« PreviousContinue »
How learn ye, while the cold waves boom
Your deep and cozy couch above,
To light and life and love ?
Her sacred veil where Nature draws !
ODE TO EVENING.
Like thy own modest springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leather wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding star arising shows
The fragrant hours and elves
Who slept in buds the day; And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with
sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That from the mountain's side
Views wild and swelling floods, -
Thy dewy fingers drew
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;
Thy gentle influence own,
EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL
Hush! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while von soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young
heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in
prayer. Gaze on,-'tis lovely! childhood's lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought; Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity.
Te with slumbarà leaves, at se rrow lies
Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled
springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!
Her lottient smiles to We Affection's deerower!.
Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep,
To pour on broken reedsa wasted shower!. And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship—therefore pray.
Her lot is on you—to be found, untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things—therefore pray.
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun;
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn;