Thou wert a splendid vision then ;-
When wilt thou seem so bright again?
Yet still thy turrets drink the light
Of summer evening's softest ray,
And ivy garlands, green and bright,
Still mantle thy decay;
And, calm and beauteous, as of old,
Thy wandering river glides in gold!
But life's gay morn of ecstasy,
That made thee seem so more than fair,
The aspirations wild and high,
The soul to nobly dare,
Oh, where are they, stern ruin, say?—
Thou dost but echo-WHERE ARE THEY?
Farewell!-Be still to other hearts
What thou wert, long ago, to mine;
And when the blissful dream departs,
Do thou a beacon shine,
To guide the mourner through his tears,
To the blessed scenes of happier years.
Farewell!-I ask no richer boon,
Than that my parting hour may be
Bright as the evening skies of June!
Thus thus to fade like thee,
With heavenly FAITH'S Soul-cheering ray
To gild with glory my decay!
ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.
AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet, how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,
And yet too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.
But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never looked so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel,
That need not, cannot be suppressed.
I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs Are blended with the funeral hymn; The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.
And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again.
ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.
For, think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod,
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.
One more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly,
I see thee, like a new-born star,
Move up thy pathway in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfading and divine.
Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin;
And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its noonday storms begin.
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;
But no, that look is not the last,-
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word--farewell.
TOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train,
Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on-for the wisdom of man ye mock,
With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,
And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear
A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.
Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;
The turf looks green where the breakers rolled;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men,
And mountains exult where the wave hath been.
But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison drop in man's purest cup;
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death?
With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;-
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ;-
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?
Ye build-ye build-but ye enter not in,
Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;—
As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid,
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,
Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.
STANZAS FOR AN ARABIAN AIR.
BRIGHT, bright is the eye of the wild gazelle,
And her footstep fleet and free;
And white is the pearl when its native well
Mirrors the blush of the coral bell
On the pomegranate tree ;
But I know, I know of a brighter eye,
Of a step more graceful too-
Of a brow like the pearl in its purity—
Of a lip of a deeper coral dye
Than the rich pomegranate's hue!
Her locks are the purple clouds of morn,
When their folds, like banners, float;
And her soft celestial voice is born,
As it were, of the bulbul's note!
Her sleep is the calm of a breathing rose-
The rest of a lonely dove,
When the leaves are lulled in the light that flows
From the mellow skies above!
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