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'Tis not the loud, obstreperous grief,
That rudely clamours for relief–
'Tis not the querulous lament,
In which impatience seeks a vent:
'Tis not the soft pathetic style,
Which aims our pity to beguile;
That can to truth's keen eye impart
The “real sorrows' of the heart!
No!—'tis the tear in secret shed
Upon the o: infant's head;
e sigh that will not be repress'd,
Breathed on the faithful partner's breast:
The bursting heart, the imploring eye,
To heaven upraised in agony,
With starts of desultory prayer,
While hope is quenched in despair;
The throbbing temple's burning pain,
While frenzy's fiend usurps the brain;
These are traits no art can borrow,
Of genuine suffering and of onw;
OUR life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy:
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a o from off our waking .
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past-they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain:
They make us what we are not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows—are they so?
Is not the past all shadow what are they?
Creations of the mind —The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep—sor in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, .
And curdles a long life into one hour.
WHo, when naught is heard around
But the great ocean's solemn sound,
Feels not as if the eternal God
Were speaking in that dread abode :
An answering voice seems kindly given,
From the multitude of stars in heaven:
And oft a smile of moonlight fair
To perfect peace has changed despair.
Low as we are, we blend our fate
With things so beautifully great;
And, though opprest with heaviest grief,
From nature's bliss we draw relief,
Assured that God's most gracious eye
Beholds us in our misery, -
And sends mild sound and lovely sight,
To change that misery to delight.
TheRE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day
ong; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its roses I never forget, But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly
And a dew was distill'd from the flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was
Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year,
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverent step, from stone to stone
In a small village churchyard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move—
And as we read the names unknown,
Of §. and old, to judgment gone,
And hear, in the calm air above,
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate in Christian five,
Upon the dead and dying:
** Such is the scene around me now:— A little churchyard on the brow Of a green pastoral hill; Its y van village sleeps below, And faintly, here, is heard the flow Of Woodburn's summer rill ; A place where all things mournful meet, And, yet, the sweetest of the sweet!— The stillest of the still !
With what a pensive beauty fall
Across the mossy mouldering wall
That rose-tree's cluster'd arches! See
The robin-redbreast, warily,
Bright through the blossoms leave his nest:
Sweet ingrate through the winter blest
At the firesides of men—but sh
Through all the many summer ion—
He hides himself among the flowers
In his own wild festivity.
What lulling sound, and shadow cool,
Hangs half the darken'd churchyard o'er,
From thy green depths, so beautiful,
Thou gorgeous sycamore!
Oft hath the lowly wine and bread,
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent;
Where many a bright and hoary head,
Bow’d at that awful sacrament.
Now all beneath the turf are laid,
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.
Above that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently
To heaven, with all its dreams!—
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song-half bliss, half woe-
The voice so lonely seems!
CoME, take thy stand upon this gentle ridge,
Which overlooks yon sweet secluded vale;
Before us is a rude and rustic bridge,
A simple plank; and by its side a rail
On either hand, to guide the footsteps frail
Of first or second childhood: while below
The murmuring brooklet tells its babbling tale,
Like a sweet under-song, which in its flow
It chanteth to the flowers that on its margin grow.
For many a flow'ret blossoms there to bless
The gentle loveliness whose charms imbue
Its border;-strawberry of the wilderness;
The star-like daisy; violet brightly blue;
Pale Primrose, in whose cup the pearly dew
Glistens till noontide's languid, listless hour;
And last of all, and sweetest to the view,
The lily of the vale, whose virgin flower
Trembles at every breeze within its leafy bower.
Now glance thine eye o the streamlet's banks
Up through yon quiet valley; thou wilt trace
Above, the giant mountains in their ranks,
Of bald and varied outline; little space
Below their summits, far above their
Umbrageous woods; and last of all, thine eye
Will rest on many an humble dwelling-place
Of oy human beings; and descry
The lowly temple where they worship the Most
How quietly it stands within the bound
its low wall of gray and mossy stone!
And like a shepherd's peaceful flock around
Its guardian gather'd,—graves, or tombstones strown,