Puslapio vaizdai
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SONNET.

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from eities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys : But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I 'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SONNET IN HIS SICKNESS.

Yes, 't will be over soon.-This sickly dream

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; And death my wearied spirit will redeem

From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide

as softly as before, Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar

When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and siniling children bless,

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. God of the just—Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,

Consumption, lay thine hand !-let me decay,

Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 't is true, what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day,

Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aerial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear,
That I may bid my weeping friends good by

Ere I depart upon my journey drear: And, smiling faintly on the painful past,

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

i 'M PLEASED AND YET I 'M SAD.
When twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,

One, two, three, four, and five,
I at my study window sit,
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,

To bliss am all alive.
But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,

And I am inly glad,
The tear drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,

I'm pleased, and yet I 'm sad.
The silvery rack that flies away
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,

Does that disturb my breast ?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,

Or pleasure's fading vest?
Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top,

Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fireside, and I shall be

At home where'er I stray.
Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! Oh, no! for then forgiven
I shall be with my God in heaven,
Released from every

fear.
Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I 'm glad ;
And so the tear-drop fills my eye,
When yet in truth I know not why,

Or wherefore I am sad.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT.

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark

Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low; Come, let us sit and weave a song

A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm,

That marks thy mournful reign.
I 've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard ;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year

A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.
And I have hail'd the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

1 haid thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,

My woes are mixt with joy.

And then I talk, and often think
Aerial voices answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone-

A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,

And all its placid joys,

Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET Scented flonor! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume !
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I 'll weave a melancholy song :
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.

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ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT..
COME, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad,

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,
Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, “My all was not laid here.”

Come, Disappointment, corne!

Though from Hope's summit hurld,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, -
For thou severe wert sent from heaven
To wean me from the world :

To turn my eye

From vanity,
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene ?

A peevish April day!
A little sun-a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss’d)
Yields

up

his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

0, what is beauty's power ?

It flourishes and dies;
Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O’er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most beloved on earth,

Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet ’t was sweet, 't was passing sweet,

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