The sweetest of them all
From its fairy banks is gone;
And the music of the waterfall
Hath left the silent stone!
Up among the mountains
In soft and mossy cell,
By the silent springs and fountains
The happy wild-flowers dwell.
The queen-rose of the wilderness
Hath wither'd in the wind,
And the shepherds see no loveliness
In the blossoms left behind.
Birds cheer our lonely groves
With many a beauteous wing;
When happy in their harmless loves
How tenderly they sing!
O'er all the rest was heard
One wild and mournful strain,
But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird,
She ne'er must sing again!
Bright through the yew-tree's gloom
I saw a sleeping dove!
On the silence of her silvery plume
The sunlight lay in love:
The grove seem'd all her own
Round the beauty of that breast,
But the startled dove afar is flown!
Forsaken is her nest!
In yonder forest wide
A flock of wild deer lies,
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side,
And shades their peaceful eyes!
The hunter in the night
Hath singled out the doe,
In whose light the mountain flock lay bright,
Whose hue was like the snow!
A thousand stars shine forth
With pure and dewy ray,
Till by night the mountains of our north
Seem gladdening in the day.
O empty all the heaven!
Though a thousand lights be there,For clouds o'er the evening star are driven, And shorn her golden hair!
What! though the stream be dead,-
Its banks all still and dry!
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed
In the air groves of the sky.
What! though our prayers from death
The queen-rose might not save!
With brighter bloom and balmier breath
She springeth from the grave.
What! though our bird of light
Lie mute with plumage dim!
In heaven I see her glancing bright-
I hear her angel hymn.
What! though the dark tree smile
No more with our dove's calm sleep, She folds her wing on a sunny isle In heaven's untroubled deep!
True that our beauteous doe
Hath left her still retreat,—
But purer now in heavenly snow
She lies at Jesus' feet.
O star! untimely set,
Why should we weep for thee?
The bright and dewy coronet
Is rising o'er the sea!
STAY, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake-
"Tis want that makes my cheek so pale!
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy; · But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an Orphan Boy.
Poor foolish child! how pleased was 1,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 't was bought,
And made me a poor Orphan Boy.
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother shuddering closed her ears:
Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;
My mother answer'd with her tears.
'Why are you crying, thus," said I,
While others laugh and shout for joy?" She kiss'd me, and with such a sigh! She call'd me her poor Orphan Boy.
"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,
As in her face I look'd and smiled; My mother through her tears replied, "You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!" And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, I have learnt too well
What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.
Oh! were I by your bounty fed-
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide;
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!-Ha!-this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look and see
Your happy, happy Orphan Boy.
THE POET'S RETREAT.
OH! not in stately halls or gilded rooms,
Or crowded city, would I dwell with thee!
But in a lowly cottage, not so high
But that the jessamine could reach the roof,
And in a lonely valley, paint thee, love!
And a small white dwelling, in a paradise
Of many-colour'd flowers; at the door
Should be a little porch of honeysuckle;
The lattices should have no other blinds
Than branches of red roses. In the room
A lute be placed, where music should be heard
Together with the woodlark's evening song;
Fresh flowers in green rush baskets; and some books
O'er which the spirit of sweet Poesy
Had shed his soul of beauty and of passion;
And landscapes on the walls-landscapes that gave
The skies of other nations-rock, and storm,
And mountain-torrent-and black woods where dwell
The dark banditti; so that we might prize
Still more the quiet of our own calm home.
Our garden should be beautiful-but ours
The only hands that made it beautiful.
We would be proud of it. Our crocuses
(Those golden promisers of April's wealth)
Should be the first in spring, and ours the rose
That bloom'd the last in autumn. In the shade
Of an old ash, whose boughs hung o'er a bed
Of purple violets, we'd place our hive
Of bees, and plant a sweetbrier by the stand.
Around, the country should be pleasant fields,
Corn and green meadows, and their hedges rich
With the luxuriant May and wilding rose;
And in the summer-time, wood strawberries,
Mix'd with the azure bird's-eye at their roots.
Away, yet still the village should be seen
Visible, peeping from the tall elm trees,
With its white church and sunset-gilded spire.
And there should be a little brook, o'erhung
With graceful willows, and the water-lily
Upon its calm cold surface; and at noon
Its ripple would come musical and low,
Mix'd with the wood-dove's plaining to her mate.
I could be happy anywhere with thee!
But this, dear love!-this would be Paradise!
THE RAINBOW.
THE sudden storm has pass'd away,
And the resplendent orb of day,
Sheds once again his smiling ray
Upon the deepening azure sky;
While on the dark retreating cloud,
Folded and thick as sable shroud,
At once the rainbow's beauties crown
The heaven-born pomp and brilliancy.
Oh, how the sun's pure lustre gleams!
"Tis like religion's heavenly beams
When its descending glory streams
Upon the weeping world below;
And, broken thus, its light appears
As shining through the vale of tears,
Tinged with our mortal hopes and fears,
It takes each shade of joy or woe.
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