Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

THE BUDDING LEAF.
Now Nature wears her vernal hue;
Again will poets sing

Of" daisies pied, and violets blue,"
And all the charms of spring:
The budding leaves with joy we see,
And former bliss recall;

But oh! what may our feelings be,
When these young leaves shall fall?
Then hearts which now are throbbing high
With hopes that widely soar,

May heave sad disappointment's sigh,
And learn to hope no more:

The maid whose eyes, whose smile, whose bloom, Are soft enchantment all,

May sink love's victim in the tomb,

When these young leaves shall fall.
The mind whose energy and fire
Shines through the sparkling eye,
May then-O fate forlorn and dire!
A wreck, a ruin lie;

Its reason fled, its judgment lost,
While fancied fears appal,
In whirls of stormy passion tossed
When these young leaves shall fall.

And many a one whose soul is twined
With soul of kindred truth,
Whose passion, ardent yet refined,
Survives the charms of youth,
May sadly mourn love's broken tie
Within the lonely hall,

And heave the solitary sigh,

When these young leaves shall fall. O Man! thy date of joy is brief,

More brief is pleasure's hour; It withers like the blighted leafFades like the gathered flower. The view is awful, yet sublime,

Of earth's still changeful ball;

I shrink while musing on the time,
When these young leaves shall fall.
But hark! I hear an airy voice

Soft whispering in my ear

"Thou who dost mourn when most rejoice,
And saddenest hope with fear,
Thy worldly cares and woes may rest
Within the church-yard wall,

And dark weeds wither on thy breast.
When these young leaves shall fall."
ANONYMGUL

THE FIRST GRAVE.

A SINGLE grave! the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower,
Are lingering around.

A single grave!—my heart has felt
How utterly alone

In crowded halls, where breathed for me
Not one familiar tone:

The shade where forest trees shut out
All but the distant sky;

I've felt the loneliness of night

When the dark winds passed by:

My pulse has quickened with its awe,
My lip has gasped for breath;
But what were they to such as this-
The solitude of death!

A single grave' we half forget
How sunder auman ties,

When round the silent place of rest
A gathered kindred lies.

We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb;
And in the ancient church-yard feel
Solemnity, not gloom:

The place is purified with hope,

The hope that is of prayer;

And human love, and heavenward thought,
And pious faith are there.

The wild flowers spring amid the grass;
And many a stone appears,
Carved by affection's memory,

Wet with affection's tears.

The golden chord which binds us all,
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear unite
To bring the past again.

But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy-
'Tis utterly alone.

I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name-

Whether if, lonely in his life,

He is in death the same:
Whether he died unloved, unmourned,
The last leaf on the bough;
Or if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.
Perhaps this is too fanciful:
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.

It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best;
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less repressed.

Those gentler charities which draw
Man closer with his kind-

Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.

How many a bitter word 'twould hush-
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!

STANZAS.

MISS LANDON.

DAYS of my youth! ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrowed all o'er;
Strength of my youth! all thy vigor is gone;
Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown,
Days of my youth! I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth! I'm content ye shall fall;
Eyes of my youth! you much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth! bathed in tears you have been;
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth! why lament thy decay?
Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age; yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! aread ye not the cold sod}
Hopes of my age! be ye fixed on your God.

TUCKER.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf,

A voice in every rill;

A voice that speaketh everywhere,

In flood and fire, through earth and air!
A tongue that's never still.

'Tis the Great Spirit wide diffused
Through everything we see,

That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious-Life and Death,
Time and Eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud:
I hear Him in the mighty roar,
That rusheth through the forest hoar,
When winds are piping loud.

I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall,
At the dead hour of night.

I feel Him in the silent dews,

By grateful earth betrayed;

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers. The sunshine and the shade.

And yet (ungrateful that I am),

I've turned in sullen mood

From all these things, whereof He said, When the great whole was finished,

That they were "very good."

My sadness on the loveliest things

Fell like the unwholesome dew; The darkness that encompassed me, The gloom I felt so palpably,

Mine own dark spirit threw.

Yet was He patient-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked
By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked;

And still the same rich feast was spread

For my insensate heart!

Not always so-I woke again

To join Creation's rapturous strain,

"O Lord, how good thou art."

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,
And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispelled that miserable mood
Of darkness and of doubt.

PRAYER.

ANONYMOUR

O THOU Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that, known to thee
Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands,
All wretched and distressed:
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death.

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine!

ODE TO DUTY.

BURNL

STERN Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou who art victory and law,
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity.

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot!
Who do thy work, and know it not:
May joys be theirs while life shall last;

And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast.

Serene will be our days, and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And blest are they who in the main
This faith e'en now do entertain:
Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust;
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed, from day to day;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Though no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires:

My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace!
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong:

And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and

strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!

I call thee: I myself commend

Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live.
WORDSWORTH.

THE TOMB OF CYRUS.

A VOICE fram stately Babylon, a mourner's rising cry-
And Libya's marble palaces give back their deep reply;
And like the sound of distant winds o'er ocean billows sent,
Ecbatana, thy storied walls send forth the wild lament.
For he, the dreaded arbiter-a dawning empire's trust-
The eagle child of victory-the great, the wise, the just,
Assyria's famed and conquering sword, and Media's regal
strength-

Hath bowed his head to earth beneath a mightier hand at length.

And derkly, through a sorrowing land, Euphrates winds

[blocks in formation]

And lurks the mountain-fox, unseen, beside the vulture's

nest,

And steals the wild hyena past in lone and silent quest.

Is this ambition's resting-place -the couch of fallen might? And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's enshrining light?

Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared afar, How is thy boasting name forgot, and dimmed thine honor's star?

Approach: what saith that graven verse? Alas, for human pride!

"Dominion's envied gifts were mine-nor carth her praise denied:

Thou traveller, if a suppliant's voice find echo in thy

[blocks in formation]

WHO LOVES ME BEST?

WHO loves me best ?-My mother sweet,
Whose every look with love is replete ;
Who held me, an infant on her knee-
Who hath ever watched me tenderly;
And yet I have heard my mother say,
That she sometime must pass away:

Who then shall shield me from earthly ill?
Some one must love me better still!

Who loves me best ?-My father lear,
Who loveth to have me always n ar;

He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When passed away is the noontide heat;
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies
Brings me the wild-wood strawberries.
Oh! he is dear as my mother to me-
But he will perish, even as she.

Who loves me best ?-The gentle dove
That I have tamed with ray childish love,
That every one save myself doth fear,
Whose soft coo soundeth when I come near:
Yet perhaps it but loves me because I bring
To its cage the drops from the clearest spring,
And hang green branches around the door :
Something, surely, must love me more!
Who loves me best?-My sister fair,
With her laughing eyes and clustering hair!
Who flowers around my head doth twine,
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine,
Who singeth me songs in her artless glee,
Can any love me better than she?
Yet, when I asked, that sister confessed,
Of all, she did not love me the best!

Who loves me best?-My brother young,
With his healthy cheek and his lisping tongue;
Who delighteth to lead me in merry play
Far down the green wood's bushy way;
Who showeth me where the hazel-nuts grow,
And where the fairest field-flowers blow;

Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest→→
How shall I find who loves me best?

My mother loves me-but she may die:
My white dove loves me-but that may fly;
My father loves me-he may be changed;

I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged;
If they should forsake me, what should I do?
Where should I bear my sad heart to?
Some one, surely, would be my stay-
Some one must love me better than they.

Yes, fair child, there is One above,
Who loves thee with an unchangeable love;
He who formed those frail, dear things,
To which thy young heart fondly clings-
Even though all should forsake thee, still
He would protect thee through every ill.
Oh! is not such love worth all the rest!
Child! it is God who loves thee best!

MARY ANN BROWN.

THE SISTER'S VOICE.

O! My sister's voice is gone away!

Around our social hearth

We have lost its tones, that were so gay,
So full of harmless mirth-

We miss the glancing of her eye,

The waving of her hair,

The footsteps lightly gliding by,

The hand so small and fair;

And the wild, bright smile that lit her face,
And made our hearts rejoice-
Sadly we mourn each vanished grace,
But most of all her voice.

For oh! it was so soft and sweet
When uttered forth in words;
Sach tones it had as hearts repeat
In echoes on their chords;
And lovely when in measure soft
She sung a mournful song,
And heavenly when it swelled aloft
In triumph-chorus strong;
And dearest when its words of love
Would sooth our bosoms' care,
And loveliest when it rose above.

In sounds of praise and prayer.

Oh, in my childhood I have sate,
When that sweet voice hath breathed,
Forgetful of each merry mate-

Of the wild flowers I had wreathed;
And though each other voice I scorned,
That called me from my play,

If my sweet sister only warned,
I never could delay,

'Twas she who sang me many a rhyme,
And told me many a tale,
And many a legend of olden time
That made iny spirit quail.

There are a thousand pleasant sounds
Around our cottage still-

The torrent that before it bounds,
The breeze upon the hill,

The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh,
The swallow in the eaves,
And the wind that sweeps a melody
In passing from the leaves;
And the pattering of the early rain,
The opening flowers to wet-

But they want my sister's voice again,
To make them sweeter yet.

We stood around her dying bed,
We saw her blue eyes close;
While from her heart the pulses fled,
And from her cheek the rose :
And still her lips in fondness moved,
And still she strove to speak
To the mournful beings that she loved,
And yet she was too weak;

Till at last from her eye came one bright ray,
That bound us like a spell;
And as her spirit passed away,

We heard her sigh, "Farewell!”

And oft since then that voice hath come
Across my heart again;

And it seems to speak as from the tomb,
And bids me not complain;

And I never hear a low, soft flute,

Or the sound of a rippling stream,

Or the rich, deep music of a lute,
But it renews my dream,

And brings the hidden treasures forth

That lie in memory's store;

And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth,
That voice I shall hear no more.

No more!-it is not so-my hope
Shall still be strong in Heaven-
Still search around the spacious scope
For peace and comfort given.

[blocks in formation]

THE CHRISTIAN POET.

ONE of this mood I do remember well-
In humbler dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colored them with every hue
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away: those rainbow dreams,
So innocent and fair, that withered age,
E'en at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye,
And passing all between, looked fondly back
To see them once again, ere he departed:
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wished
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile.
He listened, heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charmed; and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renowned;

And deeper vowed again to keep his vow.
His parents saw-his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart-saw, and indulged his hope.

The ancient page he turned, read much, thought much,
And with old bards of honorable name
Measured his soul severely; and looked up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair,
And out before him opened many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring;
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized-
The harp he loved, loved better than his life-
The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He searched, and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret touched the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and searched again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.

Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud-
Slowly and heavily it came; a cloud
Of ills we mention not. Enough to say,
'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst-
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh—
Endure, and drink, e'en to the very dregs,

The bitterest cup that Time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.

He called Philosophy, and with his heart
Reasoned. He called Religion, too, but called
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatched by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought, with eye that dimmed apace,
To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope-but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and Disappointment stood
His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased: and now he seemed to feel,
And shuddered as he felt; his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous, weak became-the clear, obscure.
Memory gave up her charge, Decision reeled,
And from her flight, Fancy returned-returned
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens withered; and the moon, and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn,
And evening, withered, and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces, of all men and women, withered;
Withered to him; and all the universe,

Like something which had been, appeared; but now
Was dead, and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope, wished to forget his vow,
Wished to forget his harp; then ceased to wish.
That was his last. Enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear;
Or being sensible, and sensible

Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.

Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo!
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there!

It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart, withered and desolate,
As leaf of Autumn, which the wolfish winds
Selecting from its former sisters, chase
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone to be forgotten
Eternally, God passed in mercy by,-

His praise be ever new! and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands
A holy harp, into his lips a song,

That rolled its nambers down the tide of time:
Ambitious now but little, to be praised
Of men alone; ambitious most to be
Approved of God, the Judge of all, and have
His came recorded in the book of life.

TO-MORROW.

POLLOK.

w sweet to the heart is the thought of To-morrow, hen Hope's fairy pictures bright colors display; w sweet, when we can from futurity borrow Alm for the griets that afflict us to-day.

When wearisome sickness hath taught me to languish
For health, and the comforts it bears on its wing,
Let me hope (oh! how soon it will lessen my anguish!
That To-morrow will ease and serenity bring.

When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,
Sweet the hope, that To-morrow my wand'rings will
That at home, with all care sympathetic attended,
I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace.

Or, when from the friends of my heart long divided.
The fond expectation with joy how replete!
That from far distant regions, by Providence guided,
To-morrow will see us most happily meet.

When six days of labor each other succeeding,
With hurry and toil have my spirits oppressed,
What pleasure to think as the last is receding,
To-morrow will be a sweet sabbath of rest.

[blocks in formation]

WITH blood-but not his own-the awful sign
At once of sin's desert and guilt's remission,
The Jew besought the clemency divine,
The hope of mercy blending with contrition.
Sin must have death! Its holy requisition

The law may not relax. The opening tomb
Expects its prey! mere respite, life's condition;
Nor can the body shun its penal doom.
Yet, there is mercy: wherefore else delay

To panish! Why the victim and the rite?
But can the type and symbol take away

The guilt, and for a broken law requite?
The CROSS unfolds the mystery: Jesus died:
The sinner lives: the law is satisfied!
With blood-but not his own-the Jew drew near
The mercy-seat, and heaven received his prayer.
Yet still his hope was dimmed by doubt and fear:
"If thou shouldst mark transgression, who might d‰u
To stand before Thee ?" Mercy loves to spare
And pardon: but stern Justice has a voice,
And cries our God is holy, nor can bear

Uncleanness in the people of his choice.
But now ONE OFFERING, ne'er to be renewed,
Hath made our peace for ever. This now gives
Free access to the Throne of Heavenly Grace.
No more base fear and dark disquietude.
He who was slain—the accepted Victim-lives,
And intercedes before the Father's face.
JOSIAH CONDE

ON THE NEW YEAR.
ANOTHER year! another year,
Is borne by time away;
Nor pauses yet his swift career,
Nor tires his wing, nor makes he here
E'en one short hour's delay-

But hurries on, and round, and round,
The wheel of life is sped;
Unnoted oft, until rebound,
Upon the ear, the startling sound,
Another year has fled!

Whoever said 'tis New Year's Day,
With unmixed care or glee?
For hope still paints the future gay,
And memory o'er the past will stray
With sorrowing constancy.

Yet blest if they but there behold
The grave of well spent days;
The joy of gratitude that told
The tear, in patient trust that rolled-
The Christian's hallowed bava

« AnteriorContinua »