The Evergreen : a Miscellaneous Collection of Original Poetry : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> The Evergreen : a Miscellaneous Collection of Original Poetry : electronic version. Bourne, Mary Anne Electronic text encoded by Charlotte Payne Electronic edition 280Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2007 bourmeverg

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 97 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The evergreen : a miscellaneous collection of original poetry. Bourne, Mary Anne. by Mary Anne Bourne. Whittaker & Co. London: G. L. Dinsdale: Warminster [1839]

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler I:134. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:134mf .

All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved, with the exception of running heads, the original prose line breaks, signature markings and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved.

March 28, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

THEEVERGREEN: A MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTION OF ORIGINAL POETRY. BY MARY ANNE BOURNE. A wreath of rude and simple form, unskilfully entwined, Yet offered by affection's hand,—affection's brow to bind O scorn it not, tho' little grace or beauty it may claim, For feeling's sacred hue it wears, unfading as its name. LONDON: WHITTAKER & CO. WARMINSTER: G. L. DINSDALE. G. L. Dinsdale, Printer, Warminster. PREFACE.

IN compliance with the wishes of many esteemed friends, the following Poems are now (with much diffidence and hesitation) presented to the public. They were written without any view to publication, many of them at a very early age, and the writer ventures to hope that these circumstances will plead in extenuation of the defects which she is conscious the eye of criticism may discover. To the valued friends whose kind partiality will, in a great measure, veil those defects, she is confident that the perusal of this little volume will afford gratification,—and their approbation is far dearer to the feelings of her heart than would be the most brilliant poetic fame.

M. A. B. Heytesbury, August 14th, 1839. THE EVERGREEN. TO MY SISTER, ON HER LEAVINGHOME. WITH feelings of painful emotion, Loved sister! we bid thee farewell; And trust thee to cross the wide ocean, Whose billows tumultuously swell; May He to whom tempests surrender, Who calms the wild storm at His will, Be ever thy guide and defender, And guard thee from every ill! New scenes to thy view are unfolding, Gay scenes which till now were unknown, And in hope's fairy glass thou'rt beholding Bright visions—of pleasure alone; Whilst fancy a bower is building All lovely and fair to thy sight, And the landscape around it is gilding With beams of unclouded delight. Though at thought of the lov'd ones thou'rt leaving, A pang of regret thou mays't feel; And, perhaps, thou a sigh may'st be heaving, And a tear from thine eyelid may steal. Yet the sigh and the tear will soon vanish 'Midst prospects of pleasure to come; And hopes of the future will banish The sorrow of leaving thy home. We part—let us hope not for ever, Though years may elapse ere we meet,— But nor absence nor distance can sever The ties of relationship sweet. Those bonds of affection endear us, Whene'er from each other we part; And though fate far asunder may tear us, We still are united in heart. They say—and there's truth in the saying— That no bliss is unmixed with alloy; That anxiety ever is preying At the root of the most cherished joy: The sun, which arose all unclouded O'er a landscape as lovely and bright, E'er noon may in dark clouds be shrouded, And wrapt in the deep gloom of night. 'Tis thus with the fond hopes we cherish, The earthly delights which we prize, They bloom—but how soon do they perish, How quickly are lost to our eyes! Though the gay scenes of life seem enchanting, True comfort they cannot impart; But something will ever be wanting To whisper sweet peace to the heart. Then trust not, dear girl! to the pleasures That vanish so swiftly away, But seek for those heavenly treasures Which never will fade or decay; Then, e'en though misfortune surround thee, Religion a calm will bestow, And a tranquil content shed around thee Which none but her vot'ries can know. Farewell! but oh think with affection Of the home and the friends left behind; And oft may the fond recollection Serenely steal over thy mind. We'll hope, should we part here for ever, A happier meeting to prove; In a world where no more we shall sever— The bright world of glory above! TRANSLATION OF AN INSCRIPTION BY ROUSSEAU. FLOW on, fair stream; beneath these waving bowers Thy gentle murmurs tranquillise the heart; Flow on, bright emblem of life's happiest hours, Unmixed with passion's storms or sorrow's smart. SPRING. AGAIN Spring's gladsome song I hear, Again her beauty's seen; The pure Heaven smiles in azure clear, The earth is rob'd in green. She comes, all clad in radiant light, O'er valley, hill, and mead; And flowers, in sparkling beauty bright, Spring up beneath her tread. Her genial breath has loosed the chains That late the streamlets bound; Her vernal smile has decked the plains, And joy diffused around. The warbling wood, the deep green dale, Each grove, and bush, and tree, Her blest return exulting hail And wake to melody. Where late the whirling tempest roared The leafless bowers among; Soft strains of harmony are poured, The linnet's blithesome song; The cuckoo, from each echoing hill, Sounds her unvaried note, And sweetly does the blackbird trill His wild airs as they float. Again bright verdure clothes the trees, And robes the valleys fair, And, borne on every balmy breeze, Soft fragrance fills the air. The twining woodbine scents the gale, Where wild brier roses bloom; The violet, through the lonely dale, Scatters its sweet perfume. Where low the murmuring streamlet flows, Hid from the noontide ray; Where o'er the rill dark willows close, And where mild zephyrs play. Oh! there would I enraptured rove, To fancy's dreams resigned, Lulled by the music of the grove Soft warbling in the wind. Delightful season! are there joys That can with thine compare ? Who would not quit each scene of noise And strife, thy sweets to share? Where is the cold, corrupted heart, To which thy genial ray No thrill of rapture can impart, No calm delight convey? Oh! be it mine these joys to prove, Which nature's votaries know; Amid her varied scenes to rove, And feel my bosom glow With rapture as my eye surveys Her nice, harmonious laws; And learn from them my thoughts to raise To their Eternal Cause! FRAGMENT. OH! there are ties that twine with power Around the human heart, Whose force is felt not, till the hour When they are torn apart! E'en then, 'midst sorrow's gloomiest dream And dark imaginings, How fondly to hope's feeblest gleam The broken spirit clings. SONNET. How sweet to rove when silent eve steals on, And draws o'er nature's face her dusky veil; When shadows stretch gigantic o'er the lawn, And distant sounds die on the whispering gale; When from the vale, or from the hill's steep side, As down the solitary glade I rove, Responsive murmurs echo far and wide, And with soft soothing accents fill the grove. Sweet 'tis to wander through each woodland scene, And listen to the wild brook's rippling sound, When stars their pale light show the boughs between Of the tall trees that wave majestic round. While o'er the stream the moon's soft image plays, And gilds the landscape with her peaceful rays. TO AN EARLY SNOW-DROP. MEEK, simple flower! low on thy bed Of leaves so darkly green; Who scorn'st to feel, or fear, or dread, Or from the rude blasts hide thy head Of January keen. Though on thy pale, unsullied bell No gaudy hues appear; Yet, gentle flower, I love thee well, . For thou to my glad heart dost tell That spring again is near. Emblem of innocence! with joy Thy lov'd return I hail, Ere other flow'rets yet dare try To brave the keen, inclement sky, Or tempt the piercing gale. Oh may each quick revolving year Thee to my garden bring; 'Midst the last storms of winter drear, The desolate parterre to cheer, And tell of coming spring. FAREWELL! WHEN from our dearest friends we part, And broken is the magic spell; Perhaps long twined round each fond heart, How mournful is the word—Farewell! The fairy dream at once is fled, Of past delight, of future joy; And darker visions quickly spread, The soft illusion to destroy. Holy bright in beauty seems the past, Endeared by sweet affection's ties; As memory brings, in sad contrast, Those vanished hours before our eyes. The anxious throb, the thrilling smart, Oh! none but those who feel can tell, The pang that desolates the heart, When comes the blighting word—Farewell! ON READING A "SONNET TO A NUN." AND does that placid mien indeed bespeak A heart detached from every earthly tie? Does bliss indeed dwell on that pallid cheek, And heavenly hope beam from that listless eye? Can those dark walls, meet emblem of the tomb, Of peace celestial form the bright abode? Enthusiast, no! there discontent's dark gloom And blighting care the withered heart corrode. Go, look again; and on that cold, pale brow, Mark where chill apathy has fixed her throne; Read the dark lines which tell of hidden woe, Of many a joy foregone and hope o'erthrown. Shut out from life's endearing, social ties, From love's soft charm, and friendship's soothing power; Conflicting passions in the bosom rise, And share with deep despair each lonely hour. Or should perchance enthusiasm's glow Awhile shed radiance o'er the dreary scene, How soon subsides the false, tumultuous glow, And leaves a gloomier void than erst had been. Call ye this peace? shall gentle woman's heart, Formed the delight of social life to share, In such a sad existence choose her part, And drag along her hours in sorrow there? No! rather may each genial virtue shed Its mild effulgence o'er the female breast Teach her the path of active life to tread, And be within the kindred circle blest. MORNING. THE morn is breaking, lady, wake! The east is bright with burning gold; The light mist wreaths the sleeping lake, And curls in many a lucid fold. Arise! the lark has hailed the day, The sun's first beam has lit thy bower; And decked with lustre by the ray, Bright hangs the dew on leaf and flower. The fawn bounds through the forest glade, Where cooling airs play fresh and sweet; Loud sings the thrush amid the shade, The bright, the joyous day to greet. The wild stream, dancing on its way, Reflects the clear and sunny skies; And all things sparkle in the ray With life and beauty—lady, rise! WRITTEN ON THE SEA SHORE ATTENBY. FAR sunk in the west is the orb of day, The moon has risen in splendour bright; The breeze of even has died away, And tranquil and lovely is the night. On the tall cliffs the moonbeams sleep, And gild the surface of the deep; Whose azure waves beneath the ray In sportive brilliant ripples play. With paler radiance o'er the tide, The beacon sheds its steady light; To mariners a welcome guide, On many a wild tempestuous night; When vivid lightnings fiercely blaze, When clouds obscure the lunar rays, And not a star breaks forth to cheer The dark and lurid atmosphere. All now is hushed and silent, save The distant plash of the seaman's oar Or the gentle murmuring of the wave, Receding from the lonely shore. And ever and anon is heard The plaintive cry of the wild sea bird, Which sits forlorn in her rocky lair, And guards her haunts with clam'rous care. Is there 'neath the pure light of heaven A scene so beautiful as this? Is there an hour to mortals given More meet to raise the soul to bliss? That solemn, sacred bliss, which stealing The thoughts above all earthly feeling, Each jarring passion lulls to rest, Calm as th' unruffled ocean's breast. The chastened beauty of the scene, Soft in the trembling moonbeam's smiling, Breathes o'er the heart a spell serene, From human joys and griefs beguiling; While sublimed fancy soars on high, To brighter scenes beyond the sky; And seems, upborne on wings of air, To blend with purer spirits there. When sorrow does the heart oppress, And all its energies destroy; Oh! one such hour of soul felt peace Is worth whole years of heartless joy; New hopes and brighter prospects rise, To cheer and glad our mental eyes; And e'en when fled, they leave behind, A spirit sooth'd, a soul refined. THE ORPHAN BOY. OH I pity, kind lady! my friendless condition, And grant a poor Orphan some trifling relief; Attend to his mournful, yet humble petition, And lessen by kindness the weight of his grief. Thrown on the wide world, with no friend to direct him, A stranger to comfort, a stranger to joy; No mother to cherish, no sire to protect him, Oh pity the woes of a poor Orphan Boy! Yet was I not always so poor and so friendless, Nor sunk in such misery as now I appear: Once, alas! I imagined my happiness endless, Nor dreamt that misfortune and grief were so near, Blest with parents' affection, I never suspected, While surrounded with pleasure that knew no alloy, That soon I should be, by events unexpected, Doomed to wander, a friendless, forlorn Orphan Boy! But the calm was soon broken by war's direful rattle, The shrill clarion and trump sounded forth her alarms, My father by duty was called to the battle, And my poor mother franticly wept in his arms; In vain she entreated him, half broken hearted, To remain, and restore her to comfort and joy; Stern honour prevailed, for the last time they parted, And soon I became a forlorn Orphan Boy. My father, engaged in the heat of the battle, Was valiantly fighting, by numbers pressed round, And 'midst war's frightful din, and the cannon's loud rattle, The guide of my childhood received his death wound. Ah! how shall I finish the sorrowful story, How relate that sad blow to our comfort and joy: He fell, alas! covered with wounds and with glory,— His only bequest to his poor Orphan Boy. But who could describe my poor mother's deep anguish, When the heart-rending tidings to her were conveyed; 'Midst sickness and sorrow not long did she languish, And I saw my last friend in the gloomy grave laid. Since then I have wandered; alone,—unprotected,— Bereft of all comfort, and hopeless of joy; My sufferings unnoticed, my sorrow neglected, For ah! none will pity the poor Orphan Boy! Yet is there not One, who from yonder bright heaven Beholds the poor wanderer with pitying eye; Whose care to the children of sorrow is given, Who hears with compassion the mourner's sad sigh? He hath promised that He will the fatherless cherish, In Him shall my trust be, in Him will I joy; Tho' others forsake me, and leave me to perish, He will not abandon the poor Orphan Boy! ODE. ON THE DEATH OF SIRWALTER SCOTT. MOURN! Scotland! for thy mighty son, Whose bright career is o'er, Mourn for the great, the glorious one, Whom nations shall deplore! Thy bard from earth hath passed away, Cold is his hand and mute his lay, His spirit vast hath fled; And o'er the tomb where low he sleeps, Dejected Genius bending weeps, And mourns her favourite dead! Hark! as the plaintive wind sweeps by With low, funereal tone, It mingles sadly in the sky With echoing Nature's moan; The voice of thousands joins the wail, Loading with deep lament the gale, And dirge to dirge replies; And grove and stream their strain prolong, As in his own prophetic song, To chant his obsequies. His was the glorious task to raise From dark oblivion's shade, The scenes—the deeds of by-gone days, In truth's bright garb arrayed: Nature's own characters to trace, To blend each hue with softest grace, And on his magic page To mingle grandeur—beauty—fire— And with the witchery of his lyre To charm a wondering age. 'Twas his, tradition's wild expanse Unwearied to explore, To lift the veil from dark romance And legendary lore: 'Round Scotia's storied song to bind A wreath by genius' hand entwined From truth's unfading green; And tinged with fancy's brilliant ray, Life's vivid colouring to pourtray In every varied scene. But hushed is now the minstrel's strain, And silent is his breath; And his loved country mourns in vain Her boasted poet's death. The hallowed scenes where once he strayed— River—and dell—and forest glade— Wild heath and mountain hoar; Those lone haunts, where he loved so well To weave his song's enchanting spell, Shall wake that song no more. Yet say not that upon his bier Hath died his well-earned fame; No! unborn ages shall revere Great Scott's immortal name! His praise on every tongue shall dwell, When in oblivion's silent cell Full many a bard shall lie; His name—his memory still shall bloom And breathe around his hallowed tomb Fragrance that cannot die! OUR COUNTRY! OUR OWN COUNTRY! OUR country! our own country! Land of freedom and of fame; What British heart hath never glowed At thy inspiring name! Thy towering rocks and tall white cliffs Smile proudly o'er the sea, Whose waves have never washed a spot So beautiful as thee. Our country! our own country! Land of the true and brave; Of many a noble race alike The birth-place and the grave. The loved home of our forefathers, Who now beneath thy sod In deep and peaceful slumber lie Within their last abode. Our country! our own country! Land of beauty and of light; Of pleasant woods and wandering streams, Whose murmurs breathe delight. Where pastures green and sunny fields, With waving plenty crowned,, Are stretched o'er all the fertile land And clothe the hills around. Our country! our own country! How lovely are thy shades; Thy fair and peaceful solitudes— Lone dells and winding glades. Thy forest wilds, thy flow'ry heaths, Deep vales, and streamlets clear, And every haunt to memory, And kindling fancy dear. Our country! our own country! Where quiet gladness reigns, And lingering summer loves to rest Upon thy smiling plains; Where kindly looks of social love Meet in thy dwellings fair, And kindred ties of heartfelt force Endear the circles there. Our country! our own country! On thee what beams divine, What holy rays of sacred truth, With light refulgent shine. Where from thy solemn sculptured fanes, Thy favoured children raise, In the still sabbath's hallowed hours, The hymn of prayer and praise! Our country! our own country! The loved land of our birth; The land of valour—genius—song— And patriotic worth. How sweet and powerful is the spell Which round our hearts entwined, Each cherished scene of home and youth, Can there so firmly bind. Our country! our own country! On thy beloved shores May peace and freedom ever dwell, And plenty spread her stores. Long may thine annals grace the page Of glory—truth—and fame, When cold and silent are the hearts That now revere thy name. ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF ANAMIABLE YOUNG MAN. IN life's gay spring, when youth and hope had twined their spells around thee, And strengthened every magic link to this fair world that bound thee, Death came with quick and powerful wrench the golden chain to sever, To blast the promise of thy youth, and crush thy hopes for ever. As when to the delighted eye some landscape bright is blooming, And sunny rays of sparkling light its beauties are illuming; A whirlwind from the desert comes, with sudden fury sweeping, The lovely scene in darkness whelms, and leaves beholders weeping. Just so, lamented youth, when hope was gaily smiling o'er thee, And gilding with deceitful beams the prospect spread before thee; The cruel spoiler on thee rushed, and in his rude grasp perished The hopes which fond and anxious hearts had long and deeply cherished. The awful form of death at once dispelled each fairy vision; How swift, how fatal was the stroke—how mournful the transition; The promise of thy future worth in one short hour is blighted, And every tie which held thee here is rent and disunited. Upon the low and early grave where thou in peace art sleeping, The hearts whose only hope thou wert in bitter grief are weeping; Beloved and valued as thou wert, their tears shall long fall o'er thee, And all who knew and prized thy worth unfeignedly deplore thee. Thy memory shall in future years be long and deeply cherished, Tho' on thy tomb the earthly hopes that lived in thee have perished; While holier hopes from death's dark night point to a glorious morrow, In brighter realms, where peace and joy for ever banish sorrow. THE SEA SHORE. BY the calm sea side I love to stray In the bright dear noon of a summer's day, When all around me, and all above, Is breathing of beauty, and joy, and love; When the tall dark cliffs and rocky strand Stretch their giant shades o'er the gleaming sand; When balmy zephyrs are floating by So lightly, that the blue waves lie Unruffled by their gentle breath, And still as the pearls that sleep beneath. On the bright sea sand I love to roam When the waters sparkle, and dash, and foam; When the sunbeams cover the billowy sea With sheen of dazzling radiancy; When the breeze of morning o'er it sweeps, And the bark lightly bounds o'er its fathomless deeps; When the hum of toil and activity, And the fisherman's song in his buoyant glee, And the sea bird's cry, and the plash of the tide, In the fresh air mingle far and wide. On the lone and quiet shore I love In the evening's solemn calm to rove; When only the ocean's low murmuring sound Breaks the holy stillness that reigns around; When the waves are at rest, and the air serene, And the moon beams soft on the lovely scene; While the silvery clouds that are floating by, Half veil her radiant majesty; And their lucid folds and snowy hue Seem like angel's wings in the deep clear blue. And I love to roam on the wild sea shore When the tempest is raging with deafening roar; When the billows in foaming tumult rise, As though they would war with the angry skies; When the loud wind raves through the darken'd air, Like the voice of a storm-spirit howling there; When the sea fowl shrieks from the dizzy height Of the thick black clouds where she wheels her flight; And the distant white of her floating plume Gleams like a small star mid the fearful gloom. In the morning gales and sun-light rays; In the calm and glare of noontide blaze; In the hush of eve's soft shadowy hour; In the grandeur and burst of the tempest's power; In stillness—in fury—the boundless sea Has a voice of deep-toned melody; It speaks to the spirit, it speaks to the heart, And sweet are the thrillings its sounds impart; For it tells of a Power, whose only sway Can hush its wild tumult—its proud course stay. That Power, whose bright dwelling is glory above, And who watches o'er us with a father's love. VILLAGE BELLS. How sweetly sound those village bells, As on the summer gale Their distant music softly swells, And echoing through the woody dells Dies faint along the vale. How sweetly do they sound!—and yet They waken thoughts of pain; Of days whose joyous beams have set Midst lingering clouds of dark regret, That still their gloom retain. They rouse remembrance of the past, Of childhood's careless hours; Ere life's bright sky was overcast, Or sorrow, with its chilling blast, Had withered hope's gay flowers. They bring youth's happy scenes to mind— Beloved—tho' far away; And ties once round my young heart twined, And deep in memory's urn enshrined, Resume their long lost sway. But still those chimes I love to hear, For they have soothing spells; And though they prompt the sigh and tear, No other sounds are half so dear As those sweet village bells. EVENING. DAY with its beams and bright glare is gone, And the mild hour of evening steals gently on; The last gleam of crimson has died in the west, And earth in the mantle of twilight is drest. The ocean is quiet, the air is all still, Dark shades are falling o'er valley and hill; The daisy has closed her fringed eye, Where, on the green turf, the night dews lie; And the hum of the bee, and the song of the bird, In the soft summer air are no longer heard. When nature is hushed in this deep repose, How sweet to stray where the wild stream flows, O'erhung by the tall dark forest trees, That whisper and sigh to the evening breeze; While their mingled music, low and clear, Steals gently and soothingly on the ear; And one by one in the deep blue sky The stars gleam forth in their brilliancy, Like the burning thrones of a seraph band From a glorious and a far off land. There's a solemn spell in this tranquil hour, That breathes o'er the heart its magic power, That calms the wild throbs of the mourner's breast, And hushes the tumult of passion to rest. There's a still small voice of heavenly peace, That bids the workings of sorrow cease; That whispers amid the deepening gloom, Thoughts of a rest beyond the tomb; Where sorrow and sighing shall flee away, And joy burst forth through an endless day. O then let us rove through the lonely glen, Where there is not a trace of the dwellings of men; Where no human sound on the ear can intrude To break the deep dreamy solitude; And the loneliness of the pale night ray Shall steal our calmed thoughts from earth away; Shall prompt the deep breathings of praise and prayer, And the hallowed feelings awakened there, Shall still o'er our hearts their power retain, When we mix with the thoughtless world again. FORGET ME NOT. THERE is a small and simple flower, That decks the blooming robe of May; Fairest in all the vernal bower, And sweetest in its meek array. Why does that gem of nature raise Such soft emotions in the breast? Why does the eye thus fondly gaze, And love that flower above the rest? Is it its bright celestial blue That wakes these feelings in the heart? No! lovely though its form and hue, They could not such sweet thrills impart. 'Tis the deep magic of its name, Recalling hours, else long forgot. This is the charm, to whose soft claim The heart responds—Forget me not. WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF AYOUNG FRIEND. AND here, within this darksome tomb, So early hast thou found a rest; While life was bright with youth and bloom, And hope was bounding in thy breast? The green grass waves above thy head, For spring's soft zone the earth hath bound; And many a wild flower decks thy bed, And breathes its dewy fragrance round. Emblems of her who sleeps beneath— Once fair, and young, and bright as they; And, withered by the touch of death, As quickly left to dark decay. But how can we the fate lament That snatched thee from a world of woe? Was not the stroke in mercy sent, Which thus in dust hath laid thee low? There is a better land than this, Where fadeless joy and glory bloom; And to that world of radiant bliss The only passage is—the tomb. And can we mourn that thou hast found So soon—so young—that happy shore; And with immortal beauty crowned, Shalt feel nor pain nor sorrow more? No! though unbidden tears may start, And o'er thy cherished memory fall, When fancy to the sorrowing heart Thy loved lost image shall recall; Yet chasten'd shall that sorrow be, And joyous hope shall banish gloom; Whilst heaven-born faith ascends with thee, And views thee smiling o'er the tomb. And, oh! when circling years have shed Oblivion o'er thy place of rest; When kindred feet no longer tread The hallowed turf that wraps thy breast. If nature's sacred ties endure, And flourish in a holier sphere, Blest will be their re-union pure To thee, and all who held thee dear. THE DESTRUCTION OF THEEGYPTIANS. WHAT means that loud and fearful cry that swells the midnight gale, And spreads thro' proud Egyptia's plains an universal wail; Whilst awful darkness, such as reigned ere bright creation rose, Strikes terror to the stubborn hearts of God's rebellious foes? And who is He, that glorious one, whose bright yet dreadful eye With lightning glance breaks thro' the gloom that shrouds the trembling sky; The terrors of an angry God are gathered in his hand, And wild dismay and gloomy death fill the affrighted land? Mark! where o'er city and o'er plain he wings his awful flight, Increasing still, with vengeful ire, the horrors of the night; Th' Egyptians, and the senseless gods to which they cry for aid, Together by his sword of flame low in the dust are laid. 'Tis God's avenging angel, sent His sentence to fulfil, And execute the just decrees of His almighty will; To punish Pharoah's unbelief, his pride to humble low, And teach him to the great I AM submissively to bow. Woe! woe to thee, rebellious king! lament thee for the hour When God on thy devoted head the cup of wrath shall pour; Thy haughty spirit, though subdued, yet unconvinced remains, Soon wilt thou know that He alone, the great Jehovah reigns. He leads his chosen people forth with loud triumphant joy, But thee and thy oppressive race shall terribly destroy. Whilst thou, that cry of wail and death yet ringing in thine ear, Art in thine impious course of crime resolved to persevere. The day of vengeance is arrived—the solemn fearful day, When thou, with all thy chosen host, thy battle's proud array, No eye to pity thine o'erthrow, no potent arm to save, Shalt sink, engulphed beneath the deep, in one tremendous grave. His holy prophet's sacred arm divides th' obedient sea, Which safety to thy foes affords—destruction hurls on thee; And when they see, at morning light, black corses strew the shore, They learn, before their mighty Guide, to tremble and adore. THE EXILE'S LAMENT. ADIEU! my own, my native land, adieu! Receive a lonely wanderer's last farewell; Yet tho' no more thy shores beloved I view, Of happier days long past I fain would tell— Tell how in childhood's hours I loved so well Amongst thy hills and rallies fair to rove; The forest wild; the deep romantic dell;— And softer freshness of the leafy grove, Where oft fantastic wreaths of wild flowers sweet I wove. How gaily glided on life's careless morn, Bright and unclouded as a summer sky; Unconscious that thus wretched and forlorn, Exiled, and lone, and outcast, I should sigh!— Oft as I view the past with memory's eye, A tear unbidden down my cheek will stray, A tear of fond regret for days gone by, When ardent hope with roses strewed my way, And brighter than the last seemed each succeeding day. Sweet, well-remembered scenes; the more endeared By bitter contrast with my present woe; Thoughtless of ill, no future grief I feared, Nor dreamt that ought but bliss could dwell below;— Or if perchance a tear would sometimes flow, Urged by soft pity from my infant eye; And my gay heart would feel compassion's throe At some sad fresh-told tale of misery, The sigh was soon dispelled, and soon the tear was dry. Oft would I wander when the morning dew Trembled on every leaf and grassy blade; Ere the light mist had left the mountain blue, Or day's bright orb his rosy beams displayed. With light step bounding through the green wood glade, To watch the early lark, as swift he sprung From the green corn, where low his nest was laid, Soft music pouring from his warbling tongue, As soaring towards high heaven his matin lay he sung. At noontide too, beneath the welcome shade Of the tall elm that by the wild brook grew, How oft my weary, listless limbs I've laid, And gazed enraptured on th' ethereal blue; While warm imagination to my view Would many a scene of future pleasure show; And as upon her rapid wing I flew, Ah! little thought I that this world below To man is e'er a scene of suffering, pain, and woe. What joy to climb the mountain's craggy steep, With one companion of my childish glee; My sweet and only sister—oh! how deep In my sad heart remembrance dwells of thee; E'en now, methinks, thy fairy form I see; E'en now I hear thy song of artless mirth;— But lost, alas! for ever lost to me, Who knew thy virtues best, and prized thy worth: Thou sleep'st thy long last sleep within thy bed of earth. O that I had long since beside thee lain, Where pain and sorrow could intrude no more! But, hush! rebellious heart, this murmuring strain, Nor dare repine, although thou may'st deplore. Sweet sufferer! all thy bitter woes are o'er; Then why should I lament thine early doom? Soon shall we meet upon a happier shore, Triumphant rising o'er the dreary tomb, Blest thought! to reunite through heav'n's eternal bloom. This one bright beam of hope, with cheering ray, Still shines amidst the gloomy clouds of care; Sheds light around my future darksome way, And chases back the demons of despair. And though in this wide dreary world, where'er I turn; misfortune marks me for her prey; Though I no more in earthly joy may share, A few brief years, and, bursting mortal clay, My spirit freed shall soar rejoicingly away. Meantime, this sweet sad solace yet is mine, To turn me to the past with pleasing pain; Fondly to bend at memory's hallowed shrine, And trace the long lost images again Of youth, and home, and love, that still retain The power to sooth, e'en while they rend my breast. Then come, soft memory! come, delusion vain! The present hour with transient joy invest, And make me for awhile, at least, in fancy blest. Alas! my early life was marked by nought That could disturb my dream of young delight; Sorrow I only knew by name—nor thought A world that seemed so beautiful, so bright, So decked with all that breathes of life or light, Could be the nursery of grief and pain. Time has dispelled the illusion from my sight, And shown me that where sin and error reign, Disease, and woe, and death, move in their direful train. Our peaceful cot, far in the sheltering glen, Where fragrant jasmine twined with wild briar sweet; Remote from noise, and strife, and busy men; Again I see, again with gladness greet. Once more I seem to rove with untired feet, And bounding step, amidst those blissful bow'rs, Or pensive lean upon the rustic seat Beneath the shadowy oak, enwreathed with flowers, Which oft hath witness been to bright and mirthful hours. Oft with my gentle sister would I stray Through the dark wood; as unconstrained and free As the young fawns that frolicked in our way, In all the pride of forest liberty; While her sweet bird-like voice of melody Was raised in tones of terror or delight, As climbing fearlessly some lofty tree, I chased the squirrel to its topmost height, Or from the thick bough shook the hazel's clusters bright. Sometimes we to the distant shore would roam, In search of sea weeds, shells, and pebbles gay; And gaze with awe upon the white waves' foam, As o'er the rocks they dash'd their glistening spray: With strange delight we watched the dark array Of billows rolling on with angry roar; Or when in clear, cerulean calm they lay, Scarce heaving to the breeze that hovered o'er, And gently murmuring as they kissed the sunny shore. The mountain stream that wander'd wild and free, Through the deep valley, where our cottage stood, Oft heard the light bursts of our artless glee, As seated on the margin of its flood, In wondering now—and now in mirthful mood We read some legend, fanciful and old, Of magic's potent spell, or fairy brood That loved of yore, beneath the moonlight cold To weave the mystic dance, and their wild revels hold. Indulging then romance's airy flight, Far in the gloomy forest we would stray; Where, frowning in the dim uncertain light, An ancient pile in ruined grandeur lay. Green ivy half concealed its turrets gay, And grass and weeds in rank luxuriance grew; Where trod the brave, the beautiful, the gay; And we would wander those dark ruins through, And almost wish to see those elves their feats renew. Sometimes at early dawn we bent our way To the thick tangled copse, where tempting hung Wood strawberries in scarlet clusters gay, Which upon dewy blades of grass we strung, Pausing to listen as the blackbird sung; Or pluck wild roses, briar, and woodbine sweet, That twined their blossom the green hedge among, Then bear the spoil to our embowered retreat, Screened by the aged oak from summer's noon-tide heat. Oh! these were days of which I love to think; On these dear scenes I could for ever dwell; Though sever'd is each firm, endearing link That bound them to my heart with magic spell. Still are they treasured deep in memory's cell, And I must e'er the fatal causes mourn That snatched me from the scenes I loved so well; Have all I prized from my sad bosom torn, And left me what I am—an outcast wretch forlorn! Those who were dearest to my heart are gone, Their loss I've mourned with many a bitter tear; There are none left I care to look upon— And scarce a tie remains to bind me here. But yet that once loved home to linger near, To end my sad existence in the scene Of former joys, though now so changed and drear, Would to my lorn, desponding heart, I ween, A source of melancholy pleasure still have been. Far from my country, in a distant land, Cheerless to roam, must be my future lot; And sigh, while wandering in a foreign strand, For home and friends in that beloved spot; Henceforth my brief existence will be fraught With disappointment, penury, and woe! Content and happiness to me are nought But shades of joys departed long ago— Names—with no power one gleam of comfort to bestow! O'er many a wild, o'er many a stormy wave, My restless and uncertain path will be; And little reck I where I find a grave, Since adverse fate denies me one in thee, My native land!—and who would not, like me, Feel with keen anguish, and with tears deplore The unrelenting, cruel destiny That bid him, when life's pilgrimage is o'er, Unknown—unloved—unwept, die on a stranger shore? This wayward fate is mine—and be it so It little matters where my head I lay, And breathe a last farewell to mortal woe, When death shall free me from this cumbrous clay. Short is my time, nor would I longer stay, Since my hope finds no place of refuge here, But on aspiring pinions soars away, And rests her wearied wing in that bright sphere Where peace, and joy, and love reign through an endless year. Once more, thou loved and lovely land, farewell! Thy dim receding shores I faintly see; For the breeze rises, and the billows swell, That soon will bear the far away from thee. Dash on, ye bright waves, in your foaming glee, As if in bitter mockery of my pain; Your angry roar would more congenial be With the wild tumult of my throbbing brain, And the contending storms that in my bosom reign. 'Tis gone! in distance the faint outlines die; For ever, then, my native land, adieu! A vast expanse of blended sea and sky Shuts thy green hills and white cliffs from my view. Come, resignation! in thy calmest hue, O'er my lorn heart thy holy influence shed; No more let dark despair my steps pursue, But chase the gloomy clouds of doubt and dread, And round my weary path thy cheering radiance spread. No more will I repine—for that Great Power Who rules the storm, and calms the raging sea, Will be my guide, when threatening tempests lour, Or when appalled from danger's brink I flee. Then hushed be all complaints 'gainst His decree; Henceforth His praise shall be my sole delight, For sorrow ever will man's portion be, Till from this world he wings his joyous flight To brighter realms, where reign eternal joy and light. But fruitless was the exile's dream of rest, Vainly each path of earthly hope he trod, At length he turned him, wearied and opprest, For comfort to the Holy Book of God! Nor turned in vain—affliction's chastening rod He learnt submissively to own and bear, And gradually within his heart abroad The light of truth was shed—and words of prayer Succeeded the wild plaint of anguish and despair. And deep and humbling was the consciousness Of guilt and error that his spirit stirred; Yet even then the healing streams of peace He drank from the pure fountain of that word; Then from his lips sublimer strains were heard— The overflowings of a heart renewed— Praise, gratitude, and love!—and like a bird From prison freed—his soaring spirit viewed Eternal joys, and calmly its bright way pursued. THE STORM. Written after the memorable and destructive Gale which began on Shrove Tuesday, February 21st, 1833. BRIGHT rose the morn, and lightly played the breeze, O'er the smooth surface of the azure seas; The sun shone clear, and smiling in the ray, Sand, cliff, and rock, and distant headland lay; And countless vessels, o'er the pathless tide, Pursued their destined course in stately pride; There, a tall ship, her white sails all unfurled, From the bright regions of the western world; Bearing the produce of that sunny land, Sought the glad welcome of her native strand. Her gallant crew beheld, with gladdening eyes, Their country's hills in shadowy distance rise, And hoped, with eager joy, ere long to greet The homes, by absence rendered doubly sweet. Already they in ardent fancy heard, From faltering lips, the oftsaid kindly word; Saw through affection's tears the glistening smile, That bade them welcome to their native isle. Mirth and delight in every bosom glowed, As o'er the wave triumphantly they rode; Nor dreamt that soon the whirling tempest's foam, Should sink them in that wave's eternal home. There, smaller barks, intent on toil and gain, Were widely scattered o'er the sparkling main; Their spread sails gleaming in the sunny light, Far as the clear horizon led the sight. Here, coasting traders bore the inland stores Of Britain's commerce round her fertile shores. There, fishing crafts their busy labours plied, And slowly drifted o'er the rippling tide. Steam-boats, with motion swift and steady force, Through the deep waters urged their noisy course, While on their crowded decks, a num'rous throng, Of various rank and age, were borne along; Gay youth, with bounding hearts, on pleasure bent, Elate with hope, or smiling in content; And thoughtful age, with brow deep marked by care, And laughing childhood were assembled there. They felt no peril, saw no danger near, To quell their hopes, or raise an anxious fear; Unconscious, thoughtless of the threatening wave, That soon should whelm them in its liquid grave. Sudden the winds in fitful gusts arise, The sea grows dark, and dark the frowning skies; Black clouds in wild tumultuous masses sweep, And hollow thunder peals along the deep. The gathering waves that late so tranquil lay, Now furious roared beneath the whirlwind's sway; Billow on billow heaped, came rolling on With frightful rage and desolating tone. Loud, and more loud, the blast came sweeping by, With deafening tumult rushing through the sky, Heaved the rough surges from their depths below, And rocked the creaking vessels to and fro. Their frighted crews, in desperate wild amaze, On the dread scene of watery ruin gaze; See death approach in every furious wave, Nor dare to hope a rescue from its grave; Vainly their feeble efforts all are tried, Destruction mocks their skill on every side. In hopeless, frantic agony they stand, And strain their sight to catch the distant land, But night's dark shades are thickly gathering there, And their quenched spirits sink in sad despair. Distressful scene! upon the heaving wrecks Assembled crowds cling to the parting decks; The sails, like paper, rend before the blast, And with loud crash down comes the tottering mast; Torn cables, broken spars, and helms o'erthrown In mingled chaos o'er the sea are strown, And every thundering wave that o'er them sweeps Engulphs whole numbers in its awful deeps. Wild piteous shrieks amid the tempests roar, Swell through the sky, and echo to the shore; Mothers, with hopeless anguish, fondly clasp Their helpless babes in close and frenzied grasp; Children affrighted, round their parents weep, And turn, in shuddering horror, from the deep; Their prayers are mingled with the drowning cries Of hundreds in their last wild agonies, As o'er their feeble hold, with furious sway, The yawning billows close upon their prey. The sailors, nerved with desperate energy, For life and safety every effort try; With frantic strength cling to the parting boards, And hug the hope this last resource affords; But hope and strength exhausted soon decay, And one by one they too are washed away. When morn, at length, dawns in the eastern sky, What dismal scenes of ruin meet the eye; The gale, with loud insatiate fury roars, And hurls the breakers on the wreck strewed shores; Hushed in deep, fearful silence are the cries Of wild distress that lately pierced the skies; But o'er the billowy waste of waters strown, Disjointed wreck in sad confusion thrown, A tale reveals of deep and thrilling woe That bids the tear of pity freely flow, With moans of piercing anguish on the shore, Half frantic friends the sufferers' fate deplore. Parents, now childless, hear the mournful tale, And vent their grief in deep heart-rending wail; Widows, with aspect pale and tear dimmed eyes, Breathe o'er their orphan babes sad, hopeless sighs; Thousands, bereaved, lament the dreadful blow, Which sinks them sudden in distress and woe. Unused the ills of poverty to bear— To feel the iron grasp of want and care— They, sinking, turn from the remorseless fate That seems their future pilgrimage to wait; Their wealth, to treacherous waves and winds a prey, Their hopes, their friends, their comforts snatched away; To heaven they turn with looks of sad despair, And see their only aid and refuge there. Oh! hear their moving prayers, Almighty Power, And shield them in affliction's bitter hour. The work of wild destruction now is o'er, The storm has spent its rage, and howls no more; The hushed winds o'er the deep in murmurs die, And the blue waves again in stillness lie; But every tide that roils along the shore Brings mournful trophies of the tempest's power; And each succeeding day fresh tidings tells, That o'er the land the wail of sorrow swells. Oft shall the tear from pity's gentle eye Fall o'er the tale of sad calamity; And oft shall memory shrink, in dire affright, From the wild horrors of that fatal night. Oh, Power Omnipotent! whose awful sway The raging waves and whirling storms obey; Whose guiding hand depending mortals know, In each revolving scene of joy and woe. Whate'er thy purpose in the dread decree, That thus hath plunged our land in misery; O teach thy suffering creatures to resign, In meek confiding hope, their wills to thine. Teach them, when clouds obscure their darken'd way, When dreary sorrow hides hope's feeblest ray; When gloomy fears and dim distrust arise, And spread the veil of doubt before their eyes, To adore and bless, as they submissive bend, The wise designs they cannot comprehend; To bear with patient, unrepining trust, What seems to blind and erring sense, unjust; Assured that good from seeming ill will flow, And blessings reach them in the garb of woe. THE STORY OF THE OCEAN. THOU dark, unfathomed, boundless sea, Mysterious waste of waves! For ever rolling, wild, and free, Above thy gloomy caves. What strange emotions thrill the breast At thy terrific frown! Feelings that may not be expressed— Indefinite—unknown! Oh, many-voiced and solemn deep! What art thou? Wonder, say! Speak! for thy waves in stillness sleep Beneath the moonlight ray. Unchained, unchecked by mortal power, Thou dost thy proud course hold; Speak! in this soft and peaceful hour Thy mysteries unfold. Child of the earth! seek'st thou to know The wondrous things that lie In my deep dark caverns, far below The search of mortal eye? Would'st thou hear of my dread, resistless power; Of the wreck, the woe, the death, I have wrought in my awful tempest hour, With the blast of the whirlwind's breath? I could reveal full many a tale, So fearful and so wild, That the firmest heart at the sound would quail, And the hero become a child. And though but the half of my secrets were Inscribed on one vast scroll; The record would fill both earth and air, And stretch to either pole. Ere gay creation sprang to light, Was heard my rolling sound; In the realms where chaos spread gloomy night, My proud waves knew no bound. And still, since the glorious world had birth, By time's stern hand unchanged, I have circled the bounds of the blooming earth, And from pole to pole have ranged. Boundless and fathomless I roam, And free as the chainless wind; And oft have my dark waves' wrathful foam Left a track of death behind. Vast fleets on my bounding breast I've borne, In gallant and trim array; And the ships that have been my pride at morn, At night were my helpless prey. I have hurled my billowy foam on high, With reckless, furious swell; Whilst the wild winds howled thro' the stormy sky, Of thousands the funeral knell. I have rolled my death-fraught surges o'er The loftiest, noblest deck; And the cries of the drowning have swelled my roar, As I swept them from the wreck. I have smiled in the sparkling summer ray, And danced to the zephyr's song; While barks, with music and streamers gay, My blue waves glanced along. Then the scene was changed—and the fair, the brave, In the pride of life and bloom, Mid death shrieks wild, and the mad wind's rave, Have sunk to their ocean tomb. Whole cities I've gulphed in my unknown deep, Nations lie slumbering there; And thousands have wept, and thousands weep, For my work of dark despair. And more terrible yet had been my wrath Had no power controlled my sway; Had I rushed unchecked on my gloomy path, All nature had been my prey. But there spoke a mightier voice than mine— A voice of resistless force— And the merciful hand of a Power divine, Restrained my furious course. Yet, though in the solemn tempest's reign, Such a fearful thing am I; How beautiful—when like an azure plain In the bright summer-beam I lie; When quiet and loneliness reign around, And my clear waves placidly sleep; And nought is heard but their murmuring sound, As they lave the tide-worn steep. And though dark and dismal thou mayest deem My measureless ocean caves; There coral glows bright, and sea-shells gleam, And calm are the crystal waves. There the lucid gold of the amber shines, And the hardy sea-plant flowers, O'er the adamant rocks, as it darkly twines In green and beautiful bowers. In the depths of my vast abyss I hold Treasures of countless worth; Jewels and gems of price untold; That would shame the hoards of earth. The spoils of India's golden heaps, And the wealth of the sunny west; In each far recess of my glittering deeps Gleam—and unheeded rest. And myriads of bright and sparkling things, Gems that I boast my own; Meet for the diadems of kings, Light up my secret throne. The rare and precious merchandise Of many an age gone by; Riches that monarchs well might prize, In my spacious coffers lie. And a terrible tale, too, could I tell Of frightful and hideous things, More strange than the ghastliest shapes that dwell In thy wildest imaginings;— Of monsters that fiercely urge their way, Swift through my yielding flood; And on livid and mangled corses prey, And gorge on their horrible food. And many a fearful and dismal sight, But of these I will not speak; For the tale would chill thee with wild affright, And with horror would blanch thy cheek. Mortal! well mayest thou trembling own, My terror and mystery;— But turn in thine homage to Him alone, Who in wisdom created me. Let thine incense of grateful praise ascend To that glorious throne above; Whence God o'er his creatures deigns to bend With a father's tender love. Enough! in darkness and silent gloom, Let my awful deeps repose; Till the last and solemn day of doom Shall all secret things disclose. Then, when sun and stars from their sphere are hurled, At the trumpet's thunder dread; Midst the wreck and crash of a blazing world, Shall the sea give up her dead! CHANGE. How mournfully—how mournfully The wind is wailing now; As sweeping through yon lonely tree It shakes each naked bough. The last wan, withered leaf is whirled High in the dark'ning air; And wintry showers are wildly hurled From scowling storm clouds there. How pleasantly—how pleasantly, A little while ago, The roving wind sang through that tree, In merry summer's glow; Then birds were warbling woodnotes gay, Amid the foliage green; And not a cloud obscured the ray Of azure skies serene. And thus it is—and thus it is, In chequered human life; Radiant awhile with hope and bliss, Then dark with care and strife; As the murk hour of wintry gloom Fair summer's gladness quells, So sorrow blights youth's joyous bloom, And age its hopes dispels. Yet soon again—yet soon again, Shall spring reviving bloom; And brighter seem her vernal reign For those dark hours of gloom. So, freed from mortal pain and woe, The christian shall arise, And renovated youth shall know Eternal in the skies! EARTH AND HEAVEN. OH! lovely is the blooming earth, When radiant spring, with voice of mirth, Calls forth her train of leaves and flowers, And bids them gem her fairy bowers; When all above—around—below, With vernal life and beauty glow; And form to man's enraptured eyes A bright, terrestial paradise. Oh! beauteous is the spacious sky, When mounts the radiant sun on high; Or when the moon's refulgent light, Gilds the vast throne of peaceful night; And countless stars, a glittering train, Blaze through the blue, ethereal plain. What pageantry on earth is there Can with a scene like this compare? Oh! glorious is the summer sea, Stretched out in deep tranquillity; When beneath heaven's own sovereign beam The clear, cerulean waters gleam; And scarce a whispering zephyr rude, Dares on the azure calm intrude. Who would not deem a world so bright The home of pure, unmixed delight? And can it be, that scenes so fair, As transient as delightful are? Oh, yes! the loveliest flower of spring May perish in its blossoming; The brightest skies, may in an hour Change to the wrathful tempest's lour; And yonder placid, slumbering sea, Howl in the wild storm furiously, And thus it is with all on earth— The fairest hopes of mortal birth; They bloom, they flourish, then decay, Swept by life's withering blasts away. There's not on earth a single joy, But has some mournful, dark alloy; Some chilling blight, some wintry storm, Hope's loveliest blossoms to deform. Yet this decree from heaven above Was sent in wisdom, and in love; To wean our hearts from earth's vain dreams, And fix them on sublimer themes: To teach us that from nought below Can pure, abiding pleasure flow; And waken in each mortal breast, Bright hopes of an immortal rest. There is a land beyond the tomb, Where peace and joy eternal bloom; And anxious fear, and pain, and care, May never find an entrance there. Then who the transient woes would mourn That wait him in life's brief sojourn; Or prize too much the joys, but given To cheer his narrow path to heaven? Oh! be it wisdom's better part, To seek that heaven within the heart; The holy peace—the tranquil joy, Which nothing earthly can destroy; Whose source in pure religion dwells; Whose hope all gloomy fear dispels; And points with steady aim on high, Where never wasting treasures lie. LAMENT FOR A BELOVED SISTER. THOU sleep'st, our sweet sister, thou sleep'st with the dead, The glance from thy dark eyes for ever hath fled; A stillness all sad and unearthly rests now On thy motionless form, and thy pale marble brow; Thy cold lips have faltered the low parting word, And thy grave robe's white fold by no life pulse is stirred; Thy spirit hath passed with the last gentle sigh; Oh, that thus the beloved and the lovely should die! There are hearts round thy death-bed, whose sorrow too deep For words of lament, can but gaze there and weep; But vain are the sad tears that over thee fall, They cannot the light to those dim eyes recall; And vain are their sighs—for they cannot impart One throb to thy still pulse, one breath to thy heart; They cannot awaken the slumbering tone Of a voice that from this world for ever is gone. Thou sleep'st, gentle sufferer; oh! 'tis the long sleep Of death that thus holds thee, unbroken and deep; Thy pure soul hath fled, and thy tenantless clay Is left to the grave and corruption a prey. And shall we not mourn thee? so young, so beloved, We know thou art blest, but we cannot unmoved Reflect that no more our fond hearts shall rejoice In the light of thy smile, and the sound of thy voice. Ah! little we thought, when so lately we gazed On thy features, where hope had her sunny throne raised, In that farewell, to joy more than sorrow allied, When we saw thee departing—a gay, happy bride; Ah, little we thought that the grave's dark repose, Would soon o'er thy brief wedded happiness close; That the shroud should succeed to thy bridal array, And thy beauty be given to early decay. Brief, indeed, was thy bliss; as the lapse of a dream, Which morning dispels with its wakening beam; Thou went'st from the home of thy childhood away, When autumn's pale shadows o'er all the earth lay; And now hath the spring-time's soft verdure appeared, But thou by its greenness and light art uncheered; For its blue skies will smile, and its long grass will wave, In their freshness and loveliness over thy grave. Farewell! thou loved lost one! oh, can it thus be, That so mournful a sound must be breathed over thee; That the glad household circle, unbroken before By death's ruthless hand, shall be gathered no more; That thou, the first-born, shouldst be first called away, From the love that would blindly have asked for thy stay: Yes, blindly; for thou in a far better land Art one of a purer and happier band! Far far from the reach of all suffering and pain; Where death may not enter,—where time breathes no stain; Where thine ear never more shall be saddened by sighs, And the Lord God shall wipe away tears from thy eyes. Thou art there; in that fadelessly glorious abode, With the holy in heart thou beholdest thy God! For thy spirit's calm faith, e'en in death undismayed, On the unchanging love of thy Saviour was stayed. Blest shade! oh forgive us these sorrowful tears, We would not recall thee from those happy spheres; Unbidden they spring; oh, unchecked let them flow, For we still inhabit this bleak world of woe! There is sweetness—there almost is joy in our grief— And strong human feeling demands the relief; Yet we would not,—we dare not,—we cannot repine— Ours, ours is the loss—but the gain is all thine. Many hearts are bereaved, that with undying love Are blending their sorrows thy low tomb above. But woe above all for that sad widowed breast, With keenest—with mightiest anguish opprest; The dearest tie severed which linked him to earth, Who may picture his grief by his desolate hearth? One comfort alone to the mourner is given, The hope of a future reunion in heaven! We will not forget thee, though mournful the thought To our hearts by that saddening memory brought; Tho' change may come o'er us, and years roll away, The remembrance of thee but with life can decay; In the quiet home circle thy dear cherished name, A place in calm thought and sweet converse shall claim; And affectionate feelings of hallowed regret Shall be given to thee!—no!—we will not forget! We will think of thee, when on thy early bier laid, With death's pallid hue on thy features portrayed; Thy cold form consigned to the shadowy tomb— And then shall the memory be tinctured with gloom. But holiest and brightest our visions of thee, In the beauty and glory of heaven will be; And surely no sadness can blend with the view Of bliss ever flowing, and yet ever new! Sweet sister, farewell! be it our lot to tread In the path which thy footsteps to heaven hath led; For soon must the grave's dreary portals unclose, And summon us too to its solemn repose. But oh! if, like thee, in our Saviour we trust, We shall greet thee again in the home of the just; And, with thee, to His love shall eternally raise Hallelujahs of glad, inexhaustible praise! TO THE EVENING STAR. FAIREST of all the stars that gem The dusky brow of silent night Amid that radiant diadem, So softly, tremulously bright. I love to watch thy lucid ray, Dim gleaming in the crimson west; When o'er the dazzling glare of day, Evening hath flung her solemn vest. When the last streaks of fading light, Blending with twilight's shadows gray; In liquid lustre, soft yet bright, Upon the tranquil ocean play. When silence reigns in earth and air, And hushed is breeze, and bird, and bee; Then sweet thy beam, so purely fair, Shines mid heaven's azure canopy. At that dim, tranquil hour, I love, Led by thy pale and silvery light, Along the lone, still shore to rove, And watch the gradual spread of night. Fair star! in silence thy mild ray Speaks to the heart of realms above; To holier themes directs the way, And Sweetly whispers—"God is love!" Yes, love eternal—infinite, Encircling space,—creation,—time; Wondrous, beyond the loftiest flight Of thought, which mortals deem sublime. Oh, who on those bright orbs can gaze That mid heaven's darkening ether shine, And dare an impious doubt to raise Of wisdom, power, and love divine? Each sceptic heart must feel and own The truth creation's works proclaim; Though silent, yet with thrilling tone Hymning their mighty maker's name. STANZAS. Written in the Abbey Woods, at Hartland, North Devon. SWEET Devon, mid thy dark and graceful woods Once more it is my happy lot to stray, And from their deep, romantic solitudes, To hail the bright uprise of blushing day. Gladly awhile I leave the ceaseless roar Of stormy waves on Cambria's rocky coast, The wilder throne of nature—to explore The softer beauties it is thine to boast. Hail to your peaceful calm, beloved shades! Endeared by memory's retrospective power; Whose soothing spell my pensive heart pervades, And leads me back to many a vanished hour; When in the days of earlier youth, I strayed, With wild delight, these lovely valleys through; And glowing fancy future years portrayed In her own cloudless tint of heavenly blue. And though those days of young romance are o'er, And life no more that vivid colouring wears, While I again your sweet retreats explore My heart again those ardent feelings shares. Can painter's skill, can poet's glowing fire Your beauties, dear enchanting scenes, portray? Sweet is the theme; oh! let some sweeter lyre, Some loftier muse awake the aspiring lay. Could but my feeble tongue in numbers sing The breathing thoughts that glow within my breast, Then to your praise should your wild echoes ring, And all my heart's deep homage be expressed. Ye old sequestered woods; through which the stream Winds its cool mazy course along the vale, Unscorched by fervid summer's noonday beam, And warbling ever its unvaried tale. Ye tall primeval trees, that shadowy spread, Waving majestic in the summer gale, That rustles through the dark leaves over-head, And with refreshing coolness fills the vale. Beneath yon aged oak, with moss o'ergrown, Whose breezy canopy of whispering boughs And trunk gigantic o'er the streamlet thrown, Invite to shade and undisturbed repose; There would I sit, in pensive mood reclined, Soothed by the murmurs of the wood and stream, That blend their gentle music in the wind, And yield me up to fancy's airy dream. Deep in this verdant and sequestered shade, The lone, uncultured haunt of nature's reign, Imagination needs and asks no aid, Her empire o'er the spirit to maintain. Though now no more the embattled castle towers In frowning grandeur o'er the solemn scene; And mid the dark, secluded forest bowers, The ancient convent is no longer seen;— Though mid its deep recesses now we stray, Once the lone haunt of dreaded outlaw bold, And issuing from the shade, in green array, No more the sturdy forester behold;— Yet nature, in her solitary reign, Preserves unchanged her never-wearying charms; Nor can we wish those feudal times again That filled our blood-stained land with war's alarms. Still fancy loves amid those days to dwell, And with the witchery of romance invests Scenes, upon which, without that bright-robed spell, The gloom of terror and oppression rests. And oh! unchecked let youthful fancy soar, Enthusiastic source of many a joy; Ere age, with chilling hand and aspect hoar, The bright illusive dream for aye destroy. Is there who ne'er hath felt and owned her sway? Alas! how cold and rugged is that heart; To him no rapture nature's charms convey, No joyous thrill her loveliest scenes impart. Oh, while life's feeblest spark illumes my breast, Tho' hope—imagination—joy—expire; Still may I cherish the ardent zest For nature's charms that wakes my youthful fire. And wheresoe'er my wandering steps may turn, Though many a spot as lovely I may see, My bosom mid the fairest scenes shall burn— Sweet Devon! with unchanging love to thee. Farewell! no longer must I linger here! Reluctant from your shades I must away; And to this sad adieu a hallowed tear, The tribute which it claims, I pensive pay. Long tedious years, perhaps, may intervene, Ere ye again shall greet my gladdened sight; But memory on each fondly cherished scene Shall dwell with frequent unsubdued delight. Yes! fancy's brightest flame may be represt, Gay hope may vanish—fading love retire; But this pure, sacred feeling in the breast Shall glow unquenched till life itself expire. ON A BUNCH OF FADED VIOLETS. SWEET flowers! though withered now your bloom, Your freshness, life, and beauty fled; A lingering and mild perfume Ye still around you shed. Dear shall your faded blossoms be, While that soft fragrance to them clings; For to my heart fond memory Of other days it brings. How like the odour ye possess, Is soothing memory's magic power! Endearing the lost loveliness Of many a by-gone hour! And tho' her witching spells, I know, Have oft a saddening influence; I would not such sweet grief forego, Or wish its thrillings hence. Then, gentle flowers, though fled your bloom, I will not cast ye yet away; But cherish still the wan perfume, That breathes from your decay. THE SAILOR'S RETURN. 'TIS eve; and the cool, fresh breezes play, O'er the blue and sparkling sea; Where countless ships, on their destined way Are sailing cheerily; And tears in many an eyelid swell Among that gallant band, As they turn to gaze a long farewell To the shores of their native land. But, mid the rest, one stately bark Is proudly steering home; And swifter than mounts the morning lark, She glides o'er the bright waves foam. Her sails are set, and her helm is turned T'wards that long deserted strand, And the hearts are rejoicing that oft have yearned To behold their native land. Long years have passed since that toil-worn crew For distant seas set sail; And many a storm hath their ship pass'd through, And weathered full many a gale. But unhurt by the tempest's rudest shock, Unscathed by the lightning's brand, She hath braved the assaults of billow and rock, And returned to her native land. And the mariners' hearts are beating high, As on her deck they crowd; Hope beams in every glistening eye, And their shouts are wild and loud. They think no more of their dangers past, Their toils on a foreign strand, As they bless the hour which brings them at last Again to their native land. They have scorched on Afric's arid plains, They have crossed o'er the Indian seas; And where trackless solitude wildly reigns, Have reposed 'neath the cedar trees. In the ocean isles of the spicy groves, By fragrant breezes fanned; But ever their thoughts with unquenched love Have dwelt on their native land. How oft on the lone, unbounded sea, Some memory sweet of home, (Like the shadowy forms that in dreams we see) Would o'er their spirits come; And many a feeling sad and drear They have struggled to command, As they mused on all they left so dear Far away in their native land. But all their perils awhile are o'er, And delight each bosom thrills, As their vessel vears the wished for shore, And they gaze on its wild blue hills; But the rapturous welcome none can tell That awaits the exiled band, Save the hearts that uttered the sad farewell When they left their native land. Oh, smile not ye! who have never felt The bitter pain to part, At the hopes and joys that thus can melt E'en the sturdy sailor's heart; For the feeling heart is always brave, And such shall ever stand— The terror of foemen, the boast of the wave, And the pride of our native land! TO SWANSEA. THOUGH many a spot on Albion's seagirt coast, May stay the wanderer's step, and fix his gaze; None can more rich, more varied beauties boast, Swansea! than thine attractive town displays; Though always fair, yet fairest when the rays Of the declining sun fade from the west, When beauteously each softened shadow plays Upon thy tranquil ocean's azure breast, And thy dark hills are robed in silvery twilight's vest. Then how majestic thine expansive bay, Studded with many a sail of gleaming white; The clear waves gently heaving 'neath the ray Of eve's lone star, so tremulously bright; Thence far receding from the gazer's sight, The calm, clear river up the valley glides, Reflecting on its bosom many a light, From the tall buildings clustered on its sides, Or from the anchored fleet that safely on it rides. The dark and lofty hills that skirt the bay, In that dim light are most majestic seen; The smoke from distant foundries curling grey O'er their rude summits like a shadowy screen; While at their base the waters sleep serene, And universal stillness reigns around, Oh, who can look upon the lovely scene, Nor own, throughout our isle's remotest bound, A fairer than he views, is rarely to be found? Swansea, farewell! though humble be the lay, Receive the tribute of a stranger's praise, Whose thoughts will oft return when far away, To each romantic charm thy vale displays. Long could thy scenery stay my lingering gaze, And mid new beauties still my feet might roam; But now a holier call my bosom sways, Affection's dictates bid the wanderer come, And to my yielding heart whisper fond thoughts of home. HOME. THERE is one fair and lovely spot, Dearer than all the world beside; Where it may be it matters not, In city, glen, or desert wide. Whate'er its name, where'er its seat, Though far our wandering steps may roam; This world can offer no retreat, So blest, so welcome as our home. 'Tis there the wearied—harassed mind, May turn for refuge and repose; 'Tis there the mourner's heart can find A balm to sooth life's keenest woes. 'Tis there for shelter we can flee, From worldly toil, and care, and strife; And from that calm asylum see, Unmoved, the varied scenes of life. Home! thrilling word! who has not felt, Long exiled from its hallowed bound, His heart with childlike softness melt At the loved, well-remembered sound. Does not fond memory love to trace Each form within its precincts fair, And paint each dear, familiar face That lights the heart with gladness there And does not oft the unbidden tear (Sweet tribute of affection) fall, When glowing fancy's visions clear, Home, with its dearest joys recall Nature in other scenes may wear Her fairest hues—her richest dress But the heart owns, 'tis only there She shines supreme in loveliness. Others with bright and ready smile, With kindly looks and softest speech, May charm the eye—the ear beguile— But cannot the lone spirit reach. The thrilling pressure of a hand, Endeared by nature's sacred tie; The kindred voice in accent's bland— The glance of some beloved eye;— Those gentle tokens which bespeak The feelings of a breast sincere— Where, in the wide world may we seek, If not within home's hallowed sphere? Time but secures the potent spells, Which bind us to the dear retreat; And lengthened absence only tells Our glad return how doubly sweet. No power but death can break the chain— Death! who the firmest ties can part; But long as life and feeling reign, Home is the loadstone of the heart! ON VISITING THE RUINS OF OSTERMOUTH CASTLE,NEAR SWANSEA. MAJESTIC pile! whose ruins vast With solitary grandeur crowned, Mock with vain tales of glory past The fair and quiet scene around; Tales which imagination lead Back to the days of sword and lance, When each high-souled, chivalric deed Swelled the wild legends of romance;— How fallen is now thine ancient state! Of all their pride and splendour reft— Ruined—and lone—and desolate, Thy mouldering time-worn towers are left. Dark ivy mantles o'er thy walls, And round each shattered arch is twined; And midst thy wide deserted halls, The long green grass waves in the wind. Each crumbling mass by time o'erthrown, Is hid the soft bright moss beneath; And wild flowers deck the cold grey stone, With many a gay fantastic wreath, As if they fain would veil the gloom And desolation of the scene, Beneath their soft and graceful bloom, And robe of rich enlivening green. Thy spacious courts, forsaken long, Are now the reptile's dark abode,— The wild bird sweetly trills her song, Where once the brave and mighty trod; No more high music's martial strains, Through these decaying towers resound; But ruin unmolested reigns, And solitude a home hath found. Fallen pile! what lessons sad and deep Hath time's stern finger on thee traced,— Who but might sigh,—nay, almost weep To see thy glories thus laid waste? To think that all on earth that's bright— Mighty—or beautiful—or gay— Like thee, must feel time's withering blight; Like thee, become the spoiler's prey. All that man's noblest art can show Must fall—e'en man, with all his pride, Down to the dreary tomb must go, And sink in dark oblivion's tide. One only bright, celestial clime, Decay and death may never stain,— Happy whose glorious hope sublime, Aspires that fadeless realm to gain. TO MY BROTHER ON HIS DEPARTUREFOR AMERICA. BROTHER, farewell! since 'tis thy choice to roam, And seek awhile in distant lands a home; Far from thy friends and native shore away, In climes beyond the western main to stray. But, ah! how vainly may'st thou hope to find A happier home than that thou leav'st behind; Or dearer ties—or hearts more fond and true, Than those that sorrowing bid thee now adieu. Yet would I not the adventurous spirit blame, That prompts thy wanderings, and impels thy aim; Or one dark cloud of dim foreboding throw O'er the bright hopes which in thy bosom glow. Tho' soft affection claims from thee a tear, At parting thus from all that hold thee dear; Those buoyant hopes, the tribute soon will dry, And from thy breast dispel the gathering sigh. But oft as time revolving steals away, To distant home thy thoughts will love to stray; Fond memory on thy heart her seal hath set, And nature's voice forbids thee to forget. Nor deem that unremembered thou canst be, In hearts so fondly, firmly linked to thee; Daily for thee shall our warm prayers ascend, Daily our blessings on thy steps attend. And when around the social board and hearth, The hours speed on in converse or in mirth, Thine absence and thy oft-repeated name, Affection's sigh—affection's tear shall claim. Go where thou wilt, may heaven thy path direct, With wisdom guide thee, and with power protect; And through life's many-coloured mazes lead, From every taint of vice and error freed. Oh never may a deed of thine impart One thrill of anguish to a mother's heart; Or cause a father's cheek the blush to wear, Which never for his own hath mantled there! Ah, no! each promise of thine early years, Rebukes the doubt, dispels all anxious fears; And whispers, thou shalt greet us yet again, With name unsullied by a single stain. Then go, beloved one! and with thee bear A father's blessing, and a mother's prayer; And worthless though these parting lines—yet take, And prize and keep them for a sister's sake. O weak are words, and powerless to express The feelings which that sister's heart oppress; But thine own bosom, with responsive swell, Those sad emotions can interpret well. Farewell! how oft that wild world's chilling tone Dispels the sweetest dreams the heart hath known! O may we meet upon that blissful shore, Where none shall ever hear or speak it more. IMPROMPTU. Written in a Work by Mrs. H. More. OF varied talent—taste refined— Brilliant in fancy—pure in mind— Devoted to the cause of truth— The friend of all—but most of youth; Long—long shall More's regretted name, Esteem and reverence justly claim. THE DEJECTED. Adapted to a Picture. WITH pensive step—in thoughtful mood, The lady seeks the solitude Of the old hall's sequestered shades, Where silence contemplation aids; Mid stately trees—whose branches seem Impervious to the noonday gleam; Their canopies so darkly green, Shedding soft twilight o'er the scene; The scene so solemn—yet so fair, For art has here bestowed her care To aid untutored nature's hand, And blend the beautiful and grand. Each shrub and flow'ret mingled bloom, That charm the eye, and breathe perfume; Scattered amid the cool retreat Is many a mossy, rustic seat; A wandering streamlet thither led, Warbles along its pebbly bed; And sylvan temples rear their shade In many a sweet, secluded glade. Sculpture her richest art has lent To statue, urn, and monument;— Fountains their crystal waters throw From marble vase and carved jet d'eau; All that can beauty add, or grace, Is gathered round the charming place; E'en the old mansion's gothic pile Seems, mid the soft repose, to smile; And own a spot so lovely, meet For fairest lady's loved retreat; And none had e'er a juster claim To brightest beauty's envied name Than she, who midst the embowering green, Wanders—and seems its fairy queen. Her step is checked—with folded hands, And downcast glance, she musing stands; Her fawn, its gambols vainly tried, Lies all unheeded at her side; As though he knew, and fain would share His gentle mistress' untold care. But why so pensive is her air? Why does her brow that shadow wear? Why is her dark eye downward thrown? And wherefore wanders she alone?— It is that very loneliness That does upon her bosom press; 'Tis this which o'er her lofty brow, Casts such a tinge of sorrow now. When last she lingered in those bowers, How gaily smiled the winged hours! Her footsteps then how airy light,— . How gay her heart,—her eye how bright,— Smiling in conscious beauty's pride, For then De L'Orme was at her side. But war's wild summons o'er the land, Has loudly roused each martial band; And duty's dictates to obey, The knightly youth has sped away. Who can the bitter sorrow tell That waited on that sad farewell? With many a tear from Linda's eye, With many a vow—and many a sigh, They parted—and, her lover gone, The lady wanders now alone. What wonder then, that o'er her face Reigns such a sweetly pensive grace? Or that her thoughtful step and air, Should seem too near allied to care? In that enchanting solitude, She loves upon her grief to brood,— Unseen—unheeded,—to contrast The present with the glowing past; While sometimes fancy to her view, The future paints in brighter hue; Pictures her noble love returned, With many a laurel bravely earned,— The din of war and bloodshed o'er,— Returned—to leave her side no more. And from her brow that fond hope's ray, Half steals the lingering gloom away. Maiden! soon may thy smile's glad light, Again illume that brow so bright; Soon may thy hero's welcome voice, Bid thy now mournful heart rejoice; Again give to thy cheek and eye Their wonted grace of gaiety; And to thy favourite bower restore The charms it had for thee before; Making it doubly dear and fair, For this brief interval of care. SPRING. NOW zephyrs are winging Soft o'er the blue main, And nature is springing To beauty again. Earth expands her green bosom, Warm sunbeams to meet, And leaf, bud, and blossom, The welcome rays greet. The breeze from the mountain— The song from the wood— The gush of the fountain— The sweep of the flood; The musical humming Of bees on the wing, All hail her glad coming, Bright—beautiful spring! Wild flow'rets are blooming Mid the dark tufted grass, With fragrance perfuming The winds as they pass. The fairy gems twinkle Where the green meadow lies, Where clear waters tinkle, And sunny banks rise. The earth is all gleaming, And sparkling with dew, The pure heavens are beaming In their own sunny blue; And freed from the sadness Of winter's dark band, Light, beauty, and gladness, Rejoice in the land. The lambs' tender bleating Is heard in the vale, And the cuckoo, repeating Her annual tale; The blackbird is pouring His long treasured notes, And the lark gaily soaring, Sings loud as he floats. The soft vernal motion Creation pervades; Gently swells the clear ocean, Clothes the lone forest glades; Fills the light breeze that rushes Through the green springing corn, And paints the bright blushes Of roseate morn. Fair spring! though so joyous, How transient thy smile; Yet, oh haste not to fly us, But linger awhile; For when next these glad bowers That smile shall relume, Thy bright leaves and flowers May cover our tomb. Oh, children of reason, There is truth in your lay, Ye are fair for a season, Then, like me, pass away; For the gay and the blooming Now sleep in the earth, Who hailed my last coming With music and mirth. But the pure spring of heaven Is all fadelessly fair, And to you it is given In its glories to share. That clime ever vernal Ye all may attain, Where beauty eternal, And happiness reign. Then with glad hearts to meet me, From your dwellings now come, And joyfully greet me In my own woodland home! To the temple of nature, Your pure homage bring, And praise your creator, Great author of spring. TO ——. Written in a volume of Scripture Stories. WHILST, with enquiring and delighted eye, Thou scann'st the truths that here recorded lie; Oh let them lead thy search in early youth, To the pure volume of eternal truth. That sacred mine of hidden wealth explore, And gems of wisdom gather from its store; Nor till the pearl of priceless worth has blest Thy meek enquiry—from thy labour rest. And oh may God His spirit's aid impart; And with its holy influence fill thy heart With love to Him, and to His sacred word, And in that study be thy rich reward. It testifies of Jesus, in whose name Eternal life and glory thou may'st claim. THE CLOSING YEAR. AGAIN revolving time has sent, With all its hopes and fears, Another to the mighty mass Of long departed years. But ere oblivion's darksome spell, Its memory shall entwine, My heart would fain retrace the scenes That link it yet to mine. Brief was its course, but who may tell Since on that course it sped, How many dear, regretted ones, Have joined the silent dead? How many fond and faithful hearts, Grief's bitterest pang shall tear, For friends—and hopes, and comforts gone With thee—thou vanished year? Indulgent heaven my breast hath spared The pang which thousands know; Tho' sorrow oft hath lingered there, Death planted not the blow; And gratefully my heart would own The numerous joys bestowed, The blessings which my steps have cheered Through life's uncertain road. Another year is opening now Its stores of good and ill; To be to all dispensed, as may Heaven's purpose best fulfil. What chequered scenes of joy and pain The future may unfold, Is known to only Him—by whom Are all events controlled. But whatsoe'er our lot may be— Through sunshine and through gloom, One pure, unclouded hope is ours, That e'en survives the tomb. Then to the old, departed year, In peace we'll bid adieu; And welcome in the hopes and joys That smile around the new. TO THE OCEAN. BEAUTIFUL ocean! deep, serene, and blue, Within thy bosom untold wealth concealing; While to the prying gaze of mortal view Only thy surface, bright and fair, revealing, Till roused to tumult by the tempest pealing O'er thy dread, vast expanse, with deafening roar; Then by thy billows, death around them dealing, Thy treasures oft are lavished on the shore. How like the human heart! where depth of feeling— Rich, pure, intense,—is oft unseen enshrined, Till come the storms of wild affliction, stealing The hidden gems from the o'erflowing mind, Brilliant, and startling who before had deemed That calm and placid mien had what it seemed. TO THE CLOUDS. YE bright and silvery clouds, that tranquil lie In the deep glory of the crimson west; Fringed with the gorgeous hues that paint the sky, As sinks the sun to his refulgent rest: Oh, beautiful are ye! as the white vest Of light and purity which angels wear; Or as the homes of parted spirits blest, That seem to hover mid your realms of air. Ah, no! imagination scarce may dare Picture the joys of their bright sphere remote; Your radiancy is but the emblem fair Of glories far transcending human thought. Unstained by sin, undimmed by sorrow's breath,— Beyond the flight of time,—beyond the stroke of death. TO E——. DEAR girl, the lines thus simply penned, Oh deem not insincere, From one who claims to be thy friend, And holds the title dear. I would not mock the sacred word With flattery's hollow strain; Or one unmeaning phrase record, Which candour might disdain. But if affection's self, expressed In truth's unvarnished tone, Can find a welcome in thy breast, That tribute is thine own. Though by the cold and heartless deemed A prize of little worth,— That gift to me has ever seemed The dearest boon of earth. And if aright I read thy heart, The impulse it can share, And genuine friendship can impart A kindred feeling there. Delightful friendship! unto thee How much of bliss we owe; How drear without thy smile would be This fading world of woe. 'Twas ours, my friend, that bliss to know, While we together dwelt; Nor parted,—need we now forego All we have ever felt. Those hours—those scenes—so prized, are past! Yet, dearest girl, we will, To us while life and feeling last, Their memory cherish still. Though henceforth we may seldom meet,— Perhaps on earth no more; Those ties, indissolubly sweet, Have blessings yet in store. Absence—and time—and distance wide— Affection may defy; And let what we have lost beside, Fancy and hope supply. Delusive though they both may be, And worthless to thy mind; Their fairy visions are to me Too sweet to be resigned. In many an hour of loneliness, Which else were sad and drear, The brightening influence they possess, Thy spirit too may cheer. For well I know, on solitude, E'en when from sorrow free; Will melancholy oft intrude, Unwelcome though it be, Then should their beams thy path illume, With coruscations gay; Let not despondency or gloom Dispel th' enlivening ray; But oh! indulge the pleasing fire, Ere time or darkening care Shall bid the magic glow expire, And cloud each vision fair. In all thy hours of pensive thought, Whatever hue they wear; With pain alloyed—with pleasure fraught— Still let me claim a share; And by the unaltered love to thee, Which prompts this friendly line; Believe that thou shalt ever be, As dear in each of mine. Let not to us the parting word Be friendship's mournful knell;— Forget that each from each has heard The startling sound—farewell! Nor let it one bright link dispart Of firm affection's chain; But that endearing tie of heart Unbroken still remain. TO MY BROTHER AT HIS DEPARTURE ON A VOYAGE. FAREWELL to thee, brother! again art thou going, Thy perilous path o'er the ocean to steer; With the fervour of hope in thy young bosom glowing, The sorrowful moments of parting to cheer. Midst wild, chequered scenes of privation and danger, The path thou hast chosen compels thee to roam; Remote from thy country, and long—long a stranger To the fond smiles of friends, and the comforts of home. Yet dear tho' that home, and thy kindred still dearer, To leave them can scarcely awaken a sigh; And the unbidden tear glistens brighter and clearer, Through the warm exultation that beams from thine eye. For the heart of the sailor, with proud ardour burning, Mid the shore's calm enjoyments still loves the blue wave; And welcomes the hour which beholds him returning, Its pleasures to taste, and its perils to brave. But when sailing afar on the dark trackless ocean, And its billows around thee are foaming in glee; Thy thoughts will dwell oft, with o'erwhelming emotion, On the loved ones, who ever think fondly of thee. In the lone, silent night-watch, the spell will come o'er thee, While fancy's bright visions encircle thy brain; And oft shall the sweet dreams of slumber restore thee, To the dear happy home of thy childhood again. Oh! could the fond prayers of affection avail thee, How placid and calm were the seas thou wilt roam; No tempest should rise to impede or assail thee, Till we joyfully welcomed thee back to thy home. For thy weal our petitions are fervently given, As with tearful reluctance, we see thee depart;— May the merciful care of thy father in heaven, Be with thee, and bless thee, wherever thou art. Farewell to thee, brother! a happier meeting Be ours when thy long distant voyage is o'er; And unmingled with pain the affectionate greeting, That waits thy return to thine own island shore. LINES ON THE ERECTION OF A NEW ORGAN THE CHURCH AT TENBY. IF deeds by heaven-born charity, inspired By holy zeal, and piety which springs From hearts with pure, unfeigned devotion fired, Be grateful incense to the King of kings; The fervent homage He will not disdain, That placed its offering in His place of praise; And bade, within this venerable lane, The full-toned organ its high music raise. And since within our highly-favoured land, In every nook is reared a house of prayer; Does not the service of our God demand Music's sublimest—purest tribute there? What breast which piety's seraphic fire Hath ever touched—feels not a warmer glow When swells the anthem from the pealing choir, In strains too heavenly for this world below? Hark! how the sacred notes harmonious rise, And echo through each lofty pillared aisle; Now, slow and solemn, prayer ascends the skies; Now, praise reverberates thro' the hallowed pile;— A kindling ardour trembles in the breast; And warm enthusiasm wafts the soul, Mid the celestial chorus of the blest, And far beyond the mortal frame's control. Long may that solemn, animating strain, Within these ancient walls first heard to-day, Swell the deep worship of the holy fane, When generations shall have passed away. While all whose voices joined the hymn of praise, When the sad requiem rises o'er their bier, The never-ceasing song of triumph raise With the redeemed in heaven's immortal sphere. TO MISS E. H——. Written in her Album. IF sacred to friendship and truth, This elegant volume remain, From a friend of thine earliest youth, Thou wilt not this tribute disdain; And though rude and unpolished the line, And such as each muse might disown, In affection's kind glance, and in thine, Dear girl, let the motive atone. I would not one syllable trace Of flattery's cold hollow strain; Or these unsullied pages deface With a language which truth could disdain. Let the heartless—the gay—and the vain— Address thee with song insincere; But ne'er may the flatterer's strain, Be welcome or sweet to thine ear. Nor yet would I gloomily throw The mists of foreboding and care, O'er the bright hopes and prospects that glow Around thee all cloudless and fair. Though the winter of age will succeed, And time must bring darkness and pain, To anticipate ought of their speed, At best would unwise be, and vain. Ah, no! I would rather awake Pure thoughts, with no shadow o'ercast; And bid thee reflectively take A tranquil review of the past: Of the life that has hitherto been, With the sunshine of happiness crowned; Where the hand of thy God hath been seen In the blessings encircling thee round. I would bid thee the present enjoy, And with uncontrolled gratitude prize Each source of pure, innocent joy, That gladdens thy life as it flies; With the ardour of youth to improve The bounties so lavishly given, And thy heart's purest homage and love Devote to thy father in heaven. And when to the future thy glance Is calmly and thoughtfully sent, May the view prompt thee still to advance On fairer possessions intent. Then, should all earthly comforts remove, Thou mayest tranquilly see them depart; Secure of a treasure above, And the pure peace of God in thine heart. That this may be thy happy lot, Oh let that young heart be the book, On which, undefaced by a blot, Thy God may complacently look. The page where His love shall record Its holy, indelible trace; And where the rich truths of His word Are graved by the spirit of grace. TO MY BROTHER IN AMERICA ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. ANOTHER year hath sped, dear brother, bringing Again thy well-remembered natal day; Fond thoughts of thee within our hearts are springing, But thou art still a wanderer far away. The place once gladdened by thy smile is lonely, Thy seat is vacant, and thy voice unheard; And when thy name is uttered—echo only Repeats in mockery the unanswered word. Time has flown swiftly by while from thee parted, And yet how slow has seemed the lapse of years! Since, clustering round thee, mournful and sad hearted, We gave thee an adieu of silent tears. Spring hath oft been, diffusing light and gladness; Summer, all beauty, sunshine, birds, and flowers; Lone autumn, in her pale prophetic sadness; And winter, whitening all the leafless bowers. He lingers still—loud winds in anger howling, Fierce surges wildly rolling o'er the main; And cold, thick snow clouds o'er us darkly scowling, In voice terrific speak his dreary reign. But all within is calm and tranquil—brightly Burns the clear fire upon the cheerful hearth; There glows affection's quenchless flame—and nightly Flows social converse there,—and lively mirth. But o'er us ever comes a tinge of sadness, Brother, when thoughts and language on thee dwell; Come back to us! and with thy tones of gladness, And kindly smile, the pensive shade dispel. True, there are other voices,—other faces For whose return the household circle pine; But thou hast long been absent—and the traces Of memory seem most fondly linked to thine. Where art thou tarrying?—art thou not yet weary Of the far stranger land where thou dost roam? Have the dark mountain, and the boundless prairie, More charms for thee than thine own island home? Is there more beauty in its forest shadows, Its trackless wastes, and wild uncultured dress, Than in the fair green vales and pleasant meadows, That woo thee back to their soft loveliness? There may be scenes more grand, and haply fairer; There may be clearer streams and brighter skies; Strange, gorgeous birds,—and fruits and flow'rets rarer, Than those which in thy native land arise: These may to admiration be appealing,— But dearer to thy heart they cannot be; For every tie of nature, and of feeling, Is linked to home—and binds its spell on thee. Parental love is yearning to behold thee, To hear again the sound of thy loved voice; Brothers and sisters gladly would enfold thee, And home itself is ready to rejoice. Then come, beloved wanderer! though an ocean Between us rolling, keep us now apart; Haste thou, all heedless of its wild commotion, To the glad welcome of each kindred heart. In God's protection fearlessly confiding, We trust thee, loved one! to His guardian care; Oh may His blessing, on thy head abiding, Restore thee to our oft-repeated prayer. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. AN album's pages meet my gaze, Embossed with tasteful grace and care; And friendship prompts my pen to trace Some simple, brief memorial there. Upon its bright vignette, I read A name familiar to my ear; While to my heart, with winged speed, Crowds many an ardent wish sincere. One,—only one,—will I express, Of all the prayers I here might pour; But to such heights of happiness Aspires that one—there needs not more. Oh! may the name this fair page bears, With pure, celestial glory crowned, And graved in deathless characters, In the lamb's book of life be found. ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF THE REV. J. PRIOR. IF of departed piety, the thought— Of usefulness and worth for ever fled, Come to the heart with pain and sadness fraught, And waken sorrow for the sainted dead— The mournful tribute must be paid to thee, Meek, patient follower of thy gracious Lord; From all thy toils thus suddenly set free, And summoned to receive thy great reward. No more shall thy persuasive, gentle voice, Allure thy flock to seek the Saviour's face; Point out the blessedness of such a choice, And sweetly urge them to accept His grace. No more shall we, with charmed attention hear, Thine earnest, mild, affectionate appeals; Nor listen awed, while on the sinner's ear The solemn and impressive warning steals. Yes! these lament thee, who have lost in thee A sympathizing pastor,—brother,—friend,— In whose meek character they loved to see Faith, zeal, and universal kindness blend. But why grief's plaintive language should we pour For thy departure from a world like this; Oh, rather let our songs of triumph soar, And hail thine entrance to the realms of bliss. Rather rejoice that thou so soon hast gained The heaven which was on earth thy darling theme; Where all that here thy placid spirit pained, Is swallowed up in joy's eternal beam. Eye hath not seen—nor unto mortal ear Hath e'er been told—or thought by human heart— What glories wait in that immortal sphere, The faithful souls that in their Lord depart. And thou art there!—the pure and holy flame, Which in thy bosom so intensely burned, Hath sought the sacred source from whence it came— It was of heaven—and has but home returned. Loved in thy life—lamented in thy death— What though so quickly snatched from earth away, When none was near to watch the parting breath, Catch thy last smile, and with thy spirit pray:— Jesus was near thee, in his love and might; His sure, unfailing mercy bore thee through; Cheered the dark valley with celestial light, As swiftly mid its gloom thy spirit flew. No slow disease thy wasting form oppress'd, No racking pain thy manhood's strength decayed; At once thou entered'st the abodes of rest, Which sorrow, sin, and toil can ne'er invade. Oh, glorious change! be hushed, our selfish sighs; Lord! though mysterious seem the high decree, Be ours the child-like confidence which cries, Thy will be done!—and leaves the rest to thee. Oh guide our footsteps in the narrow way Our late beloved friend and pastor trod, Which leads, illumined by faith's holy ray, To immortality—and heaven—and God! Give us that pure, devoted flame of love, Which lives within the heart for God alone! That we may, in our father's house above, With everlasting sons surround the throne. Saviour! on thee our helpless souls we cast, Be thou our refuge from the ills to come; Our portion and our strength while life shall last, Our hope in death, and our eternal home. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. WHEN from his father's throne descended, The Prince of Peace appeared on earth, Sweet strains of angel music blended In holy triumph o'er his birth. Glory to God! through earth and heaven The seraph chorus swiftly rung; And ne'er till that bright hour was given So glad a theme to angel tongue. Oh shall not we, whose fallen spirits The King of Glory stooped to raise; Saved by His death—robed in His merits— Exulting join in grateful praise? CHORUS. Hail, blissful dawn! hail, glorious day, Which every shadow chased away; Hence, gloomy fear! hence, dark despair! Our hearts forbid your entrance there; Let every ransomed soul rejoice, Let Jesu's name fill every voice. Glory to God! the song is spreading From sea to sea—from shore to shore Jesus, his foes beneath him treading, Is conquering, conquering evermore. The solitary waste rejoices, The desert blossoms as the rose; And the loud hymn of countless voices One only theme of rapture knows. Exhaustless theme! from which we borrow Praise in a never-ceasing strain; The lowly babe—the man of sorrow— The lamb for our salvation slain! CHORUS. Hail, glorious Lord! hail, heavenly king! Accept the homage that we bring; Let this bright day of gladness be An universal jubilee; Thyself to every heart proclaim, That every heart may feel thy name. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE REV JOHN WATERHOUSE AND COLLEAGUES, MISSIONARIES TO THE SOUTH SEAS. GO forth, go forth! ye noble few! one of a thousand bands, That fired with holy zeal and love, have traversed distant lands; Forsaken whatsoe'er of good this fleeting world had given, And God their only portion made—their all in earth and heaven. Not as of old the wild crusade its horrid triumphs gained, And with unhallowed thirst of blood the name of christian stained; Ye too are soldiers of the cross; its victories too ye prove; But holy peace your banner is,—your only weapon love. Go forth! the prayers of countless hearts on wings of faith sublime, Shall rise to waft you on your way to that dark heathen clime; Their incense mingling with the breeze, and with the ocean's roar, That bears you on its faithless breast—far, far from England's shore. Say, does no pang of fond regret your saddened bosoms swell, As to your native land ye turn, and gaze a long farewell? Trembles no sigh upon your lip—no tear within your eye, While memory points to all ye leave, and tells of joys gone by? Yes! human nature will prevail—affection triumphs now, And bids each high devoted heart beneath her influence bow; The dearest ties which earth hath twined can never thus be rent, But o'er the bright, dissevered chain grief claims and finds a vent. Yet the firm purpose shrinketh not, mid feeling's mighty burst, Upheld by that pure principle which prompted it at first; Love, strong as death, is glowing there, and unabating zeal, Such as the followers of the lamb—and only they can feel. To proclaim the love of Jesus where it never hath been told; To call the outcast tribes of earth home to their shepherd's fold; To pierce the dark, polluted clouds of gloomy heathen night, And a new atmosphere diffuse of purity and light;— For this your country,—kindred,—home,—ye cheerfully forsake, And fearless o'er the mighty deep your pathless voyage take; Danger and toil, it may be death,—await ye where ye roam, But God shall guide you safely through to heaven's eternal home. Go forth! the wail of pagan woe sounds loudly o'er the sea; Go loose the captive exile's chains, and set the pris'ner free; Till where the tyranny of sin held undisturbed control, Peace, righteousness, and joy may rule each glad unfettered soul. Farewell, thou veteran of the cross! with years already grey, In thine own land thou well hast borne the burden of the day; Farewell, devoted men of God! whose labours here, we know, Are earnest of the glad results which future years will show. Thou too, with youthful brow and cheek unfurrowed yet by time, And ardent soul that longs to reach that far benighted clime, With her whose meek resolve is fixed to share thy lot untried, Serene in calm and holy love!—thy fair young christian bride. We deem in man the breaking thus from home and kindred ties, An act of high-souled sacrifice, which God himself must prize; But holier, brighter seems the flame that woman's heart impels, Her native weakness to surmount, and fear within her quells. Farewell! may blessings from above upon your union be, While in one spirit ye pursue your glorious destiny; Nor ill exchanged the home and friends that might your lives have blessed, For a brief, toilsome exile—crowned with everlasting rest. Then go ye forth! to you is given the never-failing word— ''Lo! I am with you always;" 'tis the promise of your Lord;— Tread ye the path of toil which those who went before have trod, Until ye follow them to heaven, eternity, and God. TO MISS E—— A——.ON THE DEPARTURE OF HER FRIEND, MISS D., ON THE INDIAN MISSION. THOU askest a line, In brief memorial of thy parted friend, Whose path in earlier years was linked to thine, And now that link must end! And she whose soul Was knit with all a sister's love to thee, Is gone—and trackless miles between ye roll Of lone, wild sea. With fearless mind, Alone she dares the faithless ocean's foam, On pagan India's sultry plains to find A new, strange home. One only voice Will speak her welcome to that foreign strand; One only bosom in her love rejoice Through all the peopled land. Her native soil— Kindred, and friends, and every tender tie She hath renounced for peril—hardship—toil, Beneath that fervid sky. It wrings the heart To bid the loved ones of our youth farewell, And know the while that they and we apart Henceforth must dwell. 'Tis sad to yearn, O'er severed ties with feelings drear and lone, And in the bitterness of grief to mourn Their sweetest pleasures flown. Yet the meek eye Of christian faith weeps not as worldlings weep; It looks for friendship's joys restored on high, More lasting, pure, and deep. And though the tear Which nature fondly claims, unchecked may flow, The christian's heart enshrines a hope more dear Than this world can bestow. Then sorrow not,— Nor deem it sad that thus ye severed are; Hers is a glorious and an honoured lot Beyond compare. What purer name Could earth have given?—what happiness beside The high and holy title she can claim— A missionary's bride? And thou mayest too, In thine own sphere, a kindred influence shed; Peace, holiness,—and usefulness pursue; And heaven's bright pathway tread. In spirit one Thou still may'st feel her heart's affection thine; May'st still with her at mercy's sacred throne In sweet communion join. Till life shall close, Cling thou with faithful and devoted love To thine almighty Saviour;—and repose Thy dearest hopes above. Friends may depart,— The hopes of earth illusive fade away,— Sorrow and pain may bow the stricken heart, But these can ne'er decay. Then weep no more That thou to God thy early friend hast given; She is not lost,—a few brief conflicts o'er, And ye shall meet in heaven. PRAYER. GO when morning beameth; Go when noontide gleameth; Go at the close of day, When pure and holy feeling Is o'er thy bosom stealing: Go, thou! and lowly kneeling, In secret humbly pray. There with holy fervour, Before thy great Observer, Plead thou in Jesu's name; And in each meek petition To that divine Physician, Let not thine own condition Thy sole attention claim; But let affection move thee, To pray for all who love thee, And who are loved by thee; Then, christian love extending, Faith with thy prayers blending, For all mankind ascending, Still let thy breathings be. And would'st thou be forgiven,— Approved and blest by heaven— Pray even for thy foes; Think how thy Saviour bade thee, When scoffers would degrade thee, Or injuries invade thee, Their hate with love oppose. This is the christian spirit, Which, all who would inherit The bliss of heaven, must feel; Ask thou, that God most holy, Would make thee meek and lowly, And fill thy glad soul wholly With heav'nly love and zeal. And if when crowds surround thee, When earthly cares have bound thee, And seem to cloud thy way, This empty world despising, And purer pleasures prizing, On eagle pinions rising; Thy spirit fain would pray;— Lift then thine heart!—He readeth Its inmost thoughts—nor needeth That words should reach His ear; Look up! on Him relying, He marks thy spirit's sighing, And in His love replying, He will be ever near. THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI. WHEN from the shining east afar, The sages hoar of ancient fame, Directed by a wondrous star, To Palestina came,— What drew them from that sunbright land, Where science with her mighty hand, Aided and taught them to explore The mystic depths of antique lore? Amid the towering cedars' shade, On Lebanon's majestic height, Was not their journey's speed delayed To view the goodly sight Where Hermon's dewy summit rose— Where Bashan's pastured herds repose— Where Gilead's balmy plains are spread, And flocks by Jordan's waters tread? Paused they not on the fertile hills, With olive, fig, and vineyards crowned, Watered by thousand gushing rills That fair Judea bound? Did not their eyes enraptured rove O'er every fertile plain and grove, And linger with delighted mien Upon the soft and lovely scene? No! beauteous though the prospect, bright As the lost shades of Paradise,— They stay not at the gladdening sight, For their inspired eyes Are fixed upon a heavenlier theme— That star which guides them with its beam; And they have thoughts of higher birth Than dwell amid the scenes of earth. One aim propels them on their way— One subject fills each anxious mind; Where in that favoured realm, may they The true Messiah find? The voice of prophecy has rung Throughout their land—and sweetly sung The rod and sceptre that should spring To fill the hand of Judah's King. Passed the fair scene that round them blooms, They near the holy city drew— And Salem's stately palace domes Burst on their eager view: Yet slack they not their speed e'en there,— But to the royal courts repair,— To royal ears their query bring, Where is Judea's new-born King? In terror and amazement wild, The tyrant hears the unwelcome sound,— The long foretold, the wondrous child, With promised glory crowned, Is come; all kingdoms of the earth To claim—and tidings of his birth, That strangely bright, mysterious star, Hath heralded to climes afar. Perplexed—bewildered—troubled sore, He calls each Jewish priest and sage, And bids them of prophetic lore Unfold the sacred page; And to the stern enquirer's ear Proclaim the truth he dreads to hear; Yet veils that dread with haughty scorn— Where Christ, the Saviour, should be born. Strange the reply, to human pride! Not in some grand and noble fane, Where glittering pomp and power reside, Thronged by a pageant train: The unerring words of prophecy Point where in humble quiet lie The huts of Bethlehem—and declare Israel must seek her monarch there. Heedless of Herod's jealous ire, The unwearied magi onward go; Cheered by the hopes these words inspire Within their breasts,—and lo! That strange, mysterious star is still Their leader and their light; until It rests above a low-roofed shed, And reverently those sages tread. With "joy exceeding great," they bow To enter the obscure abode; Where, wondrous sight—all poor and low, Reclines the incarnate God. The mighty Lord! the prince of peace! Wrapt in an infant's swaddling dress; A manger forms his rude, rough bed, And round him are stalled cattle fed. Awhile, in deep and trembling awe, The venerable strangers gaze; Tho' not a doubt that scene can draw, It thrills them with amaze. O'er him, on holiest thoughts intent, The fair, young, virgin mother bent; Pondering with meek and placid mien, The wonders she had heard and seen. Before the babe, with joy profound, Each hoary sage adoring falls; And deep-toned words of homage sound, Throughout those lowly walls. Then from their costly treasured store, Rich gifts of their own land they pour— Sweet myrrh, and frankincense, and gold, Borne from that glittering region old. May we not deem, at that glad hour Salvation to the strangers came; That then they felt the peace and power Of faith in Jesu's name? Their heartfelt worship they have closed,— And now in slumber calm reposed, They gather from their rest's brief space New strength their journey to retrace: When lo! a heavenly vision breaks, All radiant on their startled sight; And God's own voice in music speaks Mid the deep hush of night. The sacred warning bids them speed Back to their native land—nor heed The dictate of the treacherous king, Their tidings to his court to bring. Obedient to the mandate high, They by another way depart;— Gladness in every aged eye, And peace in every heart. While favoured by the dim, lone night, The heaven-taught pair pursue their flight; In Egypt's land to seek repose, Safe from the infant's murderous foes. Forbear, my shuddering muse! to dwell On Herod's fierce, ensanguined ire; When blasted thus his purpose fell, His impious hopes expire. Then, the dark tyrant's guilt to crown, Bethlehem's fair coasts with blood ran down; And childless mothers, in despair, Wept o'er their slaughtered darlings there. Ours be a brighter, holier theme— The Babe of Bethlehem we sing; Who came a lost world to redeem, And reigns its glorious King. We cannot now his face behold, We cannot, like those men of old, Present, low kneeling at his feet, Spices, and gems, and incense sweet;— But a pure offering may be ours,— And He the tribute well approves; Our hearts, with all their nobler powers, Such are the gifts He loves! To Him then gladly we devote Each purpose, action, feeling, thought, So shall we here His favour share, And dwell with Him for ever there! THE PAST YEAR. TIME'S ever rolling course, Which nought hath power to stay,— Has hurried with resistless force Another year away! Its precious hours of prayer— Its sabbaths all—are gone, Their faithful history to declare Before the eternal throne. What saith the vanished year? What record does it bear? How will its varied scenes appear, When all unfolded there? Will He, the Eternal King, Smile his approval down? Or the report those past hours bring Behold with angry frown? What tales of years mispent, Of actions guilt defiled; Of countless warnings vainly sent To hearts by sin beguiled; Of blessings lightly prized, Or passed unheeded by; Mercies forgotten—love despised— In the dark record lie. Oh, who of mortal birth, Alone, would boldly dare, Before the judge of heaven and earth, That scrutiny to bear? Who would not shrink appalled To brave the sentence dread, By his own deeds from vengeance called Down on his guilty head? E'en if through heavenly grace, Amid the drear array, The eye of retrospection trace Some brighter scenes than they,— Some rays of light divine Which through those dark hours gleam, And gild sad memory's mournful shrine With faintly cheering beam. How pure soe'er and bright The thoughts and hopes it brings,— Yet e'en to them the withering blight Of human error clings. No confidence of hope Can our best deeds impart, To buoy the sinking spirit up, Or nerve the conscious heart. And shall we then despair? No! mercy's cheering voice, All frail and guilty as we are, Bids us in hope rejoice. At that tribunal dread, Our blood-stained Saviour pleads, The vengeful arm, all bared and red, At his mild prayer recedes. Hail, glorious, joyful sound! Salvation full and free; It circles earth remotest bound, And spreads from sea to sea. Oh let the thrilling word Arouse each slumbering soul, And wheresoe'er its tones are heard New floods of gladness roll! Ye that in error's maze Dark and unconscious dwell, Let not this year's neglected days Your crimes full measure swell. The precious boon receive, Salvation freely given; Awake! repent! implore! believe! And claim your purchased heaven! Ye that with hearts renewed, And spirits heavenward bent, Have through the parted year pursued One holy, pure intent,— Though many a doubt and fear May cloud and cross your way, Go on! His smile your path shall clear, And darkness turn to day. Oh may the sacred power Of consecrated prayer, Which closed the year's last solemn hour, And spoke God's presence there,— Through the new year extend Its hallowing influence, And we its latest moments spend As thus its first commence. God of exhaustless grace! The power is not in us; To thee our hearts in prayer we raise, For strength to labour thus. May every future year To thee be wholly given, Till summoned from this mortal sphere To see thy face in heaven. LINES, WRITTEN FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. CHRISTIANS! Brethren! Friends! who claim Kindred by one holy name; In that name to christians dear, We rejoice to greet you here; Prompt to meet our social call, You are welcome, one and all! While the pleasures we despise, Which mistaken worldlings prize, Never may the joys which bring With them no corroding sting,— Joys which christian love imparts, Want a welcome in our hearts. He who all our feelings knew— He who shared and felt them too; Loved his toils and sufferings here With sweet intercourse to cheer; Social ties; the purest—best— Found a welcome in His breast. Fain we would His spirit feel, Fraught with holiest love and zeal; Fain we would all people see Linked in christian unity; Christ invites the wanderers home; All are welcome! Brethren, come! Soon our meetings here will end,— Friend must bid farewell to friend;— But who build their hopes on high, Meet again beyond the sky; Where the rapturous song ascends, Ye are welcome, long lost friends! When to that eternal shore Our immortal spirits soar; Brethren! may the Saviour's voice Every trembling soul rejoice; While he utters—Come, ye blest! Come, and welcome to your rest! ON THE DEATH OF AN EMINENT CHARACTER. FAREWELL! Farewell! Thy life has ended; Thy long and arduous course is run; But with thy name for ever blended, Honour and fame henceforth are one! Star of our land! thy rays, though set, Shall shed their radiance o'er us yet. Foe to corrupt, oppressive dealing;— Friend of the low, industrious poor;— With honest and indignant feeling Thy powerful pen its truths would pour; Unawed, unchecked by grandeur's frown, That vainly strove to put thee down. Thy greatness, not of birth or station, Was the ennobling rank of mind; Of talents, whose self-cultivation Have been the wonder of mankind; Thy genius, truly British, shone With splendour that was all its own. Long, long 'twill be, e'er blazing o'er us, So bright a meteor shall appear; Diffusing rays so widely glorious Round literature's hemisphere; Many with borrowed beams may shine, But none in native light like thine. Yes! thou art gone! and those who living, Feared, envied, and reviled thy name; Now readily unite in giving The meed of praise thy merits claim; While all who loved thee when on earth, Mourn deeply thy departed worth. Again farewell! Thy country's sorrow Thy genius and thy memory claim; From them shall England's annals borrow Increase of lustre and of fame; And, honoured by each future age, Thy name shall grace her sacred page. JACOB'S DREAM. 'TWAS in fair Canaan's wondrous clime,— Famed through inspired historic page; And in that ancient favoured time— The patriarchal age; When God himself with man communed, In speech to mortal ear attuned; And visitants of heavenly birth, Came down to glad the sons of earth. The sun was set:—the twilight dress Of eve had veiled the mountains grey; And the late gleaming wilderness Wrapt in its shadows lay. In all the dreary scene around, No human dwelling might be found; Or aught amid that desert rude, To cheer its trackless solitude. A wayworn, solitary man, Who journeyed through the darkening waste, And marked its deepened gloom—began To check his footstep's haste; Beneath the sultry heat of day, He had pursued his toilsome way; And now, by weariness opprest, He gladly paused awhile to rest. He, by a parent's counsels taught A brother's murderous hate to shun, The distant plains of Syria sought, (Across those deserts dun,) The land where his forefathers dwelt; And sweet the kindling hope he felt, That kindred hearts should cheer his toil, And greet him to that genial soil. And though the way was long and drear, And sadness filled the wanderer's thought, While clinging round his home so dear, Or to his exiled lot,— Yet loftiest hopes his bosom swelled, Too bright by sorrow to be quelled, And ever on his thrilling soul His sire's prophetic blessing stole. Shelterless—weary—poor—and lone; Amid a desert wild and bare; Fear was to Jacob's heart unknown, For Abraham's God was there. The peace from heaven-born faith that springs, Spread o'er his soul her dove-like wings, And kept his tranquil spirit free From terror and anxiety. He laid him down;—the earth his bed,— No friendly covering o'er him thrown Screened from the cold, dank dews;—his head Was pillowed on a stone; Yet ne'er within the tenements Of fair Beersheba's curtained tents, Had slumber so supremely blest, Calmed his exhausted frame to rest. For oh! what mortal skill or power Can paint the glorious scenes that stole In that bright, beatific hour, Upon his raptured soul; A dream's mysterious agency, Gave to his watching spirit's eye Visions too pure, too dazzling fair, For the weak gaze of flesh to bear. The radiant portals of the sky Poured forth upon his startled sight Forms of celestial majesty, Robed in ethereal light. Swift as the meteor's vivid glance, They darted mid the blue expanse; And to the glowing firmament Unutterable splendour lent. And lo! resplendent as the light, A glorious ladder there appeared; Which from the earth its towering height To Heaven's high gates upreared. On it the seraph hosts of flame, Ascending and descending came; And o'er its wondrous summit trod The mighty—everlasting GOD! Sweet to the awe-struck slumberer's ear, Was the dread voice that on it broke, In gracious tones, all deep and clear,— While the Almighty spoke;— And sweeter each eternal word, Which he with trembling rapture heard, The promise of salvation given, Blessings on earth—and rest in heaven. With faith's unveiled and piercing eye, He viewed the vast, amazing plan, Which brought the Godhead from on high, To die for rebel man;— Saw from His seed unnumbered, spring The glorious prophet, priest, and king,— Blessings in whose life-giving name All nations of the earth might claim. The dream is fled!—the morning breaks; The shadows of the night depart; And Jacob from his slumber wakes, Deep awe within his heart. "Lo! God is here!" he trembling thought, "How dreadful; and I knew it not; "Henceforth this hallowed place shall be "The gate of heaven itself to me." And there, upon that holy spot, The covenant with his God was made; On which, through all his future lot, His constant trust was stayed. And then, with energy renewed, His way he cheerfully pursued; Rejoicing in the Almighty Lord, His shield—his glory—and reward. No more to man the vision bright Of that fair ladder now appears, Bearing upon its airy height Those angel messengers;— But there's a new and living way Opened to heaven's eternal day; Not for angelic feet designed, But free for guilty, lost mankind. Accomplished is the eternal word;— The promise to the patriarch given;— And peace, and truth, to man restored, Make earth a type of heaven. The yawning gulf that interposed 'Twixt God and rebel man—is closed; The way is cleared,—the passage free— To life and immortality. Would'st thou this heavenly track pursue? Seek'st thou this unfrequented road? Oh keep the one pure chart in view, The holy word of God! By that unerring, sacred guide, Be every cautious footstep tried;— And let the power of mighty prayer Inspire and aid thy progress there. That blessed book of books, alone Can to thy gladdened heart proclaim, In truth's own "still small voice," the one Life-giving, glorious name. The ladder Jacob saw, of Him Was but a type,—a shadow dim; Jesus! the soul's enlightening ray! Jesus! the life—the truth—the way! Messiah! Saviour! Lord! Oh teach Our weak and wandering feet to climb That heavenly ladder;—till we reach Its blissful height sublime. Uphold us by thy guardian care, That we may never stumble there; But step by step our way pursue, With only Thee and heaven in view! And oh! when gained that dazzling sphere, Those realms of everlasting light,— But pause, adventurous muse!—and here Check thine aspiring flight. Here droops imagination's wing, And loftiest strains must fail to sing The joys that to the blest shall be Revealed throughout eternity. ISAIAH, c. xl., vv. 28—31. MORTAL! hast thou not heard? hast thou not known That God! the Lord! the Everlasting One! Creator of the earth's remotest bounds,— Whose power its circle fills,—upholds,—surrounds? His strength—his might, no diminution knows; None may his understanding's depths disclose; He to the feeble soul will strength impart, And animate anew the sinking heart; He giveth power to those who have no might, For suffering nerves them;—arms them for the fight Whilst all who in their own vain prowess stand, Who trust the impotence of their own hand, Grow faint and weary, their resources all Forsake them until utterly they fall; The souls that wait upon the Lord in prayer, Their wasted strength continually repair; They walk and faint not in the ways of God— They run unwearied on the heavenly road; And as the towering eagle lifts her gaze, And boldly dares the sun's refulgent blaze, Her youth and vigour e'en in age renews, Spreads her strong pinions, and her flight pursues,— So on the wings of faith toward the skies, The christian's spirit shall aspiring rise; Fix its rapt gaze upon the beams that shine From the blest sun of righteousness divine; And soar till lesser glories fade away, Merged in the light of everlasting day. WILD FLOWERS. IN the lone and silent desert, Where no human foot hath trod, On cliffs that o'er the ocean Their beetling summits nod; In the forest's dark recesses,— On the mountain brown and bare,— In the glen, and in the valley,— They spring up every where. O'er the heath all wild and barren, Upon the wayside bank, Down in the fenny marshes, Where the grass grows long and rank; They deck the bright green meadows, The pleasant lanes adorn, And twine their starry blossoms Around the waving corn. They twinkle on the margin Of every gurgling brook, And beautify the greenness Of each secluded nook. There's not a spot so rugged, A wilderness so rude, But wild flowers lend their brightness To glad its solitude. They brave the silvery shower From the foaming waterfall, And peep from out the ruins Of the ancient castle wall; Where scarce a tinge of verdure Enlivens the dark clod, Their leaflets are expanded, And their perfume sent abroad. In the gay and cultured garden Their simple buds are found, And emulate the splendour Of the prouder beauties round; In the church-yard's narrow limits, On the burial sod they bloom, And climb the cold grey sculpture Of the mouldering, moss-grown tomb. Theirs are all forms, all colours, Of beauty and of grace; A charm that never wearies Lives in their gentle race; In their soft and dewy freshness, Were'er they greet the sight, From the monarch to the peasant, All view them with delight. The wild bee from their fragrance Collects its honied store, The tender lambkin crops them Upon the breezy moor; At the cottage-door young children With their rifled treasures play, Meet companions of their sweetness, As fair and pure as they. The joyous gales of spring-time Amongst them gaily rove, The soft blue skies of summer Beam over them in love; The chill, advancing autumn Spares them to cheer his fall, And e'en relentless winter Doth not destroy them all. Oh, wherefore were they scattered So numerously around? The corn could grow without them— The fruit as much abound; The forest might have flourished, The pasture smiled as green, If not a single flow'ret In all the earth had been. But God hath in His goodness Commanded them to bloom, Hath given the leaves their colours, The petals their perfume; That every scene of nature Might wear a lovelier hue, And borrow from their beauty Attractions ever new. He made them too to gladden All living things-on earth, To fill man's heart with pleasure, Who loves them from his birth; And to teach him that the Power Which maketh them so fair, With mercy far more tender Will for His children care! TO E—— C——. WITH A LOCK OF A DECEASED SISTER'SHAIR. FRIEND of my heart! now doubly dear, For her sweet sake whose early doom Calls forth the sad and bitter tear Of crushed affection o'er her tomb,— Thou well may'st claim to share with me The sorrow to her memory due, For she was ever unto thee A fond and faithful sister too. This small, but sacred gift receive,— Stamped with a value far above The richest gems that wealth could give, Sad relic of departed love! For though we no memorial need Of her who this bright ringlet wore, Whose name and virtues we can read Graven on memory's inmost core,— Yet, oh! 'tis sweet, when from the earth The lovely and beloved are gone; Some lone memento of their worth To treasure, and to gaze upon; To muse on many a happier year, When they our hopes and feelings shared; And bathe with fond affection's tear The precious relic death has spared. Sweet too, to look beyond the tomb That shrouds them from our weeping sight, To that bright world of fadeless bloom Where their glad souls repose in light. Thither may we her spirit trace, And view her safe and blest above,— For she had sought a Saviour's grace, And died rejoicing in His love. And now her gentle soul is free, Escaped to heaven's eternal shore; There, with the pure in heart, to see Her maker's face for evermore. Let this sweet solace dry the tear, Which cannot wholly be suppressed; Dear as she was, and justly dear, We will not mourn that she is blest. Oh! let us in her footsteps tread, Led by that flame so purely bright, Which round her dying pillow shed A halo of celestial light. And oh! whene'er the hour of death Shall close on us; my friend! may we, Like her, serenely yield our breath, And hail a bless'd eternity. THE OLD MILL TOWER. THEY have pulled quite down the ancient mill, That so long had stood on the breezy hill; Its circular wall of old grey stone, With the mantling ivy overgrown, And bright gay moss its tufted green, Peeping each interstice between, And wild flowers that unfolding there, Their sweetness gave to the roving air. 'Twas a relic of years long passed away, And I loved to look on its ruin grey; To muse on the changes that have been Since first in its pride that mill was seen; When its new raised walls, so strong and high, Might have seemed time's finger to defy; And its huge sails swept on their circuit wide, Propelled by the winds through the airy tide. Those days of its busy toil are gone! It stood forsaken,—decayed,—and lone; With nought but its tower-like form to tell What it was ere thus to neglect it fell; And none are living who can relate Its history, origin, or date; But fancy unchecked may weave her tales, Where e'en the tongue of tradition fails. Ah what availed that Time's stern brow Which has frowned coeval fabrics low, Had kindly looked on the ancient mill, And though worn and roofless, spared it still; Had gracefully o'er the mouldering stone, That bright green mantle of ivy thrown, Where the warbling linnet nursed her young, And amidst its clustering foliage sung? The ruthless hand of the spoiler, man, Has hastened the ruin which time began; And the old windmill, which long had been So picturesque in the lovely scene, No more shall charm the curious gaze That o'er the far-stretched landscape strays; It is levelled to earth, and its fragments around Are mournfully strewed o'er the hilly ground. The peasant will miss it—as home he goes, From his work at eve to his cot's repose; And give to the fall a passing sigh, Of an object familiar so long to his eye; The tourist will miss it—whose pencil drew Its form in many a varied view; And the mariner, as he nears the coast, Will vainly look for his landmark lost. They may clear from its site the ruins away, And plant perchance a garden gay; Or haply in future years may rise A structure fairer to modern eyes; But nothing so seemly there will be, As the old mill tower we used to see, For its fall one relic will dispart, That linked the past to the musing heart. But yet will it not have fallen in vain, If pride from thence should a lesson gain— Should learn from its ruin and decay, How all things earthly must pass away;— And seek for the wisdom, holy and pure, That only treasure which will endure When earth and heaven consumed shall be, And nought remain but eternity. WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. IF from that pure and happy sphere, Sweet spirit! where thou dwellest now Thou canst behold me weeping here, As o'er thine early grave I bow;— Forgive each unrestrained tear,— Forgive the sighs that heave my breast, For though my heart is sad and drear, I sorrow not that thou art blest. I do not mourn that thou no more Wilt sojourn in a world of pain;— That thy glad soul hath gained the shore Where peace and joy eternal reign: It is that memory from her store, The past before my vision brings, Till grief, which time hath hushed before, Again unlocks her hidden springs. I think of thee, beloved and lost,— Companion of my earliest years,— Ere yet our cloudless lives were crossed By aught that could awaken tears; When all undimmed by boding fears, The future was a fairy dream; Such as the vanished past appears In memory's retrospective beam. I fondly—vainly thought to come And share the tranquil happiness That promised, in thy bridal home, Thy future days to crown and bless;— Alas!—the narrow churchyard bed Is now thy circumscribed abode, And my sad footsteps may but tread Thy last drear home, this burial sod. A fair and quiet resting place, My sister! have thine ashes found; Thou slumber'st where a kindred race Beloved, like thee, are gathered round. Bright is the turf upon thy tomb, Dark trees around its precincts wave, And whisper, but with nought of gloom, A gentle requiem o'er thy grave. But thy pure spirit's noble rest Is in that glorious world above, Where myriads of departed blest For ever sing a Saviour's love! Consoling thought! tho' here no more, My gentle sister! we can meet; Yet on that bright and sinless shore, Again we may each other greet. Farewell, beloved clay! yet here, Kneeling upon this hallowed sod. I would direct a prayer sincere, The breathing of my heart, to God:— Almighty Father! let thy love Guide me till life's short scene is o'er, Then reunite our souls above Where death shall never part us more. TO THE MOON. THOU pure, fair planet, walking thy lone way' Through the deep azure of the midnight sky, While all unheeding thine unclouded ray, Thousands in careless slumbers buried lie. Oh! welcome is thy radiance to mine eye, As through my casement beauteously it streams, I draw my curtains back, and gaze on high, Soothed by the gentle influence of thy beams, That stir within me,—not the fevered dreams Of wandering fancy,—but the flow serene Of peaceful contemplation, such as seems To waft my soul above this earthly scene, To that pure realm, home of the parted blest, Where my lone spirit pants to find a rest. STANZAS. THERE is a feeling, all too dear, Too holy for the voice of song, To meet the cold, derisive ear Of the gay world's unfeeling throng. Enshrined within the conscious breast, And guarded with a miser's care, That pure, undying flame should rest Concealed and fondly cherished there. Tho' more than fancy's brightest dream The glowing bosom it inspire,— And kindle in the heart a stream Of deep and rich poetic fire; Yet oh! let not the fervid lay Which cannot—may not be repressed; To scorn's polluting sneer betray The sacred treasure of thy breast. In one beloved ear alone, Breathe thou thine eloquence of song,— To one soft heart, that with thine own Responsive beats,—the strain belong. The patriot's flame,—the poet's dream,— May to the careless world be sung; But first, pure love, that holier theme, Should dwell not on a thoughtless tongue. EVENING. I love the peaceful eve, When day's turmoil is o'er, And the fevered cares of the dark world weave Their toils round the heart no more. I love that soothing hour, Sweet herald of tranquil thought, When lovely spells of unearthly power To the musing heart are brought. When the soft,—gradual veil Of the purple twilight falls, And the gentle voice of the perfumed gale To the closing flow'ret calls; When the lingering stars appear In the deep blue vault of heaven, And their paly lustre grows more clear As darken the shades of even. 'Tis the hour for musings high,— For the purest breath of prayer,— For the yearning spirit to seek the sky, And commune with its kindred there. While the dreamy, dark unrest, Which the world around it throws, Is hushed, like the war of the ocean's breast, In the time of its deep repose. 'Tis the hour for meetings kind With those whom the heart holds dear, Whom the bonds of household love have joined, At the glad hearth re-appear. The severing cares of life Have claimed them through the day, But even hath closed the busy strife With her mild and welcome ray. 'Tis the hour when love's soft vow Should be breathed in the conscious ear, And the trusting heart its faith avow, All stainless and sincere; While the future and the past Are unheeded and forgot, In a dream of bliss too bright to last, Too cloudless for mortal lot. 'Tis the hour of all most meet, For friendship's social glow, For converse unrestrained and sweet, And for feeling's mutual flow; When knowledge and taste unbind The stores that in them lie. And the hidden treasures of the mind Flash forth from the kindling eye. 'Tis the hour for studious lore,— To bend o'er the lettered page, And win, from the records we linger o'er, The wisdom of many an age. To feel the witchery bright, Of romance's golden dream,— And drink, with the fervour of delight, Sweet poesy's sacred stream. 'Tis the hour for holiest thought, When the humbled heart should bow, And the bended knee be meekly taught To attest the spirit's vow. In the Word of Life to look, With devotion's deepest gaze, And learn from that pure and blessed book, Heavenward our hopes to raise. Day hath of joy its share, From a thousand gushing springs; But not the repose from earthly care Which the gentle evening brings. Then hail! soft soothing hour, Sweet herald of quiet thought! When lovely spells of unearthly power, To the musing heart are brought. TO THE OCEAN. WILD, beautiful ocean! I long once more To stand on thy cliffs, and to tread thy shore; To list to the voice of thy mighty waves, As they thundering boom in the rocky caves, Or ripple in softer tones along The lonely shore—like the Spirit of Song, Whose mystic music for ever swells From the secret depths of thy coral cells. That Spirit, from childhood's earliest hour, Hath spell-bound mine with its magic power; For my home hath ever been beside The "dark blue sea" in its foaming pride; And I have loved its vast expanse With the dreamy fervour of romance, Which still clings fondly around my heart, And never can, but with life, depart. I have loved from infancy to play With the restless billows' gleaming spray; And with daring feet to stand and brave The rudest shock of the treacherous wave; And dear to me still is the ocean foam That washes my own, loved, seagirt home; And every chord that memory wakes In my heart its wild sweet music makes. How sweet on the craggy height to climb, And gaze on the boundless waste sublime, Whether its billows calmly sleep, Or in tumult dash o'er the rugged steep; Whether stirred by summer's gentle breath, Or lashed by the whirlwind's blast of death; In every aspect—thou mighty sea, Beauty and mystery rest on thee. I love on thy bounding breast to ride, As the light bark gracefully cleaves the tide, With the plash of the waters in their glee, And the shrill fresh winds for minstrelsy; And to speed on fancy's wing the while Away to many a bright green isle, That afar on thy trackless azure lies, Like a cloud in the glory of summer skies. I love to roam where thy crystal waves Glide silently through the rocky caves, And rest in each lonely, dark recess, In their blue transparent loveliness; To hear in fancy the warbled song Of the mermaid, echo their depths along; And to see, by the same illusive spell, The grottoes of pearl where the sea-nymphs dwell. Oh, when shall my glad eyes greet again The long lost view of the dark, deep main? There are soft and lovely landscapes here,— There are waving woods and streamlets clear,— And high green hills, and pastures bright,— And sunny vales of beauty and light,— But one charm is wanting yet to me, For my heart still yearns for the glorious sea. I gaze on the azure of autumn skies, And my breast for the blue of the ocean sighs; O'er the far, green, sloping downs I look, But I read not nature's sublimest book; I hear the low wail of the mournful breeze, As it scatters the leaves from the forest trees; And it falls on my ear with a lonely tone, For it blends not the voice of the sea with its own. Sweet is the breath of the woodland breeze, But sweeter the gale that sweeps the seas; There is joy in the beauty of groves and fields, But not such joy as the ocean yields; 'Tis pleasant the warbling of birds to hear, But the wild wave's music is far more dear; And, oh! that my dwelling again might be, My childhood's home, by the boundless sea! STANZAS. THE beauty of summer is faded, And mournfully whispers the breeze, As it scatters the foliage which shaded The grove's lone recess;—from the trees; All nature around me seems sighing O'er its gradual, but certain, decay, And a voice in my heart is replying To that plaintive and sorrowful lay. How lately its aspect was blooming, In the glory of summer's own light,— Like hope's glowing sunbeams, illuming Each prospect with radiancy bright; The brightness of each has departed,— Alike they were lovely and brief; And alike in their flight have imparted A lingering shadow of grief. While autumn's lone winds are awaking A requiem o'er beauty that's fled, My spirit, their sadness partaking, Laments for the mouldering dead; The loved and the lovely—long cherished In my heart's best affections, is gone; And a fountain of happiness perished, The sweetest my bosom had known. Ah! well may I mournfully ponder The record which memory brings, Of a tie, which now severed, seems fonder Than aught to my bosom that clings; Like a vision that flies with the morning, That dream of enjoyment has passed;— Ah! was not its beauty a warning,— A token it never could last? 'Tis ever the lot of the dearest, The loveliest beings and best;— When we prize them the most, they are nearest To be snatched from the agonized breast; Oh why should we hug the delusion That promises permanent bliss, When so often we find it illusion, Succeeded by sorrow like this? And such is this world!—and the longer Amid its dark mazes we live, Deep grows the conviction and stronger That no lasting joy it can give. Then the rather our best hopes should centre Where happiness knows no alloy, In a world where no grief may e'er enter, But all is pure, permanent joy. SORROW. IN sorrow's dark and dreary hour, when, mournful and opprest, No glimmering ray of earthly hope can reach the troubled breast;— When empty, vain, and worthless, all the world can offer seems,— The smiles of wealth, the pride of fame, and mad ambition's dreams;— How sweet and soothing then to turn a lingering glance on high, And feel that there is solace the most bitter tears to dry! It is not when the mantling cup of happiness is full; It is not when the fairest flowers of human bliss we cull;— But when we drain its poisoned dregs with wild reluctant gasp, And when the blossoms we had plucked are withered from our grasp,— 'Tis then we prize the higher hopes, the purer blessings given To win our best affections, and to centre them in heaven. Oh! were the joys of earth unmixed, and lasting as they're fair, How little would the treacherous heart for aught beyond them care;— How closely twined around it their illusive spells would be, While ever bowing at their shrine in mad idolatry!— Unheeded then, and haply scorned, were that celestial bliss, Which should allure the spirit's love from such a world as this. Then, mourner, whosoe'er thou art, in meek submission bend, Thy sorrow, bitter tho' it be, to purest joy may tend; Let it but teach thy stricken soul to seek a heavenly rest, And then, tho' dark thy lot below, thou yet art truly blest; While higher hopes and holier, irradiate thy heart, And peace is thine—such peace as nothing earthly can impart. THE ICE ISLAND.

[The following is merely a simple narrative of an occurrence which probably many will recollect hearing of, and which took place in the year 1837.]

'TWAS eve, and twilight's shadowy ray, Across the vast atlantic shone, Where a tall ship, her lonely way Was proudly sailing on. A fair and stately thing was she, As ever crossed that mighty sea; And gracefully her snowy sails Spread as they caught the favouring gales. She was a merchant vessel, fraught With distant Albion's ponderous ore, And many passengers, who sought The transatlantic shore; Her hold, her deck, her cabins teemed With precious human life;—she seemed, As round her prow the white foam curled, To move,—herself a little world. And none, of all that mingled throng, Impending danger felt or feared; But mirth, and gaiety, and song The tedious voyage cheered. Each rising morn, each closing day, Still sped them farther on their way; And hope, to every longing breast, Whispered of land, and welcome rest. Five lingering weeks had passed, since they Had left Britannia's seagirt isle; Sometimes becalmed their vessel lay, In the blue ocean's smile; Sometimes by adverse winds delayed, For days no progress had they made; And every weary breast had pined For the fair land they left behind. But now a favouring breeze impelled The gallant ship—on, on she sped; And discontent and languor, quelled, From every bosom fled. The bright spray glistens on her sides As o'er the swelling waves she rides; And her white sails gleam in the ray Of the now fast receding day, And oft the seaman's anxious eye, With levelled glass, the horizon scanned, To note if there he might descry Some cheering sign of land. While in his ear the query rang, From lip to lip that quickly sprang,— ''Is land in sight?"—"No! an' 'twere nigh, 'Twere seen not in yon darkening sky." And deeper fell the shades of night, Veiling the sea and firmament, Where the pale stars' mild glimmering light A gentle radiance lent; Sufficient, mid the gloom profound, To gleam upon the waters round; And throwing yet a darker shade O'er all that in the distance laid. Now, buried in unconscious sleep, The inmates of that ship reposed, Save the lone watch, who still must keep His weary eyes unclosed; And all was silent, but the tone Of billows ever foaming on, And the quick-measured steps he traced, As up and down the deck he paced. Oh! what a feeling, vast and drear, Is solitude upon the seas;— How like a shadowy dream appear The world's realities!— What spells of strange, unearthly power, In such a scene,—at such an hour, Steal o'er the spirit,—and unbind The links which chain to earth the mind. And often, o'er the teeming brain, Visions of memory softly rise,— Peopling the dark and lonely main With home's sweet sympathies! Then eyes beloved round us seem To glance with fond affection's beam, And startled fancy turns to hear Sweet, well-known voices whispering near. Haply that lonely seaman's heart, To such entrancing spells was given; (Ah! who would wish them to depart, Their fairy fetters riven! Too soon, alas! the illusion flies— Too soon each glowing vision dies, And leaves the waking senses o'er A drearier sadness than before.) Long had his measured footsteps kept Along the deck their echoing sound, Till heaviness and languor crept His wearied frame around; And yielding to their influence He sat him down,—and every sense Was quickly wrapt in such repose As pillowed luxury seldom knows. Still onward, o'er the billowy waste, The ship unguided holds her way, Tho' for her is no pathway traced, And none her helm doth sway; She moves with swift and steady force, Tho' fearful danger thwarts her course, And conscious of no peril nigh, Her slumbering tenants calmly lie. When, hark! a loud and sudden shock, Startles the watchman from his sleep;— Another!—has she struck a rock Amid that foaming deep? Wildly he forward sprung, and then The horrid crash was heard again; And roused by the appalling sound, All, all upstart from rest profound. In wild, tumultuous, fearful haste, They crowd upon the quivering deck, And gaze upon the watery waste, Expecting instant wreck. What may the dreadful danger be Which now the shuddering victims see? And oh! can there be no escape From death in such a hideous shape? Above their heads, in fearful height, A dark gigantic column towered, And through the dim, uncertain light, With frowning aspect lowered. It seemed a rock's terrific form, More frightful than the fiercest storm, Threatening the gloomy waves beneath To whelm them all in instant death. In chill suspense and pallid fear, Despairing and aghast they stood; No hope there seemed, no succour near, And horror froze their blood. Loud shrieks of agony arise From that dark ocean to the skies; And many a mad farewell is given, Mid prayers and wild appeals to heaven. But see! the glimmering dawn appears, Faint rising in the eastern sky, Like Hope, amid a night of fears, Unveiling her soft eye. But ah! no hope the growing light Imparts to them; for to their sight It more distinctly shows the fate That seems the shuddering group to wait. The ship has struck, not on a rock, But an ice island, huge and vast; And thrice the quick concussion's shock Has strained each trembling mast. The craggy points, with lustre bright, Shone in the clear, advancing light, Beautiful as the sapphire's hue, Or the pale beryl's softer blue. But ah! its crystal beauty seemed Terrific to each hopeless eye, That on it gazed dismayed, and deemed The last dread moment nigh. A shrill, despairing, piercing cry, Again re-echoes to the sky, As the ship, bounding from the steep, Seems plunging in the mighty deep. Death! death! thou art a fearful guest, E'en in thy mildest, softest guise; When pillowed on affection's breast, Watched by affection's eyes, And soothed by kind, loved voices near, The couch of pain—the sufferers hear The mandate which they must obey, And yield to thy remorseless sway;— But thus to come! Thine awful mien, With tenfold horrors darkly crowned, Bursting on slumbers so serene With thy appalling sound;— Oh! with what agony intense, Thine aspect freezes every sense; And how thy victims cling to life, With desperate, mad, convulsive strife. Another moment of suspense, Another thrilling shriek ascends,— And then, oh, wondrous Providence! Their frightful danger ends. The noble ship, at that rebound Recedes, and slowly swinging round, She rights; and now, oh can it be? Yes! rapturous sight! she's free, she's free! One momentary pause of doubt, And wild amazement chains each tongue Then burst a long, loud, joyous shout From all that rescued throng. And, as by one deep impulse stirred, Each knee is bent, each voice is heard In heartfelt praise to Him whose power Hath saved them in destruction's hour. Now hope and energy restored, With eager haste the willing crew Their skilful aid and strength afford, Their progress to renew. The ship is searched with careful eye, But little damage can they spy, For scarcely has a plank been strained, By the rude shock she has sustained. Quickly her helm is turned to sea, And every sail is set to speed Their course—from that dark destiny So strangely, swiftly freed: With mingled terror and amaze, They turn a long, bewildered gaze On the huge, frozen mass that lies, Now lessening to their wondering eyes. The brightening rays of morning throw Their lustre o'er the icy pile, And bathed in the empurpling glow, The crystal pillars smile. And glittering spire and pinnacle, As if by some enchanter's spell, In fearful beauty rise,—and gleam All glorious in the orient beam. How vain were the attempt to tell What rapture reigned in that fair ship; The hurried, breathless words that fell From every grateful lip; The joy that shone in every face, The kindly clasp, the warm embrace Of friends and kindred, thus by heaven To life and to each other given. There was one widow, pale and young, With pensive cheek and mournful eye; And a fair child, who to her clung In fond idolatry. His soft blue eyes to hers were raised, And earnestly and meekly gazed, As, clasped within her arms, she bent O'er her sweet, cherub innocent. She held companionship with none, And none her name or history knew; But her sweet, gentle mien had won The hearts of all the crew; And when upon the deck she led Her beauteous child, they oft had said 'Twere pity one so young and fair The weeds of widowhood should wear. In that dark hour of menaced death, She from the rest had sat apart, Holding, with quick, convulsive breath, Her treasure to her heart. Her dark, sad eyes were upward turned, And on her high, pale brow there burned The holy thoughts that calmed her mind, And all her soul to death resigned. And when returning safety came, And that wild peril passed away, The quivering start that thrilled her frame,— The faint smile's mournful ray That hovered o'er her pallid cheek, Seemed scarcely pleasure to bespeak, Till glancing on her darling boy, And then her features beamed with joy. And oh! 'twas an affecting sight, The tears that filled her pensive eyes, Her murmured kisses of delight, And her half-smothered sighs; As o'er her sweet, unconscious child She hung, 'twixt joy and sorrow wild, And past and present, o'er her brain, Struggled the empire to maintain. She had not joined the joyous cry That rose at their deliverance, But raised to heaven her tearful eye, In speechless eloquence; While her pale lips in prayer were stirred, Though not a sound from them was heard Her feelings were too deeply shrined, Escape from their recess to find. But to my tale! The ship flew on, As if with winged speed impelled, And as the day advancing shone, Fear in each breast was quelled. And joy's first wild delirious mood Was to a calm delight subdued, As pondering on the danger past Deep thought o'er many a brow was cast. Three days elapsed; when to their view, The sight so often wished before— Land! land appeared; and now they drew Near fair Columbia's shore. With joy they hail the welcome scene; How sweet to them, who long had been Tossed on the vast eternal sea, And saved from death so wondrously; And soon exultingly they tread The green and fertile soil again, Rejoicing to escape the dread And tumult of the main. Strange is the role they have to tell, Of danger, and of miracle That interposed their lives to save From their expected ocean grave. Never, whate'er their varied lot, Will that o'erwhelming, fearful strife Of wild emotions, be forgot Through all their future life; But oft will shrinking memory's power, Recall the dark appalling hour, When all the pangs that death can bring They felt—save its last severing sting. And well for many a heart 'twill be, (Long heedless of a Power Supreme,) If, roused from its deep lethargy, And fevered worldly dream— It henceforth holier feelings share,— And the pure flame be kindled there Of grateful and devoted love To the One, glorious friend above. MISSIONARY VERSES. WAKE, England! from thy sleep, Wake to the startling sound That calls to thee across the deep From earth's remotest bound! Wake to the earnest cry Of many a pagan land,— And send the gospel far and nigh With willing heart and hand! To the sullen, frost-bound clime Of Lapland's dreary shore,— And to the snow-capt hills sublime Of the icy Labrador. O'er the scorching, arid sand Of Afric's deserts wild; To fallen Egypt's ancient land, Where once fair science smiled. To the far, benighted plains Of sultry Hindostan, Where fertile beauty ever reigns, And all is fair—but man. To the green isle's coral strand, Which the dark Pacific laves, Where, by soft and fragrant breezes fann'd, The cocoa forest waves. Wake, England! to the call, Bid thy gospel heralds fly, Till the joyful tidings reach to all That dwell beneath the sky. To the lonely woods and lakes Of the new world let them go,— Where his wigwam the red Indian makes, And speeds his light canoe. To the blooming citron groves Of spicy Araby,— Where the lawless Emir plundering roves With his horsemen—fierce and free. To the vales of Palestine,— That consecrated spot, Where the faith of Christ began to shine, But now is all forgot. To that polluted clime, Where thine own guilty crew, The exiled sons of shame and crime, Their heavy toil pursue. To the isles of the sunny west, Where Afric's sable race No more by slavery's yoke opprest Its hateful terrors chase. Wake, England! from thy sleep, Thou hast done a glorious deed,— Thou hast heard the slave-cry o'er the deep, And the groaning captive freed. Shall that freedom be confined To the body's loosened chains, While the darker slavery of the mind Unbroken still remains? No! let Truth's holy light Its rays refulgent pour, Till the gloomy clouds of error's night Have fled from every shore! Wake, England! once again! Thou hast many triumphs won,— But mightier conquests yet remain, By thy labours to be done. The earth is bright and fair,— But dark is the human soul Till pure religion is kindled there, And it yields to her control. Thou favoured land! which God With the lamp of life hath blest, Diffuse its glorious beams abroad Till on all the world they rest. Not in thy strength alone,— But armed with heavenly might, The powers of darkness to dethrone, Send forth the gospel's light. The mercy freely given, Do thou to others give; Speak in His name who speaks from heaven, And bid them hear and live. 'Till the outcasts are brought home From the mazes they have trod,— And "the kingdoms of the earth become The kingdom of our God!" THE KNIGHT'S RETURN. SHE sat within the castle tower, where streamed the pale moonlight, Musing, at that soft evening hour, of her own true absent knight; Her white cheek rested on her hand, her eyes with tears were dim, And sighs her long dark tresses fanned, that all were breathed for him. She looked forth from her lonely height, upon the sapphire sky, Where glowed the starry band of night in glorious pageantry; Where the lovely moon shone cloudlessly on the quiet scene below,— And sadder grew that lady's eye, and paler waxed her brow. She grazed upon the tall, dark woods of her father's wide demesne,— On the broad clear river's silvery flood that wandering there was seen; From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, her glance alternate strayed, But to neither seemed there power given to chase that pensive shade. She pondered long and mournfully of him who was the star Of her heart's happiness,—for he was absent and afar; Where dangers in his path were strewed, with a gallant warrior band, He combatted the Paymin rude, in the distant Holy Land. And many months had passed away, and still no tidings came, And hope diminished, day by day, the brightness of its flame; Till the bloom that maiden's cheek forsook, from her eye the lustre fled, And the sadness of her voice bespoke, that her heart to grief was wed. Her step its airy lightness lost, her lip its rosy hue, And her form, which matchless grace could boast, attenuated grew;— Untrodden where the green retreats, her favourite haunts of yore, And her drooping flowers forgot their sweets, nursed by her hand no more. As thus, within her lofty tower, the lady sat alone, Her spirit from the pensive hour took yet a sadder tone; Her aching bosom was oppressed with sorrow's heavy load, And deeper sighs escaped her breast, and her tears still faster flowed;— And long and bitterly she wept,—till from that kind relief A soft and soothing calmness crept upon her settled grief; From the chamber wall she took her lute, and its chords that had so long Remained unheeded, lone, and mute, she woke into a song. The lady's voice was sweet and clear, but plaintive was the strain That rose upon the evening air, which echoed the notes again; 'Twas a lay she oft was wont to sing in her days of happy love, When her tears in sympathy would spring for the grief in its numbers wove. The fair moon softly beameth, From her queenly throne on high, And gladness from her seemeth To light up earth and sky. But, ah! my spirit weary; She hath no power to cheer, My heart is sad and dreary, A prey to grief and fear. I sit all pale and lonely, In the quiet, lovely night, And save my dark thoughts only, All things seem fair and bright. But in my bosom dwelleth A heavy cloud of care, And nought the gloom dispelleth, That so thickly gathers there. My love! my own true-hearted! For thee my breast is lone,— Since thou wast from me parted, No gladness hath it known, My fancy paints thee dying On the bloody battle plain, Or in a dungeon lying, Fast bound with many a chain. I would that I were near thee, Wherever thou mayest be;— In life to bless and cheer thee, Or to sleep in death with thee. I would that I could gather Some tidings of thy fate; To die were welcome, rather Than feel thus desolate. My father gently chideth, The mournful mien I wear,— On my mother's brow abideth For me an anxious air; But I cannot quell my sorrow,— I cannot veil my fears,— Nor a smiling aspect borrow To mock my frequent tears. Dim are my eyes with weeping, And pale, my wasted cheek, Lone vigils nightly keeping, Ere my restless couch I seek; And when brief slumbers o'er me Just cast their brittle chain, In dreams thou'rt still before me, And I wake to weep again. Like the spring without a blossom, Like a bird without a mate, Like a moonless night—my bosom Is lone and desolate. And ah! my spirit dreary, Nought hath the power to cheer; I am weary, I am weary,— A prey to grief and fear. The gentle lady ceased to sing, but the music of her lay Yet lingered on each trembling string when the words had died away; While echo still prolonged the strain, and fondly o'er it hung, Lest sounds so sweet should ne'er again awake her airy tongue. But hark! that was no echo's note, that answering melody, Which on the ether seemed to float, in tones full and free;— Was it a spirit of the air, who caught with pitying ear The maiden's plaint, and warbled there her loneliness to cheer? The lady listened breathlessly, her heart beat wild and high, And spells of unknown agency around her seemed to lie; Then rose upon her startled ear, a voice whose every tone With mingled wonder, joy, and fear convulsed her bosom's throne. 'Twas his loved voice,—she felt, she knew it could no other be, And hurriedly her breath she drew, and she listened eagerly,— Oh came it from a mortal tongue, from her own living love, Or was it but his shade that sung from the viewless realms above? She knew the strain, she oft had heard its sweet familiar sound, And her heart, by wild emotions stirred, seemed fearfully to bound; To the open lattice then she sprang, and as she looked beneath, Her trembling spirit seemed to hang on each quick, gasping breath. The blood one moment left her breast, then back in torrents rushed, And the stream of joy, so long repressed, forth from its fountain gushed;— 'Twas he! 'twas he! at one swift view, the dancing plume of white, And her gift, the scarf of crimson hue, revealed her own true knight. SONNET. THE CORN. OH fair and pleasant is the young green corn In the soft time of zephyr-breathing spring, When on the fragrant, snowy-blossomed thorn, In every hedge the thrush and blackbird sing; How pleasant too in summer's sultry hour, When bend the stalks beneath the swelling grain, And the bold scarlet of the poppy flower Looks scornfully above the yellowing plain. But 'tis in autumn's joy-inspiring days, When to the sickle yield the full, ripe ears; And golden harvest gleams beneath the rays Of the bright sun;—'tis then the corn appears Most beautiful;—calling on man t'adore The bounteous Giver of its smiling store. TO MY MUSE. SWEET solace of my lonely hours! The witchery of whose magic spell Can, with its soft, seductive powers, E'en sorrow's gloomy cloud dispel. Companion of my spirit's love! Enchantress of its waking dreams, Whose smiles I value far above All that the world attractive deems. I ask not wealth—I ask not fame— Nor pleasure's phantom form I prize; Of earthly good my loudest aim, In thy glad inspiration lies. For thou canst keener joys impart To every source of real bliss; And open in the glowing heart Fresh fountains of pure happiness;— Canst add to Nature's winning face A thousand charms; and o'er her throw The tints of beauty and of grace That in thy rainbow visions glow. Canst gild with bright, ethereal beam The home of calm, domestic peace; And sweet affection's hallowed stream From thine own gushing springs increase. Whate'er delights the musing mind,— Enchants the eye,—or charms the ear,— By thy soft influence is refined, And robed in hues more deeply dear. Beauty, and melody, and love Are thine,—and own thy sovereign sway; And all around,—beneath,—above,— Prompts the loved breathings of thy lay. Sweet Spirit, come!—into my glad heart Upon thy hovering pinions bring The genial impulse of thine art, And teach me that blest warmth to sing. I woo thee in the silent shade, The holy haunts of solitude,— In the lone vale,—the woody glade,— And by the caverned ocean rude. I woo thee in the morning bright,— At evening's soft and pensive hour,— And oft the solemn gloom of night Is cheered by thy creative power. When high with rapture beats my heart, Thou wavest there thy gladsome wing; And disappointment keenest dart By thee is robbed of half its sting. Oft mid the busy crowd I feel Thy fairy web around my soul; And then I long away to steal, And yield me to thy sweet control. What bright and glowing visions rise, What scenes of wild enchantment spring, When Fancy her illusions tries, And soars with thee on wandering wing. And though my rude and simple line Their matchless grace can ill express; Unskilled those visions to entwine In lays of equal loveliness;— Yet not the less I hold them dear, Not less my spirit loves to dwell Amid the fair and boundless sphere Created by thy witching spell. Enchantress, hail! while life is mine Still faithful to thy votary be; Still let thy cheering radiance shine, Thine airy pinions wave o'er me. Sweet solace of my lonely hours, Alike in joy and sorrow dear; Come! with thy soft, seductive powers, For peace is mine while thou art near. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF YARMOUTH, ISLE OF WIGHT.INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER. HOW gentle is the touch that oft will rend The dark and shadowy veil which shrouds the past; And o'er the crowded realm of fancy send Bewildering phantoms in succession fast; A word,—a look,—a tone,—will often cast Dissevered links again around the heart; And former scenes, in memory's mirror glassed, Waked by the spell,—from long oblivion start, And cheat the mental gaze with sweet illusive art. Thus is it now! remembrance to my sight, Roused by one simple sound, presents a train Of fairy images and visions bright That flit with magic swiftness through my brain; The days of early childhood rise again In all their sportive happiness and glee; And thou, sweet, beauteous islet of the main, Scene of their careless mirth; once more I see With all the loveliness that marks and graces thee. Fair isle, the boast of Albion's southern wave, To retrospection and to fancy dear! Years have rolled by since I reluctant gave To thee a lingering look—a farewell tear— A passing sorrow, transient as sincere,— For my young heart was then too light and gay To nourish grief,—and novelty's bright sphere Its countless charms spread forth in long array, And when did childhood e'er resist that potent sway? Since then I've passed thro' many a varied scene, The mantling cup of joy have often quaffed; Have tasted purest happiness serene, And deeply drank of sorrow's bitter draught; Still memory fondly loves my thoughts to waft Through time's clear vista, to that hallowed spot Where reason dawned, where infant fancy laughed, Where my young mind the glowing fervour caught Of poesy's wild dreams, with brightest beauty fraught. There first I gazed with wonder and delight On glorious nature's fair, attractive face; There first upon my spirit beamed the light That emanates from her mysterious grace; There images which nought can e'er efface, Drawn from creation's unexhausted store, Engraved upon my heart their deathless trace; And there did wakening intellect explore The labyrinthine paths that lead to human lore. But sweetest, dearest, best of all—the spring Of pure and glad affections, there unsealed,— Gushed through my happy breast, awakening Its latent powers—its energies concealed: There first was feeling's ocean depth revealed, And gentle sympathy's heart-thrilling glow; Ere selfish worldliness, or pride had steeled, Or treachery checked the joy-inspiring flow Of these, the holiest gifts that man retains below. Where now is that unsullied, placid stream Of love and hope that gladdened childhood's days? Where is the promise of that radiant dream Which wrapt me in its bright, delusive maze?— While o'er the past my busy fancy strays, A melancholy shade of tearful gloom Lingers o'er every object she portrays, For one whose image mid them all doth bloom, Snatched by the hand of death, is shrouded in the tomb. How faithfully doth memory's pencil trace The features of each old, familiar scene; Their outlines shadowing with a softened grace;— The breezy, daisied common, wild and green; The long, close lane, beneath the hedgerow's screen, Where twined the flowering periwinkle blue; The tangled copse, where spring's first gifts were seen, The primrose pale, the harebell's azure hue; And the wide mead, where tufts of yellow cowslips grew. The level shore, with many a shell bestrewed, Where hours of thoughtless mirth were whiled away; The bold, projecting cliff, so steep and rude, Washed by the ocean's white and gleaming spray; The sloping hill-side, and the meadow, gay With buttercups and clover-blossoms sweet; Where from the garden bound I loved to stray, A group of merry playmates blithe to meet, And o'er the flowery turf to bound with nimble feet. That garden spot,—how vividly I see Its every object pictured to my view! The verdant grass-plot, and the elder tree,— The border where the earliest snowdrops blew,— The old brown paling where the roses grew, And jessamine and honeysuckle twined,— The neighbouring shrubbery's enclosure too, Screening from every rude, tempestuous wind The rabbit hutch that our tame favourites confined. There, with the first companions of my love, Sisters and brothers, many an hour was spent; Our tasks were studied there—our garlands wove, Our games pursued with noisy merriment; While with assiduous watchfulness was lent A mother's careful eye, to mark our play— Gently to chide on mischief when intent, And fondly smiling at our frolics gay,— And well we knew her looks to read and to obey. Sweet recollections, hail! I love the spell Your presence binds around my musing heart; I love upon your records thus to dwell, And feel the soothing influence they impart; And though they bid the unconscious tear to start, And though they sadden even while they please,— I would not with their pensive shadows part, Or change the luxury of thoughts like these, For all the exciting charms of worldly gaieties. Delightful period of ideal bliss! (Ere to the bosom care and grief are known) Radiant with dreams of future happiness. Season of jocund childhood! thou art flown, My spirit hath not now so glad a tone As when, a gay and visionary child, I wandered, oft unheeded and alone, Where nature's loveliest scenes around me smiled, And fancy wrapt my brain in her creations wild. When on the heath with purple blossoms decked, Or where the fields sloped to the mill-stream's side, My ardent mind, by no forebodings checked, Roamed through imagination's region wide; While Bloomfield's sweet, harmonious strain supplied Soft, pleasing images of rural joy,— Or Beattie's majestic verse was tried, The lone, enthusiastic Minstrel Boy, Whose wild, romantic dreams my hours would oft employ. What joy too! when some holiday awhile Release from irksome school restraint had brought, And our fond father's kind, consenting smile Had yielded the indulgence that we sought; The prized excursion on the water, fraught With never-failing sources of delight, When our young hearts unmingled pleasure caught From each exciting scene that met our sight, As glided our trim boat across the billows bright. Then on the lonely, shingled beach to land Beneath the cliffs of that romantic bay, Streaked with tall lines of many-coloured sand, That glittered in the sparkling sunny ray Along the margin of the tide to stray, Where the green, tangled sea-weed's slippery maze Our heedless footsteps often would betray, While merrily the happy group would gaze, And at each slip loud peals of sportive laughter raise. To climb the precipice's dizzy steep, By the rude path that to its summit led, Scaring with noisy mirth the timid sheep That on its dry and scanty herbage fed; Till by maternal fear recalled,—with tread Cautious and slow, we traced the rough descent, Where frequent, mid its fissured, chalky bed, Some hardy flow'ret in its beauty bent, And to that rude, wild scene a gentler aspect lent. There towered the "Needle Rocks'" terrific height, Alike by fisher and by seaman feared, Flinging in scorn the gleaming spray so bright From every jutting point, while proudly reared In angry foam, each giant wave appeared Eternal combat with the crags to wage, And in that warfare wild have persevered Through the revolving lapse of every age, Winning in each some spoil, some trophy of their rage. Sometimes we trod the neighbouring mainland shore, Where Hurst's tall beacons look forth o'er the sea; And that lone castle, where in days of yore A royal heart pined in captivity. And as we heard the mournful tale, how he, That martyr king, by rebel faction fell, Our tears would fall in childish sympathy; And much we wondered, while we scanned his cell, That such unpitying hearts in human breasts could dwell. But oh! no pleasure more enjoyment lent, Than the long ramble by the river's side, Where o'er the stream the yellow flag-flower bent, And water lilies in their graceful pride; Or on its calm and glassy breast to glide, And watch the dipping of the busy oar, Till thy fair village, Freshwater! descried Amid embowering trees, allured on shore Our truant steps,—thy soft, sweet scenery to explore. Dear, lovely isle! how do thy beauties come Fresh o'er my mind in nature's vivid hue; Thou wert my earliest recollected home, Beloved still, long years of absence thro';— Joys which the future never can renew In memory's magic chain are linked with thee; But why should I this pleasing strain pursue, Or dwell upon a theme which cannot be With interest fraught to all, though deeply dear to me? But yet the thrilling chords I cannot break, That with the past my spirit thus entwine; And there are hearts in which the verse can wake A faithful echo to each feeling line. My sister! is it so?—the strain is thine— Does not thy breast respond to every tone Breathed o'er it from the thoughts which dwell in mine, For each remembered scene to thee is known? Oh, say! dost thou not now the soothing influence own? Rememberest thou the joyous group that stood At the same hearth;—round the same mother's knee, Who, linked by one endearing tie, pursued Their tasks and sports beneath that elder tree? Where are they now—those merry hearts and free From all the cares that riper years must bring? Theirs has but been the common destiny,— To feel repeated separation's sting, And shed the bitter tears that from its arrows spring. They one by one the parent home have left To mingle in the world's absorbing cares, And these from each divided heart have reft The fresh, bright hue that early feeling wears. Not that long absence lessens or impairs The deathless flame of holy, kindred love; But time, which that best, purest relic spares, Destroys the fairy web that fancy wove Ere cold reality with young romance had strove. Death too hath been, with sure, unsparing hand, And from our warm affections rudely torn The gentlest, loveliest of the household band, The best beloved—and the earliest born. Ere yet had passed life's promise-beaming morn, Just too, when in her breast o'erflowed a tide Of hope and love—of gladness all unworn By time, or grief;—or aught of ill beside, When scarcely had she been a few short months a bride. In every record—every vivid dream Of former days, her gentle image dwells; And memory, lingering fondly o'er the theme, Of all her meek, endearing virtues tells; Till in my bosom grief's deep fountain swells, And finds escape in many a falling tear, One only thought the bitterness dispels; That she so deeply mourned, so justly dear, Hath found a happier home in heaven's eternal sphere. Alas! were love to earth alone confined, Were there no hope it should survive the tomb, With what enduring sorrow were enshrined Within the heart the pang of parting gloom. Hail, blest anticipations! that illume. The shadowy grave, and to the spirit's sight A vista open to the fadeless bloom Of that pure land, where in unclouded light The sacred ties of earth again shall reunite. But whither have my pensive musings strayed? Allured by retrospection's busy art, Till the sad feelings that my breast pervade. Seem lingering there—reluctant to depart; Till undefined sensations fill my heart, Vague, dreary yearnings for the vanished past;— And indistinct ideas dimly start And throng my brain; then flit again as fast, Warning my wearied thoughts to seek repose at last. Promptly I haste that warning to obey, And bid my pen awhile at rest to lie; Sister! to thee I dedicate my lay A simple tribute to the days gone by: Oh may the holy and endearing tie That links our hearts, unbroken long remain, And when the parting hour shall come—on high May we, with all we loved on earth—again In glad reunion meet—where endless pleasures reign! A CHRISTMAS LAY. CHRISTMAS is come;—the merry time, When in the olden days, In the wide halls of our forefathers Shone out the red log's blaze. When the revel wild, and the minstrel's song The massy walls rang round; And the wassail ale, in the foaming bowl, The plenteous banquet crowned. When the lordly castle gates received Alike the rich and poor, And the wanderer never asked in vain Relief at the great man's door. The time when every heart was glad And every eye was bright, And the noble scorned not with the mirth Of the lowly to unite. Christmas is here—but it comes not now As it came in days of yore— The herald of plenty and content To the houseless, and the poor. A selfish and a proud restraint Hath banished our customs old,— The warmth of the heart hath passed away, And its kindliest glow is cold. The wealthy and great the feast partake, In their blazing, gorgeous halls, But how few remember those on whom The hand of poverty falls. How few their teeming plenty's store To the needy will dispense,— And glad the hearts of the indigent With their free benevolence. Why should the bosom thus be steeled By thoughtlessness and pride? Or why the wealth which God bestows Be so selfishly applied? And luxury and refinement drive From our English homes away, The frank, warm hospitality Which of old had there the sway? 'Tis a time when all men should rejoice, For when Christmas tide had birth, There was joy throughout the courts of heaven For the boon it brought to earth. But when the veins by want are chilled, Can gladness light the eye? Or gratitude glow in those sad hearts Where poverty prompts the sigh? Then think, ye wealthy! think of them Whose wants for your bounty call— The great and the lowly in the sight Of God are equal all. Prove that ye have within your breasts Sweet charity's kindly glow, And prove your grateful love to Him By your care for others' woe. That every where, in every heart Content and joy may dwell;— And Christmas a hearty welcome meet, And depart with a kind farewell. A WINTER'S MORNING. THE clear blue ether shone with many a star, And the fair moon smiled with her placid eye; No cloud obscured the azure, save afar Where morn lay curtained in the eastern sky; All was serene,—upon the shadowy hills The thin, cold mist in vapoury folds reposed; The leafless trees were silent, and the rills Lay motionless, by Winter's finger closed. But gradually the glittering host of night Grew paler—then departed one by one, And like transparent silver, the pure light Of the mild, waning moon, decreasing shone. Yet came there not a shadow o'er the sky When thus deserted by that heavenly train; For the glad dawn unclosed his drowsy eye, And looked abroad upon the ethereal plain. Slowly the parting clouds arose, and o'er Their orient bed hung lingering while Till day advancing bade them higher soar, And then dismissed them with her cheering smile. The soft, grey light which first that smile had shed Assumed a deepening tint of roseate hue, And as upon her radiant path she sped, To brighter beams of crimson glory grew. Up rose the sun, and with his glorious ray Scattered the mist that every hill top crowned; And every blade, and bough, and tiny spray Glittered in hoary brilliancy around. The robin chirped upon the snow white hedge, The sheep-bell tinkled in the meadow bare, The wild-fowl started from her rushy sedge, And from her covert sprung the timid hare; The ploughman whistled as the echoing tread Of his quick footsteps on the frozen soil Rung merrily, and the blithe thrasher sped With cheerful carol to his busy toil. FALLEN LEAVES. WE see them every where;— Those little silent monitors, that lie Around our many paths, in all their pale And melancholy beauty. Autumn's breath Has stript them in unnumbered millions from Their summer homes. The ancient, hardy oak, The graceful elms, the chesnut's spreading boughs, The slender poplar, the light foliaged ash, The dark rude beech, the ruddy sycamore, And all the many tribes that throng the woods, The lanes o'ershadow—stud the noble park— Or stand along the stately avenue; Alike have yielded up their leafy robes, And wave in naked majesty around. We saw them when the balmy airs of spring Hovered amid the branches; when the showers And genial sun of April rendered back To nature, all the loveliness and grace That winter's ruthless hand had snatched away;— We saw those very leaflets burst the germs Which held them long imprisoned; and appear Clothing in verdant beauty the fair face Of the rejoicing earth. We saw them spring In countless myriads from every bough; And more impervious grew their gradual shade As summer heats advanced. Then melody, The sweetest melody of nature, rang Through the green woodlands; for in every nook, The tiny choristers that made their homes Amid those lone retreats, their music poured Upon the breezes as they floated by. Oh then how sweet it was to wander through The deep recesses of the forest glades, And listen to their rich, wild harmony. How grateful too the fresh, cool canopy Extended o'er us by those very leaves Which now, in dry and yellow heaps, decay Beneath the trees on which they flourished fair; Or swept along by the rude, fitful gusts Of wintry winds, are scattered o'er the ground, Or whirled in eddying circles through the air, As tho' in sportive mockery of their fall. We saw them too when first the mellowing rays Of shadowy autumn, tinged their vivid green With all the varying hues that could delight The roving eye;—nor did they then appear Less beautiful, nor less attract the gaze: Their many tints so gracefully were blent, That nowhere could the most fastidious taste Detect a single fault,—but yet there seemed A mournful air to rest upon the change Of the soft, gentle beauty which they wore; It was the presage of their hastening doom, And the low requiem which the pensive winds Sighed through their clustering multitudes, awoke An answering echo in the musing heart. Alas! for all the beautiful of earth, The brightest and the fairest things must fade, The loveliest beings too;—however dear, However fondly shrined within the hearts Of a united kindred throng;—e'en they Must droop and die,—and like these fallen leaves, Mingle with earth in mouldering decay. Have we not seen it thus? Who has not wept The early fate of some beloved one, Whose beauty, by the withering finger touched, Of wan, consuming sickness, has assumed A melancholy radiance, even while It faded from affection's watchful eye,— And death, with sure, yet gradual step appeared, At once to sweep its every trace away? How mournful by the sufferer's couch to stand, On whose pale brow the seal of death is set;— To gaze upon the bright, deceitful bloom Which slow consumption paints upon the cheek,— To watch the brilliant lustre of the eye Lit up with beauty of unearthly cast;— And yet within the sickening heart to feel, That these are but the tokens which foretel How speedily the flickering lamp of life In darkness must be quenched,—and that loved form Be shrouded in the cold and silent tomb. Oh! happy then are they, and they alone, Whose hopes are treasured in a holier sphere; Who can resign the dearest ties of earth With meek and calm submission to the will Of Him, who often from the stricken heart In mercy takes the idol, that was there So fondly worshipped, that it interposed, And kept the lingering spirit back from God. Yes! happy those, whose faith and hope can look Beyond the tomb, to the bright home of heaven, And calmly wait a glad reunion there. Ye fallen leaves! Your monitory whispers read to all A lesson which our hearts should ponder well. Ye bid us pause amid the thoughtlessness And gaiety of life,—to meditate Upon the solemn truth, that we must too Yield to the common lot of mortal things. May we the warning heed! that when the hour Of closing life shall come, we may be found Prepared to meet its change, which then will be A welcome change—the joyful harbinger Of unalloyed and never-fading bliss! ERRATA. —In the lines, "On reading a Sonnet to a Nun," verse 5, line 3, for glow read throe. Printed by G. L. Dinsdale, Warminster. INDEX. To my Sister on her leaving Home5 Translation of an Inscription, by Rousseau8 Spring 8 Fragment11 Sonnet11 To an Early Snowdrop12 Farewell13 On reading a Sonnet to a Nun14 Morning16 Written on the Sea Shore at Tenby17 Orphan Boy19 Ode22 Our Country! Our Own Country!25 On the Sudden Death of an amiable Young Man28 Sea Shore30 Village Bells32 Evening34 Forget Me Not36 Written at the Grave of a Young Friend37 Destruction of the Egyptians39 Exile's Lament42 The Storm56 Story of the Ocean63 Change69 Earth and Heaven71 Lament for a Beloved Sister73 To the Evening Star80 Stanzas82 On a Bunch of Faded Violets87 Sailor's Return88 To Swansea91 Home93 On visiting the Ruins of Ostermouth Castle96 To my Brother, on his departure for America98 Impromptu101 The Dejected101 Spring105 To——109 The Closing Year110 To the Ocean112 To the Clouds113 To E.114 To my Brother at his departure on a Voyage118 Lines on the erection of a New Organ in the Church at Tenby121 To Miss E. H.123 To my Brother in America on his Birth-day125 Written in an Album129 On the sudden death of the Rev. J. Prior130 Hymn for Christmas134 On the departure of the Rev. J. Waterhouse and Colleagues, Missionaries to the South Seas136 To Miss E. A.141 Prayer144 Journey of the Magi147 Past Year154 Lines for a Social Meeting158 On the Death of an eminent Character160 Jacob's Dream162 Isaiah, c. xl., vv. 28-31169 Wild Flowers170 To E. C.174 Old Mill Tower177 Written at the Grave of my Sister180 To the Moon183 Stanzas184 Evening185 To the Ocean189 Stanzas192 Sorrow195 Ice Island197 Missionary Verses211 The Knight's Return215 Sonnet223 To my Muse224 Early Recollections of Yarmouth228 A Christmas Lay243 A Winter's Morning246 Fallen Leaves248 Dinsdale, Printer.