He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er; He loved, but whom he loved, the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; The rolling seasons, day and night, The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye The annals of the human race, Till all the air around Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound, O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand, Of vanish'd troubles sing, of fears for ever fled, of flowers that hear the voice of Spring. Of home, contentment, health, repose, And everlasting as his truth: Sing, heavenly Hope!-and dart thine hand Ah! then, this gloom control, THE HARP OF SORROW. I GAVE my Harp to Sorrow's hand, And she has ruled the chords so long, They will not speak at my command ;— They warble only to her song. Of dear, departed hours, Too fondly loved to last, The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, Snapt in their freshness by the blast: Of long, long years of future care, Till lingering Nature yields her breath, And endless ages of despair, Beyond the judgment-day of death: The weeping Minstrel sings, Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, Are dumb or only utter moans. And yet, to soothe the mind The soul to suffering all resign'd Thus o'er the light Eolian lyre The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play; POPE'S WILLOW. Verses written for an Urn, made out of the trunk of the Weeping Willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down. ERE POPE resign'd his tuneful breath, The minstrel hung his harp in death Long as revolving seasons flew, Old Time beheld his silvery head The breezy lawn embowering, Thither, at summer noon, he view'd The lovely Nine retreating, Beneath its twilight solitude With songs their Poet greeting, Whose spirit in the Willow spoke, Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak. By harvest moonlight there he spied One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree • The hand," he cried, "that planted thee He spake, and struck a silent blow With that dread arm whose motion Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low, And wields o'er land and ocean The unremitting ax of doom, That fells the forest of the tomb. Deep to the Willow's root it went, In vain did Spring those bowers restore, Where loves and graces revell'd, Autumn's wild gales the branches tore, The thin grey leaves dishevell'd, And every wasting Winter found The Willow nearer to the ground. Hoary, and weak, and bent with age, It bow'd before the woodman's rage; -The swans of Thames bewail'd it. With softer tones, with sweeter breath, Than ever charm'd the ear of death. O POPE! hadst thou, whose lyre so long This Weeping Willow planted; Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime, An humbler lot, O Tree' was thine, Though verse like mine in vain would raise Yet, fallen Willow! if to me Such power of song were given, My lips should breathe a soul through thee And call down fire from heaven, To kindle in this hallow'd Urn A flame that would for ever burn. A WALK IN SPRING. I WANDER'D in a lonely glade, Light o'er the woods of dark brown oak In rosy light reveal'd. "Twas in the infancy of May,- "Tis sweet in solitude to hear The Blackbird's loud wild note, In rustic solitude 't is sweet The strawberry, creeping at our feet, Wherefore I love the walks of Spring,- Joy flits on every roving wing, That morn I look'd and listen'd long, To welcome, with remembrance strong When gathering flowers, an eager child, Peep'd breathless through the copse, and smiled Already had I watch'd the flight Of swallows darting through the light, Now in my walk, with sweet surprise Lone on a mossy bank it grew, Where lichens, purple, white, and blue, Its yellow ringlets, dropping dew, A bee had nestled on its blooms, He shook abroad their rich perfumes, O, welcome, as a friend! I cried, A friend through many a season tried, When May, with Flora at her side, Sure as the Pleiades adorn In calm delicious hours, Beneath their beams thy buds are born, 'Midst love-awakening showers. Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand, Thy fairy tribes we meet; From winter's farm-yard bondage freed, The cattle bounding o'er the mead, Where green the herbage grows, Tossing his forelock o'er his mane, Where thick thy primrose blossoms play, O'er coppice lawns and dells, Whose simple sweets, with curious skill, With Britain's homely wine. The dawn of lengthening days. Thy self-renewing race Have breathed their balmy lives away And O, till Nature's final doom, This bank their cradle and their tomb, Yet, lowly Cowslip, while in thee This fading eye and withering mien Since more and more estranged, Then fields and woods I proudly spurn'd, Cold was my wretched heart, Sick of the world,-I turn'd my face "T was Spring;-my former haunts I found My favorite flowers adorn'd the ground, My darling minstrels play'd; The mountains were with sun-set crown'd, With lorn delight the scene I view'd, And still, in Memory's twilight bowers, With mellowing tints, portray Till youth's delirious dream is o'er, In age, when error charms no more, A DEED OF DARKNESS. The body of the Missionary, John Smith, (who died Febry 6, 1824, in prison, under sentence of death by a court-mi dal, in Demerara), was ordered to be buried secretly at night and no person, not even his widow, was allowed to follow the corpse. Mrs. Smith, however, and her friend Mrs. Elliot, accompanied by a free Negro, carrying a lantern, repaired beforehand to the spot where a grave had been dug, and there they awaited the interment, which took place accordingly. His Majesty's pardon, annulling the condemnation, is said to have arrived on the day of the unfortunate Missionary's death, from the rigors of confinement, in a tropical climate, and under the slow pains of an inveterate malady, previously afflicting him. COME down in thy profoundest gloom, Beneath thine ebon arch entomb Earth, from the gaze of Heaven, O Night' A deed of darkness must be done, Put out the moon, hold back the sun. Are these the criminals, that flee Like deeper shadows through the shade? A flickering lamp, from tree to tree, Betrays their path along the glade, Led by a Negro;-now they stand, Two trembling women, hand in hand. A grave, an open grave, appears; Wet the fresh turf with bitter tears; Sighs following sighs their bosoms rend: These are not murderers!-these have known Grief more bereaving than their own. Oft through the gloom their straining eyes A stern procession!-gleaming arms, And withering pangs through either heart; Not by the slave-lord's justice slain, Who doom'd him to a traitor's death; While royal mercy sped in vain O'er land and sea to save his breath: No; the frail life that warm'd this clay, Man could not give nor take away. His vengeance and his grace, alike, Were impotent to spare or kill; -He may not lift the sword to strike, Nor turn its edge aside, at will: Here, by one sovereign act and deed, God cancell'd all that man decreed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, That corpse is to the grave consign'd; The scene departs :-this buried trust, The Judge of quick and dead shall find, When things which Time and Death have seal'd Shall be in flaming fire reveal'd. The fire shall try Thee, then, like gold, Prisoner of hope!-await the test; And O, when truth alone is told, Be thy clear innocence confess'd! The fire shall try thy foes;-may they Find mercy in that dreadful day. THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG, IN A FOREIGN LAND. Imitated from the French. O, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth, O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? O, when shall I visit the land of my birth! -"T is the loveliest land on the face of the earth THE OAK. Imitated from the Italian of Metastasio. THE tall Oak, towering to the skies, THE DIAL. THIS shadow on the Dial's face, Moments, and months, and years away, What is it?-Mortal Man! Yet, in its calm career, It levels all beneath the sky; And still, through each succeeding year Till Nature's race be run, And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun. Nor only o'er the Dial's face, This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea, From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps, The scythe of Time destroys, And man at every footstep weeps O'er evanescent joys; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn, I too shall lie in dust and darkness low. Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb, Whose moving shadow shall portend Each frail beholder's doom O'er the wide earth's illumined space, Though Time's triumphant flight be shown, The truest index on its face Points from the church-yard stone. THE ROSES. Addressed to a Friend on the Birth of his first Child. Two Roses on one slender spray, In sweet communion grew, Together hail'd the morning ray, And drank the evening dew; While, sweetly wreathed in mossy green, Through clouds and sunshine, storms and showers, Mingling their foliage and their flowers, Their beauty and perfume; But soon their summer splendor pass'd, Yet were these roses to the last The loveliest of their kind, When thus were all their honors shorn, And blush'd and brighten'd, as the morn My Friends! in youth's romantic prime, Like these twin roses spend your time, Then be your breasts as free from cares, And in the infant bud that blows In your encircling arms. Mark the dear promise of a rose, The pledge of future charms, That o'er your withering hours shall shine, Till, planted in that realm of rest You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod, TO AGNES. Reply to some Lines, beginning, "Arrest, O Time, thy fleeting course." TIME will not check his cager flight, Though gentle Agnes scold, For 't is the Sage's dear delight To make young ladies old. Then listen, Agnes, friendship sings; Adorn'd with these, defy his rage, And bid him plow your face, Start not old age is virtue's prime ; Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time, Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom, AN EPITAPH. ART thou a man of honest mould, The sun that wakes yon violet's bloom, Once cheer'd his eye, now dark in death The wind that wanders o'er his tomb Was once his vital breath. The roving wind shall pass away, The warming sun forsake the sky; Thy brother, in that dreadful day, Shall live and never die. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. There was a time, that time is past, Like me through varying seasons range, In infancy, my vernal prime, Summer my youth succeeded soon, And pleasure held the reins till noon, Like autumn, rich in ripening corn, My harvest-moon scarce fill'd her horn, |