And the rich bordering beds of every bloom,
That breathes to African or Indian sky.
Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone,
Pure lily, that its virgin head low waved
Beneath the fountain drops, yet still would come,
Like hearts by love and destiny enslaved,
That see, and shrink, and yet will seek their doom.
Then was the harping of the minstrels heard
In the deep arbours, or the regal hall,
Hushing the tumult of the festival,
When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rear'd,
And told of eastern glories, silken hosts,
Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd;
Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts
Of the far western sea, the sons of blood,
The iron men of tournament and feud,
That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarm'd,
Doom'd by the Moslem scymetar to fall,
Till the red cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall.
Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,
That had no rival and no second ?-gone!
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd,
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim,
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim,
Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told.
Where is thy horn of battle? that but blown
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne;
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall,
Brought every charger barbed from the stall,
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore,
Waiting the waving of thy torch, to pour
The living deluge on the fields of Spain!
Queen of earth's loveliness! there was a stain
Upon thy brow-the stain of guilt and gore,
Thy course was bright, bold, treacherous-and 'tis o'er.
The spear and diadem are from thee gone;
Silence is now sole monarch on thy throne!
OH! knowest thou why, to distance driven,
When Friendship weeps the parting hour,
The simplest gift that moment given,
Long, long retains a magic power?
Still, when it meets the musing view,
Can half the theft of Time retrieve-
The scenes of former bliss renew,
And bid each dear idea live?
It boots not if the pencill'd rose,
Or sever'd ringlet, meet the eye;
Or India's sparkling gems inclose
The talisman of sympathy!
'Keep it yes, keep it for my sake!"
On fancy's ear still breathes the sound;
Ne'er time the potent charm shall break,
Nor loose the spell Affection bound!
THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see:
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee!
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day with farewell beam delays,
Among the op'ning clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that mark the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine
When night, with wings of stormy gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with a thousand dyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye;
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
NOT seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn;
Not seldom Evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
To the confiding bark, untrue;
And if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.
But Thou art true, incarnate Lord;
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die,
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!
I bent before thy gracious throne,
And ask'd for peace with suppliant knee;
And peace was given-nor peace alone,
But faith, and hope, and ecstasy!
TO THE MEMORY OF
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul,
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be,
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest;
But nor cypress, nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?
THE SABBATH MORNING.
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
GRAHAME.
TO THE MORNING LARK.
FEATHER'D lyric! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the sky-
Opening with thy matin lay,
Nature's hymn, the eye of day,
Teach my soul, on early wing,
Thus to soar, and thus to sing!
While the bloom of orient light
Guides thee in thy tuneful flight,
May the Day-spring from on high,
Seen by Faith's religious eye,
Cheer me with his vital ray,
Promise of eternal day!
THE BIBLE A GUIDE.
WHAT is the world? a wildering maze,
Where sin hath track'd ten thousand ways
Her victims to ensnare;
All broad and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,
All ending in despair.
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