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 along 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 base Umbrageous woods: and last of all, thine eye Will rest on many an humble dwelling-place Of happy human beings; and descry
The lowly temple where they worship the Most High.
How quietly it stands within the bound
Of its low wall of gray and mossy stone! And like a shepherd's peaceful flock around Its guardian gather'd,-graves, or tombstones
Make their last narrow resting-places known, Who, living, loved it as a holy spot;
And, dying, made their deep attachment shown By wishing here to sleep when life was not, That so their turf, or stone, might keep them un- forgot!
It is a bright and balmy afternoon, Approaching unto eventide; and all Is still except that streamlet's placid tune, Or hum of bees, or lone wood-pigeon's call, Buried amid embow'ring forest tall,
Which feathers, half-way up, each hill's steep side: Dost thou not feel such landscape's soothing thrall; And wish, if not within its bowers t' abide, At least to explore its haunts, and know what joys they hide?
Nor need'st thou wish a truer luxury
Than in its depths, delighted, thou might'st share; I will not say that naught of agony,
Blest as it is, at times may harbour there,
For man is born to suffer and to bear:
But could I go with thee, from cot to cot, And show thee how this valley's inmates fare, Thou might'st confess, to live in such a spot, And die there in old age, were no unlovely lot. BARTON.
CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction: once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear Precipitously steep; and, drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent as we stand in thoughts too deep:- All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concentred in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
OH! SAY NOT "TWERE A KEENER BLOW.
OH! say not 't were a keener blow To lose a child of riper years, You cannot feel a mother's woe, You cannot dry a mother's tears; The girl who rears a sickly plant, Or cherishes a wounded dove,
Will love them most, while most they want The watchfulness of love!
Time must have changed that fair young brow! Time might have changed that spotless heart! Years might have taught deceit but now In love's confiding dawn-we part! Ere pain or grief had wrought decay, My babe is cradled in the tomb; Like some fair blossom torn away Before its perfect bloom.
With thoughts of peril and of storm, We see a bark first touch the wave; But distant seems the whirlwind's form, As distant as an infant's grave! Though all is calm, that beauteous ship Must brave the whirlwind's rudest breath; Though all is calm, that infant's lip
Must meet the kiss of Death!
A REMEMBERED FACE.
AH there!-and comest thou thus again- Thou phantom of delight?
How oft, in hours of lonely pain,
Thou risest on my sight!
Since last we met, what suns have known
Their rising and decline!
But none of all those suns have shown
A fairer face than thine.
"Tis many a year since I look'd on Those meek and loving eyes;
And thousands since have come and gone, Like meteors through the skies. But thine-they often come to me, With lustre so benign,
Though memory of all others flee, "T will make but dearer thine.
As not alone, the gorgeous arch
Rear'd in heaven's summer dome, Gleams proudly on its silent march, And heralds good to come,
But leaves, where'er its glory pass'd, A fragrancy divine,*
So freshly on my soul is cast
The odorous light of thine.
Then welcome to my lonely hours, Thou visionary thing,
Come with thy coronal of flowers, Flowers of a vanish'd spring. For gleeful souls let others roam, But, till life's cords untwine, In my heart's depth shall find a home That pensive face of thine.
RAISED on the rocky barriers of the sea, Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie! Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine-trees tall Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall,
*"The ancients," says Lord Bacon, in his "Ten Centuries of Natural History," "believed that where the rainbow rested it left a delicate and heavenly odour."
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