The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,
Deep silence keep,
And seem to sleep
Recumbent on their oozy bed;
With what a trance
The level glance,
Unbroken, shoots along the seas!
Which tempt from shore
The painted oar ;
And ev'ry canvass courts the breeze!
When rushes forth
The frowning North
On blacken'd billows, with what dread
My shudd'ring soul
And hears their roarings o'er my head!
The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time,
The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime.
White lilies hang their heads and soon decay,
And whiter snow melts rapidly away..
Such and so with'ring is our blooming youth.
The Palmetto.-The Grampus.
LIKE the tall palm it shoots its stately head;
From the broad top depending branches spread:
No knotty limbs the taper body bears:
High on each bough a single leaf appears;
Which shrivel'd in its infancy remains,
Like a clos'd fan, nor stretches wide its veins;
But, as the seasons in their circle run,
Opes its ribb'd surface to the nearer sun :
Beneath the shade the weary peasant lies,
Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes rise:
Thus artificial zephyrs round him fly,
And mitigate the fever of the sky.
-ENORMOUS grampus, issuing forth
From the pale regions of the icy North,
Waves his broad tail and opes his ribbed mouth,
And seeks on winnowing fin the breezy South;
From towns deserted rush the breathless hosts,
Swarm round the hills, and darken all the coasts
Boats follow boats along the shouting tides,
And spears and jav'lins pierce his blubb'ry sides.
Now the bold sailor, rais'd on pointed toe,
Whirls the wing'd harpoon on the slimy foe;
Quick sinks the monster in his oozy bed,
The blood-stain'd surges circling o'er his head,
Steers to the frozen pole his wonted track,
And bears the iron tempest on his back.
Lo, midnight from her starry reign
Looks awful down on earth and main,
The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep,
With all that crop the verdant food,
With all that skim the crystal flood,
Or haunt the caverns of the rocky deep.
No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers:
No wakeful sound the moonlight valley knows,
Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,
And lulls the waving scene to more profound
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's
The lowing herd, the sheep-fold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley, echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings;
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village bell the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from his aërial tour.
THE LOVE OF PRAISE.
Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.
Not any partial private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's self appears.
If praise with deep religious awe
From the sole perfect Judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law,
Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.
With which in character the same,
Tho' in a humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.
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