Still court his blessing, and that blessing find, Their tenderness in turn he well repays,
And yields to them the remnant of his days. For them he frames the laughter-moving joke; For them the tale with pristine glee is spoke; For them a thousand nameless efforts rise; To warn, to teach, to please, he hourly tries, Nor ever feels himself so truly blest, As when dispensing comforts to the rest; His hands in active duties never tire,
He grafts the scion, points the tendril's spire,
Or prunes the summer bower, or trims the winter fire. Nor is this all. As sensual joys subside, Sublimer pleasures are to age allied; Then, pensive memory fondly muses o'er The bliss or woe impressed so long before;— The sinking sun thus sheds his mellowest ray Athwart those scenes it brightened through the day. Then, too, the soul, as heavenly prospects ope, Expands and kindles with new beams of hope. So the same parting orb, low in the west, Dilates and glows, before it sinks to rest. Oh! if old age were cancelled from our lot, Full soon would man deplore the unhallowed blot; Life's busy day would want its tranquil even, And man must lose his stepping-stone to heaven.
Thus, every age by God to man assigned,
Declares his power, how good, how wise, how kind! And thus in manhood, youth, and eld, we trace A sweet proportion, and harmonious grace.
A CLOUD lay near the setting sun, As he smiled in the glowing west,
And his glorious beams, as he slowly sunk, Fell full on its shining breast;
And it sent him back again his rays,
And grew brighter, and more bright,
Till it seemed, as its glowing colors changed, An embodiment of light.
But the sun sunk down at the close of day, And in rain-drops it wept itself away.
A fair young bride at the altar stood,
And a blush was on her cheek,
And her voice was so low, that the vows she vowed
Seemed scarce from her lips to break.
Yet joy sat on her placid lip,
And in her downcast eye,
For a long, long life of happiness
Before her seemed to lie.
But her lord soon bowed to Death's stern doom,
And she wept herself to her silent tomb.
TELL me, ye viewless Spirits of the Air, Who steal upon the soul with silent wing, Seeming to wake, as with its breath, a string That yields deep melody all hidden there, Tell me if ye are visions from the tomb, Or dreams awaked by Fancy's wizard call, Or ministers of ill, released from thrall, In robes of light, to tempt us to our doom, Or messengers of peace from regions blest, On mercy's errand, stooping from above, Or friends departed, drawn by lingering love To whisper weal or warning to the breast? Ye have no voice to answer, but the eye Doth trace your homeward pathway to the sky!
THOU who scornest truths divine, Say what joy, what hope is thine? Is thy soul from sorrow free? Is this world enough for thee?
No; for care corrodes thy heart. Art thou willing to depart?
No; thy nature bids thee shrink
From the void abyss's brink.
Thou may'st laugh, in broad sunshine
Scoff, when sparkles the red wine;
Thou must tremble, when deep night Shuts the pageant from thy sight. Morning comes, and thou blasphemest; Yet another day thou deemest Thine; but soon its light will wane; Then thy warning comes again. There's a morrow with no night- Broad and blazing, endless light! Should its dawn thy dreams o'ertake, Better thou didst never wake!
STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove! Thy daily visits have touched my love! I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.
Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear
This noise of people-this breezeless air?
Thou alone of the feathered race,
Dost look unscared on the human face; Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the gentle dove'
Has become a name for trust and love.
A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word; Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild In the prisoned thoughts of the city child— And thy even wings
Are its brightest image of moving things.
It is no light chance. Wisely by Him who tamed thy heart- To stir the love for the bright and fair, That else were sealed in the crowded air- I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
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