And cots, and hamlets, and faint city spire, The channel there, the islands and white sails, Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless ocean- It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought, Had built him there a temple: the whole world Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference. No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. Blest hour! It was a Luxury,-to be!
Ah! quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime! I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, That I should dream away th' intrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Drops on the cheek of one, he lifts from earth: And he, that works me good with unmoved face, Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, My benefactor, not my brother man! Yet even this cold beneficence
Seizes my praise when I reflect on those The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies! I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.
Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot! Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping rose, And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air, And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode! Ah! none had greater! and that all had such! It might be so-but the time is not yet- Speed it, O Father! Let thy kingdom come!
TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.
SWEET Flowers! that from your humble beds Thus prematurely dare to rise, And trust your unprotected heads To cold Aquarius' wat'ry skies;
Retire, Retire! these tepid airs Are not the genial brood of May; That sun with light malignant glares, And flatters only to betray.
Stern winter's reign is not yet past
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow, On icy pinions comes the blast,
And nips your root, and lays you low.
Alas! for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.
Come, then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my Anna's breast.
Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride. For there has liberal Nature join'd
Her riches to the stores of art; And added, to the vigorous mind,
The soft, the sympathizing heart.—
Come, then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my Anna's breast.
O! I should think, that fragrant bed Might I but hope with you to share,— Years of anxiety repaid
By one short hour of transport there!
More blest than me, thus shall ye live Your little day; and when ye die, Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.
While I, alas! no distant date,
Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate,
Without a stone to tell my name.
WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.
I WISH I was where Anna lies, For I am sick of lingering here; And every hour, affection cries,
Go and partake her humble bier.
I wish I could! for when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved, Since that sad hour, a dreary void, A waste unlovely, and unloved.
But who, when I am turn'd to clay, Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,
And weeds that have "no business there?"
And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?
And who, while memory loves to dwell Upon her name for ever dear, Shall feel his heart with passion swell, And pour the bitter, bitter tear?
I did it; and would fate allow
Should visit still, should still deplore,- But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain, And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air, that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye;
Thy spirits, frolicksome as good, Thy courage by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, Thy gay good humour-can they fade?
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.
I DREAM'D-I saw a little rosy child, With flaxen ringlets in a garden playing; Now stopping here, and then afar off straying, As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled.
Twas changed. One summer's day I stepp'd aside, To let him pass; his face had manhood's seeming, And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming
On a fair maiden whom he call'd "his Bride!"
Once more; 'twas autumn, and the cheerful fire I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding, The room with harmless pleasantry resounding, And in the midst I mark'd the smiling Sire.
The heavens were clouded!-and I heard the tone Of a slow moving bell-the white-haired man was gone!
THE BUTTERFLY'S BIRTH-DAY.
THE shades of night at distance fled, The air was calm, the wind was still; And slow the slanting sun-beam spread O'er wood and lawn, o'er heath and hill.
From floating clouds of pearly hue,
Fell, in light drops, the recent shower, That hung like gems of morning dew, On every tree, and every flower.
And from the Blackbird's mellow throat Was pour'd so long and loud a swell, As echoed with responsive note
From mountain side, and shadowy dell.
When bursting forth to life and light, The offspring of delighted May, The Butterfly, on pinions bright,
Launch'd in full splendour on the day!
Unconscious of a mother's care,
No infant wretchedness she knew;
But as she felt the vernal air,
At once to full perfection grew.
Her slender form, ethereal light,
Her velvet-textured wings enfold, With all the rainbow's colours bright, And dropt with spots of burnish'd gold.
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