SHE stands amidst the glittering crowd, The same in form and face,
As when at first her sweet cheek glow'd,
Even in this very place,
The same bright tresses bind her brow,
The same rich pearls her hair,
Her lip is just as roseate now,
Her hands as soft and fair.
She looks the same young radiant bride
As when we saw her first,
When in her flush of happiest pride
Upon our eyes she burst;
And even now she leans, as then,
Upon her husband's arm:
Yes 't is the very same again,
With every faultless charm.
Yet there's a change-her eyes are still Most beautiful and bright;
But they seem beneath their lids, to fill
With softer, tenderer light.
Her voice is sweet, and rich, and low,
But just as musical;
But 't is grown more like a river's flow,
Than a fountain's laughing fall
Still, still she smiles as radiantly,
When friends are speaking near:
But in her smile there's less of glee
And more of bliss sincere.
"Tis not the brilliant scene around
That her quiet heart beguiles:
In her pure spirit may be found
The fountain of her smiles.
Now, ever and anon, her eye
Is fix'd on vacancy,
And she seems to listen earnestly,
For, 'midst the revelry,
In fancy comes an infant's wail,
Or its murmuring in its sleep;
And the splendid hall seems cold and pale,
When such visions o'er her creep.
And though the scene is very fair,
She wearies for her home,
And thinks the hour to take her there
Will never, never come!
She, who once watch'd the time in pain,
That would too quickly flow,-
Oh, sure she might be gayer then,
But she is happier now!
HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?
Then may'st thou mete out a mother's love.
Hast thou talk'd with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witness'd the angels' bright employ?
Then may'st thou speak of a mother's joy.
Evening and morn hast thou watch'd the bee
Go forth on her errand of industry?
The bee for herself hath gather'd and toil'd,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.
Hast thou gone with the traveller, in thought, afar,
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast; but on ocean, earth or sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.
There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.
And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the loss they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.
There are teachings on earth and sky and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare;
But louder than voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak in a mother's love.
BURNING LETTERS.
FIRE, my hand is on the key
And the cabinet must ope!
I shall now consign to thee
Things of grief-of joy and hope.
Treasured secrets of the heart
To thy care I hence intrust;
Not a word must thou impart,
But reduce them all to dust!
This-in childhood's rosy morn,
It was gaily fill'd and sent;
Childhood is for ever gone!
Here! devouring element.
This was friendship's cherish'd pledge—
Friendship took a colder form:
Creeping on its gilded edge,
May the blaze be live and warm!
These the letter and the token,
Never more must meet my view:
When the faith has once been broken,
Let the memory perish too!
Here comes up the blotted leaf,
Blister'd o'er by many a tear!
Hence! thou waking shade of grief!
Go, for ever, disappear!
This was penn'd while purest joy
Warm'd the breast and lit the eye:
Fate that peace did soon destroy;
And its transcript so must I!
This must go! for, on the seal,
When I saw the solemn yew,
Keener was the pang than steel-
"T was a heart-string snapt in two!
This 't is his who seem'd to be
High as heaven and true as light;
But the visor rose; and he-
Spare, O, mercy! spare the sight
Of the face that frown'd beneath-
While I take it, hand and name,
And entwine it with a wreath
Of the purifying flame!
These-the hand is in the grave,
And the soul is in the skies,
Whence they came!-'t is pain to save
Cold remains of sunder'd ties!
Go together, all, and burn,
Once the treasures of my heart!
Still my breast shall be an urn
To preserve your better part!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
THE peace of Heaven attend thy shade,
My early friend, my favourite maid!
When life was new, companions gay,
We hail'd the morning of our day.
Ah, with what joy did I behold
The flower of beauty fair unfold!
And fear'd no storm to blast thy bloom,
Or bring thee to an early tomb!
Untimely gone! for ever fled
The roses of the cheek so red,
Th' affection warm, the temper mild,
The sweetness that in sorrow smiled.
Alas! the cheek where beauty glow'd,
The heart whose goodness overflow'd,
A clod amid the valley lies,
And dust to dust' the mourner cries.
O from thy kindred early torn,
And to thy grave untimely borne!
Vanish'd for ever from my view,
Thou sister of my soul, adieu!
Fair with my first ideas twined,
Thine image oft will meet my mind;
And, while remembrance brings thee near,
Affection sad will drop a tear.
How oft does sorrow bend the head
Before we dwell among the dead!
Scarce in the years of manly prime,
I've often wept the wrecks of time.
What tragic tears bedew the eye!
What deaths we suffer ere we die!
Our broken friendships we deplore,
And loves of youth that are no more.
No after friendship e'er can raise
Th' endearments of our early days;
And near the heart such fondness prove,
As when it first began to love.
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