my adverse lot Leads me reluctant from this cherished spot: Again compels to plunge in busy life, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.
Scenes of my youthere my unwilling feet Are turned for ever from this loved retreat, Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,
One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please To give me an old age of peace and ease, Grant that, in these sequestered shades, my days May wear away in gradual decays: And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, Unseen upon the pinions of the day, Kind genii of my native fields benign, Who were
I SING the Cross !— Ye white-robed angel choirs,
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires
Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream
Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme.
Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled
Thy glittering fanes are levelled with the ground! Fallen is thy pride! Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound,
And frolic pleasures tripped the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely, and aghast
Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.
It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And, with most bitter persecuting ire,
Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn
Rose on his fortunes- and thou saw'st the fire
That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.
Oh! for a pencil dipped in living light,
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!
Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might,
To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore;
While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour,
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? May he to human ears his weak song frame? Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name.
Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come!
Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, And give him eloquence who else were dumb, And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! And thou, Urania! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,
Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote,
« PreviousContinue » |