Arm after arm shall leave the mouldering bust,
And thy firm fibres crumble into dust;
The muse alone shall consecrate thy name,
And by her powerful art prolong thy fame;
Green shall thy leaves expand, thy branches play,
And bloom for ever in the immortal lay.
THE WITHERED ROSE.
FAIREST flower, the pride of Spring,
Blooming, beauteous, fading thing,
'Tis as yesterday, when first,
Forth thy blushing beauties burst,
And I mark'd thy bosom swell,
And I caught thy balmy smell,
Fondly hoping soon to see
All thy full-blown symmetry ;-
But I came-and lo! around,
Sadly strewn upon the ground,
Lovely, livid leaves I see-
Oh! can these be all of thee!-
I would weep, for so I've known
Many a vivid vision flown,
Many a hope that found its tomb,
Just when bursting into bloom,
Many a friend-ah! why proceed?
See afresh my bosom bleed-
Rather turn my thoughts on high,
Hopes there are which cannot die,-
Yes, my SAVIOUR, thou canst give
Joys that will not thus deceive.-
Eden's roses never fade,
Eden's prospects know no shade.
'Twas Eve. The lengthening shadows
And weeping birch swept far adown
the vale;
And nought upon the hush and stillness broke,
Save the light whispering of the spring-tide gale
At distance dying; and the measur'd stroke
Of woodmen at their toil; the feeble wail
Of some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sank
On the lull'd ear, its melody that drank.
The sun had set; but his expiring beams
Yet linger'd in the West, and shed around Beauty and softness o'er the wood and streams,
With coming night's first tinge of shade embrown'd. The light clouds mingled, brighten'd with such gleams Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround,
That in the vision of the good descend,
And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend.
There are emotions, in that grateful hour
Of twilight and serenity, which steal
Upon the heart with more than wonted power,
Making more pure and tender all we feel,-
Softening its very core, as doth the shower
The thirsty glebe of Summer. We reveal
More, in such hours of stillness, unto those
We love, than years of passion could disclose.
The heavens look down on us with eyes of love,
And earth itself looks heavenly; the sleep
Of Nature is around us, but above
Are beings that eternal vigils keep.
'Tis sweet to dwell on such, and deem they strove
With sorrow once, and fled from crowds to weep
In loneliness, as we perchance have done;
And sigh to win the glory they have won!
'Tis sweet to mark the sky's unruffled blue Fast deepening into darkness, as the rays Of lingering eve die fleetly, and a few
Stars of the brightest beam illume the blaze, Like woman's eye of loveliness, seen through
The veil, that shadows it in vain; we gaze In mute and stirless transport, fondly listening As there were music in its very glistening.
"Tis thus in solitude: but sweeter far,
By those we love, in that all-softening hour, To watch with mutual eyes each coming star,
And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bower Of foliage, wreath'd and trembling, as the car
Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower And shrub that droops above us, on the sense Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense.*
We cannot omit in this place the beautiful lines on a fine moonlight evening from Homer's Iliad, Book viii; a passage which is justly esteemed both for pleasing imagery, and variety of numbers:
"As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!
O'er Heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:-
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light."
THOUGHTS ON THE SEA-SHORE.
In every object here I see
Something, O LORD, that leads to THEE;
Firm as the rocks THY promise stands,
THY mercies countless as the sands,
THY love a Sea immensely wide,
THY grace an overflowing tide,
In every object here I see
Something, my heart, that points at thee;
Hard as the rocks that bound the strand,
Unfruitful as the barren sand,
Deep and deceitful as the Ocean,
And like the tides in constant motion.
LITTLE flower with starry brow,
Slumbering in thy bed of snow;
Or, with lightly tinged ray,
Winter gone and storms away,
Peeping from thy couch of green
With modest head and simple mien ;
How I love to see thee lie,
In thy low serenity,
Basking in the gladsome beam;
Or, beside some murmuring stream
Gently bowing from thy nest,
Greet the water's silver breast.
Or mid fissure of the rock,
Hidden from the tempest's shock,
Vie with snowy lily's bell-
Queen and fairy of the dell.
Thee nor wind nor storm can tear
From thy lonely mountain lair;
Nor the sleety, sweeping rain,
Root thee from thy native plain.
Winter's cold, nor Summer's heat,
Blights thee in thy snug retreat;
Chill'd by snow or scorch'd by flame,
Thou for ever art the same.
Type of truth, and emblem fair
Of virtue struggling through despair,
Close may sorrows hem it round,
Troubles bend it to the ground,
Yet the soul within is calm,
Dreads no anguish, fears no harm ;
Conscious that the HAND which tries
All its latent energies,
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