High on the mountain top I sit alone Shrouding behind a veil of night my form, And when the trumpet of assault has blown, Career upon the pinions of the storm; By me the gales of morning sweetly blow, Waving, along the bank, the bending flowers; 'Tis at my touch the clouds dissolving flow, When flitting o'er the sky, in silent showers; I send the breeze to play among the bowers, And curl the light green ripples on the lake; I call the sea-wind in the sultry hours, And all his train of gentle airs awake; I lead the zephyr on the dewy lawn To gather up the pearls that speck it o'er, I sit within the circle of the moon, When the fair planet smiles, and brightly throws Around the radiance of her clearest noon, Till every cloud, that passes by her glows, When folds of fleecy vapour hang the sky, A magic light that safely guides him through; When lost in distant haze, I send his cry, Floating in mellow tones along the wind, Then like a speck of light he hurries by, And hills, and woods, and lakes are left behind: When clouds are gathering, or when whirlwinds blow, When heaven is dark with storms, or brightly fair, Where'er the viewless waves of ether flow, Calm or in tempest rolling, I am there. SONNET. My country at the sound of that dear name And glows in emulation of that day, When on their foes they stamped the brand of shame. His longing eye to where his parent sleeps, And high on rocks his country's beacon burns; A TRIBUTE TO THE BRAVE. THOUGH furled be the banner of blood on the plain, Then Freedom's broad flag on the wind shall be spread, When Peace shall disarm War's dark brow of its frown, 1 THE BROKEN HEART. He has gone to the land where the dead are still, He drank at the cup of grief his fill, His joy the thrill of heaven. He has gone to the land where the dead are cold, And thought will sting him-never; The tomb its darkest veil has roll'd O'er all his faults for ever. O! there was light that shone within He has gone to the land where the dead may rest In a soft unbroken slumber, Where the pulse that swelled his anguished breast, Shall never his torture number; Ah! little the reckless witlings know How keenly throbbed and smarted That bosom which burned with a brightest glow, Till crushed and broken-hearted. He longed to love, and a frown was all He sought with an ardour full and keen, To rise to a noble station, But repulsed by the proud, the cold, the mean, He sunk in desperation; They called him away to Pleasure's bowers, But gave him a poisoned chalice, And from her alluring wreath of flowers He felt that the charm of life was gone, In sadness while it lasted; He turned to the picture fancy drew, Which he thought would darken never; It fled to the damp cold grave he flew, And he sleeps with the dead for ever. |