Whene'er the heart has aught whereon to dwell, Giving the consciousness of present bliss,
Whether the interest of some human heart In sympathy with ours; or but some vague, Some undefined spirit, which we deem Holds converse with us;-unreal though it be, That heart ne'er felt the sense of solitude. It is not solitude to be alone
Amid the wildest grandeur of this world; To breast the lonely mountain side, or trace, In hours of darkness, the untravell'd shore; To hear the gathering waves come thundering on, Like the war tramp of charging cavalry!
To see their horrid columns nearer roll,
With crests uprear'd, and manes of scatter'd foam, Struggling against the adverse wind, and lash'd Into ten thousand whirling, yeasty gulphs; Then, all o'erspent, and dreadful even in death, Roll prostrate down, with hoarse and deafening din.
There is no solitude in such a scene!
Does not our nature love to hear the roar
To mingle with the strife of elements,
As with a higher nature, and to hold
High converse with the spirit of the storm?
There is no solitude in such a scene,
Though haply none of human kind are near To kneel with us, and humbly to adore
The God of nature, whose dread mandate ran— "Thus far, proud Sea! no farther shalt thou go, And here thy rolling waters shall be stayed!" Six thousand years have well nigh flown away, And Ocean still obeys the high command!
'Tis when the green affections of the heart Have been nipp'd-wither'd by affliction's hand; When the dark present seems even drearier still, From the remember'd sunshine of the past; When all who lov'd us, all whom we have lov'd, Are gone from us by-death or perfidy! The future but one dim and dreary waste, Where joy ne'er visits, and where hope is dead; Then comes that solitude of soul which few Have felt, or, feeling, ever suffer'd long.
There is a house where misery and want, Debility and foul disease, retire; And human woe in every form is seen. Long rows of couches, regularly rang'd Along the walls, receding from the sight, Are press'd by miserable shapes which seem A horrid mockery of human form.
There lies the infant on its mother's breast:
But ah! that fount whence its young life was drawn Sends forth a poison'd stream; and ere the sun
(Whose rays stream o'er their lowly couch, and seem To mock their misery) shall set in night,
Mother and babe within one shroud shall lie! Consumption, with her wan and hollow cheek, Yet sometimes cross'd with that fair roseate streak, Fatal as lovely! like the glow which spreads O'er the gray clouds that herald coming night; One moment that bright ray disturbs the soul With loveliness-the next, 'tis gone for ever! The strong man grovels there, like a crush'd worm Writhing beneath the torture! What avails His boasted strength-his vainly vaunted powers, Which oft amaz'd his gaping comrades round? The demon of disease has clutch'd his prey, And crush'd he lies beneath his horrid grasp ! Oft wandering there, it chanc'd that once I mark'd A father sitting by his son's sick bed—
A bed from which he never more might rise! The old man's hair was white, and wav'd above A brow that once had been full, lofty, broad, Though now 'twas closely furrow'd o'er by care : An eye that now, though dull and spiritless, Seem'd to reflect the shadow of past fire. -Talk not of woman's love! can it compare With the devoted, yearning, deep affection With which a father tends his only child?
The unshed tears—the prayers that all unbreathed For very agony-the sigh suppress'd-
The bitterness of soul, uncoin'd in words—
These are the pangs a father only feels! And so the old man daily, nightly watch'd, Weak, wan, and worn, beside his dying boy:
Ministering unto his hourly wants,
With hands that trembled both with age and grief. The food-the drink-the needful remedies
Which skill in vain prescrib'd-the boy receiv'd (Whence only he would take them) from his father; And then a long, sad, sickening smile he'd give, And feebly placing his wan wasted hand Within his father's, he would fall asleep. Hours has the old man gaz'd upon him thus, While the dark cloud grew darker o'er his soul, As daily from his suffering boy he mark'd Life ebb away!-
-The sun was sinking low,
And his last rays fell on a new-made corse- The boy was dead. Beside the couch there stood A bent and wither'd form-it was his sire. His eye was sunk in hopeless misery: What was his life?-his only friend was dead! One long, wild, wistful gaze-then with a sigh He rais'd his red and tearless eyes to Heaven, And, slowly moving from the scene of death, He went his way, a solitary man!
The Olden Time! The Olden Time!
Its faded, vanish'd glory,
The theme of many an ancient rhyme,
And many a modern story!
When Knights in iron armour clad, Their steel-tipp'd lances shivering, Spurr'd on the foe, and left their blade
In his best heart's blood quivering!
Oh! brave were the gallants of England's clime, And manly the deeds in the Olden Time.
The King hied away to the good green wood,
His prancing charger bore him,
With an hundred knights and ladies gay,
Behind, around, before him!
Each Knight was at his lady's rein,
To shelter her from danger,
And the Monarch bandied joke and gibe
With his jolly green-wood ranger;
And thus they rode in the morning's prime, The noble hearts of the Olden Time.
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