Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

MY NATIVE GLEN.

Unnumber'd flowers bestrewn by nature's hand,

In fair luxuriance bud and bloom around; While fancy reigns, and smiles upon the land,

Above, and round this consecrated ground.

My native glen! from you, when far away,

My dreams will still inhale your fresh perfume, Where through the woodruff's fragrancy I stray,

Or linger round the yellow banks of broom.

At morn, when all around is hush'd in sleep,
Ere the early sun dispels the morning dews,
I leave the haunts of men in silence deep,

Within your dark and leafy dells to muse;

Or wander o'er the bushy mountain's brow,
Around the amphitheatre of woods;
Sombering the landscape in the vale below,

Where brawling comes the voice of rushing floods

Unseen, while yet the wreathing mists impend,
Curling above the lonesome green wood's reign;
While far below the foaming streams descend,
Leaping from rock to lin, to reach the plain.

'Tis sweet in such a lovely wilderness,

Ere sleeping flowers their dewy breasts unfold To the morning's sun, the tufted lawn to press, And hear the matin song ring through the wold.

199

In scenes like these, remote from human bield,
Oh could I pass the vale of life alone,

In

peace with th' calm, a rural life might yield, And hail yon moss-crown'd cavern as my own.

Fond recollections! glens, and woods, and all
Ye kindred ties that long and firm have been
Twining around this heart, when I recall

Your dear remembrance, like a morning's dream.

On some far distant day, when seas, between

Us lie; Time's signet, while the warm tears glow, Shall ne'er efface you, nor this smiling scene, Where all my hopes concentrate, ebb, and flow.

Mellow thy notes, sweet bird! the dingle rings

Thy warblings louder, wouldst thou wert at rest, And roosting on the spray: Each note thou sings, Thrills sadness through this throbbing fever'd breast.

VERNAL FLOWERS.

THE yellow Aconite from winter's urn,

With

many an early spring-flower in her train, Starring the landscape, welcome spring's return, Awakening vegetation o'er the plain:

THE WIND-FLOWER.

201

From glen to grove, each small bird's voice again Rings music on the breeze-now the pleas'd eye

Can watch the vernal flower through its short reign, Whether its virgin bud conceal'd may lie

'Mong wither'd leaves, or 'neath the budding thorn. Or dips its crimson cups in the pure stream,

[ocr errors]

Watering its new-born blossoms, while the morn
Smiles down the primrosed valley; every gleam

Of sunshine wakens up new flowers to blow,
So late enshrined in beds of virgin snow.

THE WIND-FLOWER.

I watch'd the Wind-Flower, as she, leaf by leaf,
Unfolded to the breath of April's air;
Her pale and vermil petals, streak'd like grief
On the young face of beauty, when despair
Or premature decay has seiz'd upon

Her angel frame, and droop'd her in her prime.
The flower expanded as the sunbeams shone
Around the smiling glade. No fairer clime
Than this needs ere be sigh'd for, where the ground
Is studded o'er with Wind-Flower; fleeting blooms!
To-morrow ye are gone, and no more found,

Till spring again the wood and lawn perfumes.
Fair emblem of my Laura's hectic bloom,
Loved and adored, then entered in the tomb.

WRITTEN AT SEA.

It is pleasant to gaze on the deep blue sky,
When the fair moonbeams on the waters lie,
And the night breeze swells our sail;
When all is sea, the eye can explore,
As the bark steers for my native shore,
With a light and steady gale.

How lovely then on the calm green sea,
To mark the fish on our starboard and lea,
In countless shoals around,
Like a molten lake of paler gold

All sparkling bright, whose bars infold

Our bark as on fairy ground.

As our prow glides through, we wondering gaze On the far spread phosphorescent blaze,

While from each curling wave,

Bright bars of gold spring up, then glide
In liquid fire down the living tide,
The glancing brine to lave.

We near'd the shore, when the dawning morn Illumin'd the waves, and the spell was gone;

But never from this breast

Shall a sight so glorious and sublime,

Ere be effaced, in whatever clime

My pilgrim'd footsteps rest.

THE COLD SPRING.

203

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE COLD SPRING, 1827.

As yet the trembling year is unconfirm❜d,

And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless.-THOMSON.

'Tis April! yet the snow-storm hovers round,

To blight and scare thee in thy growth-sweet flower, The flakes fall fast around thee, while the ground Crisps to my tread-all yield to winter's power

But thee, and the young snow-drop; left at will
To bloom or perish in the wilds ye love,
By the hoar-drooping hawthorn 'neath the hill,
First in pale Flora's train by yonder grove.

What poet with a scene so drear, forlorn,

Would mantle spring, in smiling robes of green!

For see her shivering in the chills of morn,

Where panzied tufts, and primrose beds have been

And should be blooming now, where snow-clad bowers Shrine April in the wilderness around,

Of fair and spotless purity, where flowers

Shrink from the clear cold air within the ground,

And nestle their young buds in the wither'd leaves,
Strewn by Pomona when she fled these dells:
Yet see, braving the blast, whose bosom heaves,
Fronting the storm, whose embryo beauty swells,

« AnteriorContinuar »