Chapter II: Part 2

Calm was thy exit from this troubled scene; Pain from thy lips no hasty murmurs wrung; With brow unruffled and with mind serene, Thy Saviour's praise employed thy faltering tongue: And though no kindling raptures marked thy flight, Thy faith unshaken _showed that all was right_!

Those who beheld thee in the burning hour, When fever raged in every throbbing vein, Oft shall recount the parting struggle o'er, The scene on memory's tablets long retain-- Each gracious word, each kindly glance, that told The Christian's love, ere that warm heart was cold!

Thy memory is a pure and holy thing, Embalmed and treasured in the hearts of those Who saw thee, like an angel, ministering The precious balm that softens human woes. Thou didst not hide thy talent in the dust; Anxious that all should own the same high trust.--

Deeply concerned that other realms should share Those blessed promises so dear to thee,-- That messengers of mercy should declare Glad tidings far beyond thy native sea;-- Thy bounteous spirit compassed land and wave To send redemption to the soil-bound slave!

But not to foreign realms and climes alone Didst thou confine a Christian's sacred zeal; With all a mother's fondness for thine own, The deep devotion faith alone could feel, 'Twas thine the drooping penitent to cheer, And wipe from sorrow's eyes the gushing tear!

And like the faithful saints and priests of old, Thou with thy honoured partner didst go forth, Exploring barren heath and mountain hold, Far through the isles and highlands of the north, To teach the Gospel in each rocky glen, And bless with Scripture truths unlearned men!

Thy zeal was felt along the rugged wild, Heard round the hearth where pious maidens meet; And matrons oft shall tell the rosy child, Twining its wilding garlands at their feet, To bless her name--who, conquering selfish pride, Sought them on foot to tell how Jesus died!

Daughter of Scotland! when her bards shall trace The noble deeds of thy illustrious line, Thy sainted name a fairer page shall grace, A brighter wreath for thee the minstrel twine Than ever crowned thy warlike sires of yore, Than history ever gave or genius wore!

TO THE MEMORY OF R. R. JUN.

LATE OF IPSWICH, AND ONE OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.

From thy sad sire and weeping kindred torn, Thine is the crown of everlasting life; On thy closed eye has burst a brighter morn, In realms where joy and peace alone are rife; Thy soul, in Christ, enlightened and new-born, Has meekly triumphed over nature's strife, And passed the dreary portals of the grave, Strong in the faith of Him who died to save!

Soldier of Christ! thy warfare now is o'er, Thy toils accomplished and thy trials done, And thou shalt weep and sigh, young saint, no more; With thee the scene is closed, the race is run. Death heaved the bar of that eternal door; The palm is gained,--the victory is won, And earthly sorrows shall no more alloy Thy soul's pure raptures in those realms of joy!

Ah! who would weep for thee?--the early blessed-- Who that has mourned the tyranny of sin, The strong temptations which assail the breast, The fiery passions warring still within, But does not envy thee thy heavenly rest, And sighing, wish that they at length may win The narrow path thy faith and patience trod, And meet thee in the presence of thy God?

Though friends who loved thee weep above thy bier, And kindred anguish find in grief a voice, We will not mourn thy exit from this sphere, When angels in the heaven of heavens rejoice, When God's own hand hath wiped away each tear, And crowned with endless life thy happy choice. Oh blessed lot--oh change with rapture fraught, Surpassing human love--and human thought!

AN APPEAL TO THE FREE.

Offspring of heaven, fair Freedom! impart The light of thy spirit to quicken each heart. Though the chains of oppression our free limbs ne'er bound, Bid us feel for the wretch round whose soul they are wound; Whose breast is corroded with anguish so deep That the eye of the slave is too blood-shot to weep; No balm from the fountain of nature will flow When the mind is degraded by fetter and blow.

The friends of humanity nobly have striven, But the bonds of the heart-broken slave are unriven! Whilst Religion extends o'er those champions her shield, May they never to party or prejudice yield The glorious cause by all freemen espoused. A light shines abroad and the lion is roused; The crush of the iron has struck fire from the stone; Bid them back to the charge--and the field is their own!

Ye children of Britain! brave sons of the Isles! Who revel in freedom and bask in her smiles, Can ye sanction such deeds as are done in the West And sink on your pillows untroubled to rest? Are your slumbers unbroken by visions of dread? Does no spectre of misery glare on your bed? No cry of despair break the silence of night And thrill the cold hearts that ne'er throbbed for the right?

Are ye fathers,--nor pity those children bereaved Of the birth-right which man from his Maker received? Are ye husbands,--and blest with affectionate wives, The comfort, the solace, the joy of your lives,-- And feel not for him whom a tyrant can sever From the wife of his bosom and children for ever? Are ye Christians, enlightened with precepts divine, And suffer a brother in bondage to pine? Are ye men, whom fair freedom has marked for her own, Yet listen unmoved to the negro's deep groan?

Ah no!--ye are slaves!--for the freeborn in mind Are the children of mercy, the friends of mankind: By no base, selfish motive their actions are weighed; They barter no souls in an infamous trade; They eat not the bread which is moistened by tears, And carelessly talk of the bondage of years;-- They feel as men should feel;--the clank of the chain Bids them call upon Justice to cleave it in twain!--

WAR.

Dark spirit! who through every age Hast cast a baleful gloom; Stern lord of strife and civil rage, The dungeon and the tomb! What homage should men pay to thee, Spirit of woe and anarchy?

Yet there are those who in thy train Can feel a fierce delight; Who rush, exulting, to the plain, And triumph in the fight, Where the red banner floats afar Along the crimson tide of war.

Who is the knight on sable steed, That comes with thundering tread? Dark warrior, slack thy furious speed, Nor trample on the dead: A youthful chief before thee lies, Struggling in life's last agonies.

Oh pause one moment in thy course, Those lineaments to trace; Dost thou not feel a strange remorse, Whilst gazing on that face, Where grace and manly beauty meet, To die beneath thy courser's feet?

Those sunny tresses scattered wide, And soiled with dust and blood, Were once a mother's fondest pride, When at her knee he stood, A rosy, playful, laughing boy, Her lonely heart's sole hope and joy.

But youth a glowing vision brought, And whispered glory's name, Renown, with every burning thought Linked to ambition, came: Like a young war-horse in his might, He panted for the desperate fight.

For civil discord rent the land, His warrior sire, afar, Against his sovereign raised the brand, The leader of the war: By honour fired the stripling draws His weapon in the royal cause.

Stretched bleeding on the battle-field His first, last strife is done; No more his hand the sword shall wield, His eyes behold the sun, Or his pale lips repeat the cry, The thrilling shout of victory!--

He struggles yet--the strife is o'er-- The soul hath winged its flight, Again beholds its native shore, A spirit robed in light. What now avail his mother's cares-- Her silent tears--her nightly prayers?

On that young soldier's prostrate form The warrior grimly smiled, As if he viewed in secret scorn That face so fair and mild; Why springs he to the fatal plain To gaze upon that form again?

Why does his eye in frenzy roll? Why is his clenched hand raised? What thought quick rushed across his soul, When on that boy he gazed? His quivering lip and swollen brow His mental agonies avow.

Can sorrow touch that iron heart, So long to mercy steeled? From those fierce eyes the big drops start, He sinks upon the field. Night closes round, the strife is done, That warrior sleeps beside his son!

THE EARTHQUAKE.

There was no sound in earth or air, And soft the moonbeams smiled On stately tower and temple fair, Like mother o'er her child; And all was hushed in the deep repose That welcomes the summer evening's close.

Many an eye that day had wept, And many a cheek with joy grew bright, Which now, alike unconscious, slept Beneath the wan moonlight; And mandolin and gay guitar Had ceased to woo the evening star.

The lover has sought his couch again, And the maiden's eyes no longer glisten, As she comes to the lattice to catch his strain, And sighs while she bends to smile and listen. She sleeps, but her rosy lips still move, And in dreams she answers the voice of love.

Sleep on, ye thoughtless and giddy train, Sorrow comes with the dawning ray; Ye never shall wake to joy again, Or your gay laugh gladden the rising day: Death sits brooding above your towers, And destruction rides on the coming hours.--

The day has dawned--but not a breath Sighs through the sultry air; The heavens above and earth beneath One gloomy aspect wear-- Horror and doubt and wild dismay Welcome the dawn of that fatal day.

Hark!--'tis not the thunder's lengthened peal! Hark!--'tis not the winds that rise; Or the heavy crush of the laden wheel, That echoes through the skies-- 'Tis the sound that gives the earthquake birth! 'Tis the heavy groans of the rending earth!

Oh, there were shrieks of wild affright, And sounds of hurrying feet, And men who cursed the lurid light, Whose glance they feared to meet: And some sunk down in mute despair On the parched earth, and perished there.--

It comes!--it comes!--that lengthened shock-- The earth before it reels-- The stately towers and temples rock, The dark abyss reveals Its fiery depths--the strife is o'er, The city sinks to rise no more.

She has passed from earth like a fearful dream;-- Where her pomp and splendour rose, There runs a dark and turbid stream, And a sable cloud its shadow throws; Pale sorrow broods in silence there, To mourn the perished things that were.

LINES

WRITTEN AMIDST THE RUINS OF A CHURCH ON THE COAST OF SUFFOLK.

"What hast thou seen in the olden time,
Dark ruin, lone and gray?"
"Full many a race from thy native clime,
And the bright earth, pass away.
The organ has pealed in these roofless aisles,
And priests have knelt to pray
At the altar, where now the daisy smiles
O'er their silent beds of clay.

"I've seen the strong man a wailing child,
By his mother offered here;
I've seen him a warrior fierce and wild;
I've seen him on his bier,
His warlike harness beside him laid
In the silent earth to rust;
His plumed helm and trusty blade
To moulder into dust!

"I've seen the stern reformer scorn
The things once deemed divine,
And the bigot's zeal with gems adorn
The altar's sacred shrine.
I've seen the silken banners wave
Where now the ivy clings,
And the sculptured stone adorn the grave
Of mitred priests and kings.

"I've seen the youth in his tameless glee,
And the hoary locks of age,
Together bend the pious knee,
To read the sacred page;
I've seen the maid with her sunny brow
To the silent dust go down,
The soil-bound slave forget his woe,
The king resign his crown.

"Ages have fled--and I have seen
The young--the fair--the gay--
Forgot as if they ne'er had been,
Though worshipped in their day:
And school-boys here their revels keep,
And spring from grave to grave,
Unconscious that beneath them sleep
The noble and the brave.

"Here thousands find a resting place
Who bent before this shrine;
Their dust is here--their name and race,
Oblivion; now are thine!
The prince--the peer--the peasant sleeps
Alike beneath the sod;
Time o'er their dust short record keeps,
Forgotten save by God!

"I've seen the face of nature change,
And where the wild waves beat,
The eye delightedly might range
O'er many a goodly seat;
But hill, and dale, and forest fair,
Are whelmed beneath the tide.
They slumber here--who could declare
Who owned those manors wide!

"All thou hast felt--these sleepers knew;
For human hearts are still
In every age to nature true,
And swayed by good or ill:
By passion ruled and born to woe,
Unceasing tears they shed;
But thou must sleep, like them, to know
The secrets of the dead!"

THE OLD ASH TREE.

Thou beautiful Ash! thou art lowly laid,
And my eyes shall hail no more
From afar thy cool and refreshing shade,
When the toilsome journey's o'er.
The winged and the wandering tribes of air
A home 'mid thy foliage found,
But thy graceful boughs, all broken and bare,
The wild winds are scattering round.

The storm-demon sent up his loudest shout
When he levelled his bolt at thee,
When thy massy trunk and thy branches stout
Were riven by the blast, old tree!
It has bowed to the dust thy stately form,
Which for many an age defied
The rush and the roar of the midnight storm,
When it swept through thy branches wide.

I have gazed on thee with a fond delight
In childhood's happier day,
And watched the moonbeams of a summer night
Through thy quivering branches play.
I have gathered the ivy wreaths that bound
Thy old fantastic roots,
And wove the wild flowers that blossomed round
With spring's first tender shoots.

And when youth with its glowing visions came,
Thou wert still my favourite seat;
And the ardent dreams of future fame
Were formed at thy hoary feet.
Farewell--farewell--the wintry wind
Has waged unsparing war on thee,
And only pictured on my mind
Remains thy form, time-honoured tree!

THE NAMELESS GRAVE.

WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.

"Tell me, thou grassy mound,
What dost thou cover?
In thy folds hast thou bound
Soldier or lover?
Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping
Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--

"The sun's westward ray
A dark shadow has thrown
On this dwelling of clay,
And the shade is thine own!
From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow--
Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"

THE PAUSE.

There is a pause in nature, ere the storm
Rushes resistless in its awful might;
There is a softening twilight, ere the morn
Expands her wings of glory into light.

There is a sudden stillness in the heart,
Ere yet the tears of wounded feeling flow;
A speechless expectation, ere the dart
Of sorrow lays our fondest wishes low.

There is a dreamy silence in the mind,
Ere yet it wakes to energy of thought;
A breathless pause of feeling, undefined,
Ere the bright image is from fancy caught.

There is a pause more holy still,
When Faith a brighter hope has given,
And, soaring over earthly ill,
The soul looks up to heaven!

UNCERTAINTY.

Oh dread uncertainty! Life-wasting agony! How dost thou pain the heart, Causing such tears to start, As sorrow never shed O'er hopes for ever fled. For memory hoards up joy Beyond Time's dull alloy; Pleasures that once have been Shed light upon the scene, As setting suns fling back A bright and glowing track, To show they once have cast A glory o'er the past; But thou, tormenting fiend, Beneath Hope's pinions screened, Leagued with distrust and pain, Makest her promise vain; Weaving in life's fair crown Thistles instead of down.

Who would not rather know Present than coming woe? For certain sorrow brings A healing in its wings. The softening touch of years Still dries the mourner's tears; For human minds inherit A gay, elastic spirit, Which rises in the hour Of trial, with such power, That men, with wonder, find Sorrow is less unkind; That human hearts can bear All evils but despair, Or that anticipated grief Which, for a season, mocks relief.

Uncertainty still clings To earth's fair but fleeting things; And mortals vainly trust In fabrics formed of dust! We look into life's waste, And tread its paths in haste; The past--for ever flown; The present--scarce our own; While, cold and dim, before Stretches the shadowy shore, The dark futurity, which lies Beyond the glance of mortal eyes, Wrapped in the mystic gloom Which canopies the tomb. But faith can pour a light On the spirit's earthly night, And break that sullen shroud; As a star bursts through the cloud, To show the upward eye The clear, but distant, sky; The land of joy and peace, Where doubts and sorrows cease.

THE WARNING.

When the eye whose kind beam was the beacon of gladness
From the glance of a lover turns coldly away,
O'er the bright sun of hope float the dark clouds of sadness,
And youth's lovely visions recede with the ray.
Oh turn not where pleasure's wild meteor is beaming,
And night's dreary shades wear the splendour of day,
To the rich festive board where the red wine is streaming;--
Can the dance and the song disappointment allay?

Oh heed not the Syren! for virtue is weeping
Where passion is struggling her victim to chain,
And Conscience, deep drugged, in her soft lap is sleeping,
Till startled by memory and quickened by pain.
Oh heed not the minstrel, when music is breathing
In the cold ear of fashion his heart-searching strain;
And pluck not the rose round Love's diadem wreathing;
The garland by beauty is woven in vain.

The pleasures of life, like its moments, are fleeting;
Oh let not its trifles your firm purpose move;
But think as those moments are slowly retreating,
How feebly against its enchantments you strove:
Then turn from the world, and, its follies forsaking,
Raise your eyes to the day-star of gladness above;
There's a balm for each wound, though the fond heart is breaking,
A Lethe divine in the fountain of Love!

LINES ON A NEW-BORN INFANT.[A]

Like a dew-drop from heaven in the ocean of life,
From the morn's rosy diadem falling,
A stranger as yet to the storms and the strife,
Dear babe, of thy earthly calling!

Thine eyes have unclosed on this valley of tears;
Hark! that cry is the herald of anguish and woe;
Thy young spirit finds a deep voice for its fears,
Prophetic of all that is passing below.

How short will the term of thy ignorance be! The winds and the tempests will rise, And passion will cover with wrecks the calm sea, On whose surface no shadow now lies.

Unclouded and fair is the morn of thy birth,
The first lovely day in a season of gloom;
Whilst a pilgrim and stranger thou treadest this earth,
May the sunbeams of hope gild thy path to the tomb.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Infant son (since dead) of Mr. James Bird, author of the _Vale of Slaughden_.]

THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT.

THE FOLLOWING LITTLE POEM WAS SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN THE MEMOIRS OF THE LATE MRS. SUSAN HUNTINGTON OF BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND.

Ah! cold at my feet thou art sleeping, my boy, And I press on thy pale lips, in vain, the fond kiss; Earth opens her arms to receive thee, my joy! And all I have suffered was nothing to this: The day-star of hope 'neath thine eyelids is sleeping, No more to arise at the voice of my weeping.

Oh, how art thou changed!--since the light breath of morning Dispelled the soft dew-drops in showers from the tree, Like a beautiful bud, my lone dwelling adorning, Thy smiles called up feelings of rapture in me; I thought not the sunbeams all brightly that shone On thy waking, at eve would behold me alone.

The joy that flashed out from those death-shrouded eyes, That laughed in thy dimples and brightened thy cheek, Is quenched--but the smile on thy pale lip that lies, Now tells of a joy that no language can speak. The fountain is sealed, the young spirit at rest, Ah, why should I mourn thee--my loved one--my blest?

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.[B]

Sorrow has touched thee, my beautiful boy! And dimmed the bright eyes that were dancing with joy; Thy ruby lips tremble, thy soft cheek is wet, The tears on its roses are lingering yet. On thy quick-heaving heart is thy little hand pressed; There is care on thy brow--there is grief in thy breast, And slowly and darkly the shadow steals o'er thee, For the first time the vision of death is before thee!

Meet emblem of childhood--that innocent dove Was the sharer alike of thy sports and thy love; Thy playmate is dead--and that tenantless cage Has stamped the first grief upon memory's page. And oh!--thou art weeping--Life's fountain of tears, Once unchained, will flow on through the desert of years; No joy will e'er equal thy first dawn of bliss, No sorrow blot out the remembrance of this!

Though reason may smile at the anguish which now Convulses thy bosom and darkens thy brow; The period may come, in thy journey through life, When sick of its falsehood, corruption, and strife, Thou vainly shall seek in thy desolate track To bring those sweet feelings and sympathies back; And thy spirit will murmur, when vexed and reviled, Oh would I could weep--as I wept when a child!

But let us not darken the landscape with gloom, And fling round the cradle the shade of the tomb, The sorrows of youth are like April's rash showers, Which though rapidly shed, strew our pathway with flowers: On the soft downy cheek, while the tear glistens bright, The young heart is leaping, all wild with delight; The glance of a sunbeam will banish its pain, And it joyously breaks into laughter again!

Oh, our early impressions are never forgot-- And the wide earth contains not so lovely a spot As the fields that encircled the home of our youth, With all its dear visions of beauty and truth: No meads are so green, and no flowers are so fair As the wildings we gathered and garlanded there; And the dim eye grows bright whilst recounting the joy, The sorrows, and trials, and sports of the boy!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote B: Written to illustrate a plate by Westall, in _Friendship's Offering_, for 1830. To those who have not seen the picture, it may be proper to state, that the subject is a child weeping over a dead dove.]

THE LAMENT OF THE DISAPPOINTED.

"When will the grave fling her cold arms around me,
And earth on her dark bosom pillow my head?
Sorrow and trouble and anguish, have found me,
Oh that I slumbered in peace with the dead!

"The forests are budding, the fruit-trees in bloom,
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
But my soul is bowed down by the spirit of gloom,
I no longer rejoice as the blossoms expand.

"And April is here with her rich varied skies,
Where the sunbeams of hope with the tempest contend,
And the bright drops that flow from her deep azure eyes
On the bosom of nature like diamonds descend.

"She scatters her jewels o'er forest and lea,
And casts in earth's lap all the wealth of the year;
But the promise she brings wakes no transports in me,
Still the landscape looks dim through the fast flowing tear."

Thus sung a poor exile, whom Sorrow had banished
From Joy's golden halls, in those moments when care
Struck deep in her soul and Hope's sunny smiles vanished,
And her spirit grew dark 'neath the scowl of despair.

But oh! there's a balm e'en for anguish like thine,
And He who permitted the evil has given,
In exchange for this lost earth, an Eden divine,
Revealing to man all the glories of heaven.

Then hush these vain murmurs, arise from the dust,
Submit to the hand who the dark chain can sever
Of sorrow and sin:--God is faithful and just--
Oh seek but his face and be happy for ever!

HYMN OF THE CONVALESCENT.

My eyes have seen another spring
In floral beauty rise,
And happy birds on gladsome wing
Flit through the azure skies.
Though sickness bowed my feeble frame
Through winter's cheerless hours,
Life's sinking torch resumes its flame
With renovated powers.

Once more on nature's ample shrine,
Beneath the spreading boughs,
With lifted hands and hopes divine
I offer up my vows.
My incense is the breath of flowers,
Perfuming all the air;
My pillared fane these woodland bowers,
A heaven-built house of prayer;

My fellow-worshippers, the gay,
Free songsters of the grove,
Who to the closing eye of day
Warble their hymns of love.
The low and dulcet lyre of spring,
Swept by the vagrant breeze,
Borne far on echo's spreading wing
Stirs all the budding trees--

Again I catch the cuckoo's note
That faintly murmurs near,
The mingled melodies that float
To rapture's listening ear.
While April like a virgin pale
Retreats with modest grace,
And blushing through her tearful veil
Just shows her cherub face.

'Tis but a momentary gleam
From those young laughing eyes,
Yet, like a meteor's passing beam,
It lights up earth, and skies:
But, ere the sun exhales the dew
That sparkles on the grass,
Dark clouds flit o'er the smiling blue,
Like shadows o'er a glass.

But ah! upon the musing mind
Those varied smiles and tears,
Like words of love but half defined,
Give birth to hopes and fears.
The joyful heart one moment bounds,
Then feels a sudden chill,
Whispering in vague uncertain sounds
Presentiments of ill.

When dire disease an arrow sent,
And thrilled my breast with pain,
My mind was like a bow unbent,
Or harp-strings after rain;
I could not weep--I could not pray,
Nor raise my thoughts on high,
Till light from heaven, like April's ray,
Broke through the stormy sky!

YOUTH AND AGE.

YOUTH.

Pilgrim of life! thy hoary head Is bent with age, thine eye Looks downward to the silent dead, Wreck of mortality!-- The friends who flourished in thy day Have sought their narrow home; Their spirits whisper, "Come away!"--

AGE.

My soul replies, I come.--
I tread the path I trod a child,
The fields I loved of yore;
The flowers that 'neath my footsteps smiled
Now meet my gaze no more.
I stand beneath this giant oak!
It was an aged tree,
Hollowed by time's resistless stroke,
When life was green with me.
Its lofty head it proudly rears
To greet the summer sky,
Whilst, bending with the weight of years,
I feebly totter by.
And hushed are all the thousand songs
That filled these branches high:
Echo no more for me prolongs
The woodland minstrelsy.
Silence has gathered round life's hall;
My friends are in the clay;
I hear no more the footsteps fall,
That cheered my early day;
I see no more the faces dear,
Which shone around my hearth:
Bereft of all--I sojourn here--
Still happy, though on earth!--

YOUTH.

And canst thou smile when all are gone Who shared thy youthful prime; Content to wait and watch alone, To grapple still with time? How comes it that thou thus below Hast rest above the sod, Which brings to memory scenes of woe?

AGE.

It is the will of God!

MARY HUME.

A BALLAD.

"He will come to night," young Mary said,
And checked the rising sigh;
And gazed on the stars that o'er her head
Shone out in the deep blue sky.
"Heaven speed his voyage!--though absent long,
The painful vigil's o'er--
The skies are clear--the breeze is strong--
We meet to part no more!"

While yet she spoke a sudden chill
O'er her ardent spirit crept;
A sad presentiment of ill--
She turned away and wept.
Far off the sigh of ocean stole--
The sweeping of the sounding surge--
In plaintive murmurs o'er her soul,
Like wailing of a funeral dirge.

And in the wind there is a tone
Which whispers to her sinking heart--
"Mary we meet in death alone;
In realms of bliss no more to part."
The moon has sunk in her ocean cave,
Fled are the shades of night,
And morning bursts on the purple wave
In floods of golden-light.

The sudden stroke of the village bell
Checks the fisher's blithesome song;
He pauses to hear how rock and fell
Its sullen tones prolong.
"Some soul to its last account has sped:
Dost thou hear that solemn sound?"
"'Tis Mary Hume!"--his comrade said--
"Last night her love was drowned!"

THE SPIRIT OF MOTION.

Spirit of eternal motion! Ruler of the stormy ocean, Lifter of the restless waves, Rider of the blast that raves Hoarsely through yon lofty oak, Bending to thy mystic stroke; Man from age to age has sought Thy secret--but it baffles thought!

Agent of the Deity! Offspring of eternity, Guider of the steeds of time Along the starry track sublime, Founder of each wondrous art, Mover of the human heart; Since the world's primeval day All nature has confessed thy sway.

They who strive thy laws to find Might as well arrest the wind, Measure out the drops of rain, Count the sands which bound the main, Quell the earthquake's sullen shock, Chain the eagle to the rock, Bid the sun his heat assuage, The mountain torrent cease to rage. Spirit, active and divine-- Life and all its powers are thine! Guided by the first great cause, Sun and moon obey thy laws, Which to man must ever be A wonder and a mystery, Known alone to him who gave Thee sovereignty o'er wind and wave And only chained thee in the grave!

LINES WRITTEN DURING A GALE OF WIND.

Oh nature! though the blast is yelling,
Loud roaring through the bending tree,
There's sorrow in man's darksome dwelling,
There's rapture still with thee!

I gaze upon the clouds wind-driven,
The white storm-crested deep;
My heart with human cares is riven--
O'er these--I cannot weep.

'Tis not the rush of wave or wind
That wakes my anxious fears,
That presses on my troubled mind,
And fills my eyes with tears;

I feel the icy breath of sorrow
My ardent spirit chill,
The dark--dark presage of the morrow,
The sense of coming ill.

I hear the mighty billows rave;
There's music in their roar,
When strong in wrath the wind-lashed wave
Springs on the groaning shore;

A solemn pleasure in the tone
That shakes the lonely woods,
As winter mounts his icy throne
'Mid storms and wasting floods.

The trumpet of the angry blast
Peals loud o'er earth and main;
The elemental strife is past,
The heavens are bright again.

And shall I doubt the healing power
Of Him who lives to save,
Who in this dark appalling hour
Can silence wind and wave?

Almighty Ruler of the storm!
One beam of grace display,
And the fierce tempests that deform
My soul, shall pass away.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SPRING.

The spirit of the shower, Of the sunshine and the breeze, Of the dewy twilight hour, Of the bud and opening flower, My soul delighted sees. Stern winter's robe of gray, Beneath thy balmy sigh, Like mist-wreaths melt away, When the rosy laughing day Lifts up his golden eye.--

Spirit of ethereal birth, Thy azure banner floats, In lucid folds, o'er air and earth, And budding woods pour forth their mirth In rapture-breathing notes. I see upon the fleecy cloud The spreading of thy wings; The hills and vales rejoice aloud, And Nature, starting from her shroud, To meet her bridegroom springs.

Spirit of the rainbow zone, Of the fresh and breezy morn,-- Spirit of climes where joy alone For ever hovers round thy throne, On wings of light upborne, Eternal youth is in thy train With rapture-beaming eyes, And Beauty, with her magic chain, And Hope, that laughs at present pain, Points up to cloudless skies.

Spirit of love, of life, and light! Each year we hail thy birth-- The day-star from the grave of night That set to rise in skies more bright,-- To bless the sons of earth With leaf--and bud--and perfumed flower, Still deck the barren sod; In thee we trace a higher power, In thee we claim a brighter dower, The day-spring of our God!--

O COME TO THE MEADOWS.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
With silver stars the lea,
The orchis, and forget-me-not,
The flower of memory!

The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
That love the river's side,
The reed that bows the wave to meet,
And sighs above the tide.
The stately flag that gaily rears
Aloft its yellow crest,
The lily in whose cup the tears
Of morn delight to rest.

The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
We'll cull the brier-rose,
The crowfoot and the purple heath,
And pink that sweetly blows.
The hare-bell with its airy flowers
Shall deck my Laura's breast,--
Of all that bud in woodland bowers
I love the hare-bell best!

I'll pull the bonny golden broom
To bind thy flowing hair;
For thee the eglantine shall bloom,
Whose fragrance fills the air.
We'll sit beside yon wooded knoll,
To hear the blackbird sing,
And fancy in his merry troll
The joyous voice of spring!

We'll sit and watch the sparkling waves
That leap exulting by,
Whilst in the pines above us raves
The wind's wild minstrelsy.
It swells the echoes of the grove,
'Tis Nature's plaintive voice;
The winds and waters breathe of love,
And all her tribes rejoice.

Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours,
We'll rove the verdant glade;
But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers,
Like us, but bloom to fade.
They spread their beauties to the sun,
And live their little day,
Then droop, and wither, one by one,
Till all are passed away.

Already scattered in the dust
My first May garland lies;
The hope that owns a mortal trust,
As quickly fades and dies.
Then let us seek a brighter wreath
Than Nature here has given;
The flowers of virtue bud beneath,
But only bloom in heaven!

THOU WILT THINK OF ME, LOVE.

When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping, In the silent dust are sleeping; When above my narrow bed The breeze shall wave the thistle's head-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the queen of beams and showers Comes to dress the earth with flowers; When the days are long and bright, And the moon shines all the night-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the tender corn is springing, And the merry thrush is singing; When the swallows come and go, On light wings flitting to and fro-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

When laughing childhood learns by rote The cuckoo's oft-repeated note; When the meads are fresh and green, And the hawthorn buds are seen-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

When 'neath April's rainbow skies Violets ope their purple eyes; When mossy bank and verdant mound Sweet knots of primroses have crowned-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the meadows glitter white, Like a sheet of silver light; When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom, Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom-- Thou wilt think of me, love!

Each bud shall be to thee a token Of a fond heart reft and broken; And the month of joy and gladness Shall but fill thy soul with sadness-- And thou wilt sigh for me, love!

When thou rov'st the woodland bowers, Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers, And shalt strew with bitter weeping The lonely bed where I am sleeping-- And sadly mourn for me, love!

THE FOREST RILL.

Young Naiad of the sparry grot,
Whose azure eyes before me burn,
In what sequestered lonely spot
Lies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn?
Beneath what mossy bank enshrined,
Within what ivy-mantled nook,
Sheltered alike from sun and wind,
Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?

Deep buried lies thy airy shell
Beneath thy waters clear;
Far echoing up the woodland dell
Thy wind-swept harp I hear.
I catch its soft and mellow tones
Amid the long grass gliding,
Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones,
In hoarse, deep accents chiding.

The wandering breeze that stirs the grove,
In plaintive moans replying,
To every leafy bough above
His tender tale is sighing;
Ruffled beneath his viewless wing
Thy wavelets fret and wimple,
Now forth rejoicingly they spring
In many a laughing dimple.

To nature's timid lovely queen
Thy sylvan haunts are known;
She seeks thy rushy margin green
To weave her flowery zone;
Light waving o'er thy fairy flood
In all their vernal pride,
She sees her crown of opening buds
Reflected in the tide.

On--on!--for ever brightly on!
Thy lucid waves are flowing,
Thy waters sparkle as they run,
Their long, long journey going;
Bright flashing in the noon-tide beam
O'er stone and pebble breaking,
And onward to some mightier stream
Their slender tribute taking.

Oh such is life! a slender rill,
A stream impelled by Time;
To death's dark caverns flowing still,
To seek a brighter clime.
Though blackened by the stains of earth,
And broken be its course,
From life's pure fount we trace its birth,
Eternity its source!

While floating down the tide of years,
The Christian will not mourn her lot;
There is a hand will dry her tears,
A land where sorrows are forgot.
Though in the crowded page of time
The record of her name may die,
'Tis traced in annals more sublime,
The volume of Eternity!

TO WATER LILIES.

Beautiful flowers! with your petals bright, Ye float on the waves like spirits of light, Wooing the zephyr that ruffles your leaves With a gentle sigh, like a lover that grieves, When his mistress, blushing, turns away From his pleading voice and impassioned lay.

Beautiful flowers! the sun's westward beam, Still lingering, plays on the crystal stream, And ye look like some Naiad's golden shrine, That is lighted up with a flame divine; Or a bark in which love might safely glide, Impelled by the breeze o'er the purple tide.

Beautiful flowers! how I love to gaze On your glorious hues, in the noon-tide blaze, And to see them reflected far below In the azure waves, as they onward flow; When the spirit who moves them sighing turns Where his golden crown on the water burns.

Beautiful flowers! in the rosy west The sun has sunk in his crimson vest, And the pearly tears of the weeping night Have spangled your petals with gems of light, And turned to stars every wandering beam Which the pale moon throws on the silver stream.

Beautiful flowers!--yet a little while, And the sun on your faded buds shall smile; And the balm-laden zephyr that o'er you sighed Shall scatter your leaves o'er the glassy tide, And the spirit that moved the stream shall spread His lucid robe o'er your watery bed.

Beautiful flowers! our youth is as brief As the short-lived date of your golden leaf. The summer will come, and each amber urn, Like a love-lighted torch, on the waves shall burn; But when the first bloom of our life is o'er No after spring can its freshness restore, But faith can twine round the hoary head A garland of beauty when youth is fled!

AUTUMN.

Autumn, thy rushing blast
Sweeps in wild eddies by,
Whirling the sear leaves past,
Beneath my feet, to die.
Nature her requiem sings
In many a plaintive tone,
As to the wind she flings
Sad music, all her own.

The murmur of the rill
Is hoarse and sullen now,
And the voice of joy is still
In grove and leafy bough.
There's not a single wreath,
Of all Spring's thousand flowers,
To strew her bier in death,
Or deck her faded bowers.

I hear a spirit sigh
Where the meeting pines resound,
Which tells me all must die,
As the leaf dies on the ground.
The brightest hopes we cherish,
Which own a mortal trust,
But bloom awhile to perish
And moulder in the dust.

Sweep on, thou rushing wind,
Thou art music to mine ear,
Awakening in my mind
A voice I love to hear.
The branches o'er my head
Send forth a tender moan;
Like the wail above the dead
Is that sad and solemn tone.

Though all things perish here,
The spirit cannot die,
It owns a brighter sphere,
A home in yon fair sky.
The soul will flee away,
And when the silent clod
Enfolds my mouldering clay,
Shall live again with God;

Where Autumn's chilly blast
Shall never strip the bowers,
Or icy Winter cast
A blight upon the flowers;
But Spring, in all her bloom,
For ever flourish there,
And the children of the tomb
Forget this world of care.--

The children who have passed
Death's tideless ocean o'er,
And Hope's blest anchor cast
On that bright eternal shore;
Who sought, through Him who bled
Their erring race to save,
A Sun, whose beams shall shed
A light upon the grave!

THE REAPERS' SONG.

The harvest is nodding on valley and plain, To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield; Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain; 'Tis ripe to our hand!--to the field--to the field! If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile, Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile. Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray, We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!

With his garland of poppies red August is here, And the forest is losing its first tender green; Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year, And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene. To the field!--to the field! whilst the Summer is ours We will reap her ripe corn--we will cull her bright flowers. Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray, For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.

Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies, Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry, Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise, With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply: He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd, And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around. Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray, For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!

WINTER.

Majestic King of storms! around Thy wan and hoary brow A spotless diadem is bound Of everlasting snow: Time, which dissolves all earthly things, O'er thee hath vainly waved his wings!

The sun, with his refulgent beams, Thaws not thy icy zone; Lord of ten thousand frozen streams, That sleep around thy throne, Whose crystal barriers may defy The genial warmth of summer's sky.

What human foot shall dare intrude Beyond the howling waste, Or view the untrodden solitude, Where thy dark home is placed; In those far realms of death where light Shrieks from thy glance and all is night?

The earth has felt thine iron tread, The streams have ceased to flow, The leaves beneath thy feet lie dead, And keen the north winds blow: Nature lies in her winding sheet Of dazzling snow, and blinding sleet.

Thy voice has chained the troubled deep; Within thy mighty hand, The restless world of waters sleep On Greenland's barren strand. Thy stormy heralds, loud and shrill, Have bid the foaming waves lie still.

Where lately many a gallant prow Spurned back the whitening spray, An icy desert glitters now, Beneath the moon's wan ray: Full many a fathom deep below The dark imprisoned waters flow.

How gloriously above thee gleam The planetary train, And the pale moon with clearer beam Chequers the frost-bound plain; The sparkling diadem of night Circles thy brow with tenfold light.

I love thee not--yet when I raise To heaven my wondering eyes, I feel transported at the blaze Of beauty in the skies, And laud the power that, e'en to thee, Hath given such pomp and majesty!

I turn and shrink before the blast That sweeps the leafless tree, Careering on the tempest past, Thy snowy wreath I see; But Spring will come in beauty forth And chase thee to the frozen north!

FANCY AND THE POET.

POET.

Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrine I lowly bend one simple wreath to twine; O come from thy ideal world and fling Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string; Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth The wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth--

FANCY.

Happiness, when from earth she fled, I passed on her heaven-ward flight,-- "Take this wreath," the spirit said, "And bathe it in floods of light; To the sons of sorrow this token give, And bid them follow my steps and live!"

I took the wreath from her radiant hand, Each flower was a silver star; I turned this dark earth to a fairy land, When I hither drove my car; But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright, And man only saw its reflected light.

Many a lovely dream I've given, And many a song divine, But never--oh never!--that wreath from heaven Shall mortal temples twine. Hope and love in the chaplet glow: 'Tis all too bright for a world of woe!

POET.

Hist--Beautiful spirit! why silent so soon? My soul drinks each word of thy magical tune; My lyre owns thy touch, and its tremulous strings Still vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings! Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part, Thy home, lovely spirit,--and say what thou art.

FANCY.

The gleam of a star which thou canst not see, Or an eye 'neath its sleeping lid, The tune of a far off melody, The voice of a stream that's hid; Such must I still remain to thee, A wonder and a mystery.

I live in the poet's dream, I flash on the painter's eye, I dwell in the moon's pale beam, In the depths of the star-lit sky; I traverse the earth, the air, the main, And bind young hearts in my golden chain.

I float on the crimson cloud, My voice is in every breeze, I speak in the tempest loud, In the sigh of the wind-stirred trees; To the sons of earth, in a magic tone, I tell of a world more bright than their own!

NIGHT'S PHANTASIES.

A FRAGMENT.

I have dreamed sweet dreams of a summer night, When the moon was walking in cloudless light, And my soul to the regions of Fancy sprung, While the spirits of air their soft anthems sung, Strains wafted down from those heavenly spheres Which may not be warbled in waking ears; More sweet than the voice of waters flowing, Than the breeze over beds of violets blowing, When it stirs the pines, and sultry day Fans himself cool with their tremulous play. On the sleeper's ear those rich notes stealing, Speak of purer and holier feeling Than man in his pilgrimage here below, In the bondage of sin, can ever know.

I heard in my slumbers the ceaseless roar Of the sparkling waves, as they met the shore, Till lulled by the surge of the moon-lit deep, By the heaving ocean I sank to sleep. And a magic spell on my spirit was cast, And forms that had perished in ages past, Were by Fancy revealed to my wondering view, As the veil of Oblivion she backward drew, And showed me a glorious vision, dressed In the rosy light of the glowing west. Such colours at parting the day-god throws, To gild his path, as rejoicing he goes, Like a victor red with the spoils of fight, To raise through darkness the banner of light!

Slowly and soothingly stole on my ear Strains such as spirits in ecstasy hear, When they tune their harps at the jasper throne Of eternal light, with its rainbow zone; And the harmony drawn from those living strings Gushes forth from the fountain whence music springs; But those songs divine, of heavenly birth, Are seldom repeated to sons of earth. Such sounds as I heard by that summer sea Were never produced by man's minstrelsy; Which rose and sank by the billowy motion Of the breaking wave and the heaving ocean: Now borne on the night-breeze was wafted high, Through the glowing depths of the star-lit sky; Now mournfully wailing, like plaintive dirge, Rushed to the shore, with the rush of the surge.

And I saw a figure, all radiantly bright, Float over the waves in the pale moonlight; She moved to the notes of a magical song, And the billows scarce murmured that bore her along; The winds became mute--and the snowy wreath, That crested the billows, looked dim beneath Her silvery feet--that as lightly trod The heaving deep, as the emerald sod. A garland of coral her temples bound, And her glittering robes floated lightly round, Veiling her form in a shadowy shroud, Like the mist that hangs on the morning cloud, Ere the sun dispels, with his rising beam, The vapours exhaled from the marshy stream. The breeze wafted back from her forehead fair Her long flowing tresses of shining hair, Which cast on her features a lambent glow, Like a halo encircling her brow of snow; Revealing a face of such faultless mould As that sea-born goddess possessed of old, The morning she rose from the purple tide, The queen of beauty and joy's fair bride-- But her cheek was as pale as the ocean spray Ere it catches a flush from the rosy day; And the shade of a deathless grief was there, Which spake more of ages than years of care; As though she had borne, since the world began, Every sorrow and trial that waits upon man.

Such was the shadow that haunted my dream; Such was the figure that rose from the stream; And I felt a strange and electric thrill Of unearthly delight my bosom fill, As she neared the shore, and I heard the strain That charmed into silence the listening main.

Child of the earth! behold in me The desolate spirit of things that were: I keep Oblivion's iron key, Far, far below in the pathless sea, Where never a sound from the upper air Is heard in those realms where, in darkness hurled, Lie the shattered domes of the ancient world!

A thousand ages have slowly rolled O'er temple and tower and fortress strong, By the giant kings possessed of old, That buried beneath the waters cold, Only echo the mermaids' plaintive song, When they weep o'er the form of some child of clay, 'Mid the wreck of a world that has passed away.

The spirits of earth and air have sighed To traverse those halls, in vain; The rolling waters those ruins hide, And buried beneath the oozy tide, They sleep in my icy chain; And if thou canst banish all mortal dread, Thou shalt view that world of the mighty dead.--

Far over the breast of the waters wide That song's plaintive cadence in distance died, And I heard but the tremulous, mournful sweep Of the night-winds ruffling the azure deep!--

SONGS OF THE HOURS.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

Slowly I dawn on the sleepless eye, Like a dreaming thought of eternity; But darkness hangs on my misty vest, Like the shade of care on the sleeper's breast; A light that is felt--but dimly seen, Like hope that hangs life and death between; And the weary watcher will sighing say, "Lord, I thank thee! 'twill soon be day;" The lingering night of pain is past, Morning breaks in the east at last.

Mortal!--thou mayst see in me A type of feeble infancy,-- A dim, uncertain, struggling ray, The promise of a future day!

THE MORNING HOUR.

Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise, With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes; Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls, I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls; Brighter diamonds never were seen Encircling the neck of an Indian queen! I traverse the east on my glittering wing, And my smiles awake every living thing; And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray, Follows the night on her weeping way. I raise the veil from the saffron bed, Where the young sun pillows his golden head; He lifts from the ocean his burning eye, And his glory lights up the earth and sky.

Ah, I am like that dewy prime, Ere youth hath shaken hands with time; Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low, And discovered the hidden rocks of woe: When like the rosy beams of morn, Joy and gladness and love were born, Hope divine, of heavenly birth, And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth!

THE NOONTIDE HOUR.