There's not a leaf, that whirled on high That hath not words to prove,— Oh! look upon yon glorious scene; For me, I daily come to bless, Till I have said the Psalmist's line "These gracious works, dread Lord, are thine." My Home! my Home! I've paused awhile And seen in all "boon nature" smile Beneath her Maker's hand: But never, since calm reason took Till here the blessed scene I laid, My Home! my Home! oh, ever dear In joy or grief, in hope or fear, I deem my Home an emblem meet From pain and passion free, Where Peace shall fix her bright abode, THE GREEK EXILE. THIS is a fair and lovely spot, And cherished by a kindly hand; But oh! its loveliness is not Like that which clothes our father-land; For there the deserts wild and rude, The naked rock, the black defile, The stream that rolls in darkness by, The olive mount, the sea-girt isle,— Each have their record proud and high; "Go stranger, to thy fellows tell There patriots fought, there patriots fell!" The poet's song doth mingle there, With all that nature's bounty yields; All that exists of grand or fair, Its snow-clad hills, its laughing fields; And I through this cold world must roam, An exile from that happy home. Son of the Morning! what art thou? We are a nation of the dead, The life, the spirit, vanished now, And darkness o'er our dwellings spread,— But monuments sublime are there, Which thou must gaze on, and despair. And here the Athenian trumpet rangAnd here was heard the Spartan flute Till far and wide the battle clang Sounded above the horn and lute, Alas! alas! 't is desolate, And all that thou canst now behold, Are relics mute, inanimate, Faint tokens of the times of old: Whose seal and impress yet they bearBut whose renown we may not share. Yet shall the fond remembrance trace And future days perchance shall bring The ruined fane, the broken stone That crumbles at thy touch, doth tell Of peopled towns, that now are lone, Or where their humble offspring dwell: Ay, cringing to the ground they go, And feel not, or belie their woe. But go thou forth, my soul, beyond The view stretched out before thine eye, And fear thou not, nor e'er despond, But o'er the storm's deep thunder cry— "Hellas! the time-thy time-is come! Awake! arouse thee from the tomb !" Yet visions of the night are mine, 66 'Thy heart shall feel, thine eyes shall see A glory o'er the land arise, And Freedom's banner flout the skies!" A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES. O who has not hearkened in days of his childhood, Whether all the lore gathered at school or at college, Fairy land was the dream of the world when awaking From her second long slumber of darkness and dread, When even superstition began to be taking Some tinges of beauty and light ere she fled: Then fancy delighted, first mingled her terrors, Of demons and ghosts, with the lovely and fair, And called to adorn her, this dearest of errors— Of fairies on earth, and of sylphs in the air. But now the world's older-they say it is wiser,- The fairies, alas! are for ever gone from us, The joys of our childhood in age leave no trace,But I cannot discover the raptures they promise Our wisdom shall bring us, have yet filled their place. The shepherd has often ranged o'er mountains and valleys, But tell me, ye sages, who smile at the story, Were YE never lured by as foolish a thought— Have ye never chased riches, or splendour, or glory, For pleasures they never would give you, if caught? We all are deceived by some phantom or other, Like dreams of the Fairy-land, bright but untrue; Do not frown at my moral-'t will give you assistance THEY ARE NO MORE. BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ. THEY are no more! Oh, dull and drear, They are no more! O! breathes there one that hath not known The parting word—the dying look- ZARACH. And every pulse with anguish shook: And past The music of their lips hath fled, Unknown those words of wail and gloom. |