These are words of deeper sorrow Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayest see, Every feeling hath been shaken, Pride, which not a world could bow, Words from me are vainer still: But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.Fare thee well-thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, Y ROBERT POLLOK. (1799-1827.) SOLITUDE. PLEASANT were many scenes, but most to me The solitude of vast extent, untouched By hand of art, where nature sowed herself, And reaped her crops; whose garments were the clouds; Whose banquets morning dews; whose heroes storms; Whose warriors mighty winds; whose lovers flowers; Whose orators the thunderbolts of God; The lonely bard enjoyed when forth he walked, And nought-sought neither heaven nor earth - sought nought; Of visionary things, fairer than aught That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, Which men of common stature never saw. JAMES MONTGOMERY. (1771 — still living.) NIGHT. NIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young like things on earth! Night is the time to watch; On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the home-sick mind Night is the time for care; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering nost, Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole, Descries athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends—such death be mine! HOME. There is a land, of every land the pride, In every clime the magnet of his soul, Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! |