Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.
Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisles thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day: And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave:
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee,
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea?
One thing is like thee to mortals given
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!
THE cavern-loving wren sequester'd seeks
The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;
And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,
Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs
The glossy raven and the hoarse-voic'd crow,
Rock'd by the storm, erect their airy nests.
The ousel, lone frequenter of the grove,
Of fragrant pines in solemn depth of shade,
Finds rest. Or, 'mid the holly's shining leaves,
A simple bush the piping thrush contents,
Though in the woodland contest, he aloft,
Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,
And scorns the humbler quire. The lark, too,
asks
A lowly dwelling hid beneath a turf,
Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:
Songster of heaven! who to the sun such lays
Pours forth as earth ne'er rous'd. Within the
hedge
The sparrow lays her sky-stain'd eggs. The barn, With eaves o'er-pendant, holds the chattering tribe.
Secret the linnet seeks the tangled copse,
The white owl seeks some antique ruin'd wall,
Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees,
Which age has cavern'd, safely courts repose.
The thievish pie, in twofold colours clad,
Roofs o'er her curious nest with firm-wreath'd
And sidelong forms her cautious door: she dreads The talon'd kite or pouncing hawk; savage Herself. With craft, suspicion ever dwells.
FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem,
Man's frailty to pourtray,
Blooming so fair in morning's beam,
Passing at eve away ;
Teach this, and oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.
Go, form a monitory wreath
For youth's unthinking brow;
Go, and to busy manhood breathe
What most he fears to know 1;
Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.
But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no word of cheer?
Oh, yes, ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well.
Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom
The pillow of the dying;
And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of your long sleep and broken chain;
And say, that He, who from the dust
Recalls the slumb'ring flower,
Will surely visit those who trust
His mercy and His power,
Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay,
And roll, ere long, the stone away.
WITH mild complacency to hear,
Though somewhat long the tale appear;
The dull relation to attend,
Which mars the story you could mend:
'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty;
Nor vainly think the time you waste,
When temper triumphs over taste.
AMID the pompous crowd
Of rich adorers, came a humble form;
A widow, meek as poverty doth make
Her children! with a look of sad content
Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast:
Then, timidly as bashful twilight, stole
From out the Temple. But her lowly gift
Was witness'd by an eye, whose mercy views
In motive, all that consecrates a deed
To goodness: -so He bless'd the widow's mite
Beyond the gifts abounding wealth bestow'd.-
Thus is it, Lord! with Thee: the heart is Thine,
And all the world of hidden action there
Works in thy sight, like waves beneath the sun
Conspicuous! and a thousand nameless acts
That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die
Unnotic'd, like the trodden flowers which fall
Beneath a proud man's foot-to thee are known,
And written with a sunbeam in the Book
Of Life, where mercy fills the brightest page!
DAYS of my youth! ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrow'd all o'er;
Strength of my youth! all your vigour is gone;
Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown;
Days of my youth! I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth! I'm content you should fall;
Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth! bath'd in tears have ye been;
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth! why lament your decay?
Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age! but a while can ye last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age! be you fix'd on your God!
I SAW him on the battle eve,
When like a king he bore him
Proud hosts in glitt'ring helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him!
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
and the morrow's meeds ;
No daunting thoughts came o'er him:
He look'd around him, and his eye
Defiance flash'd to earth and sky!
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