Sivut kuvina

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,

But patience shall never depart!
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combined
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.
Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore ;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore !
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! Yea ! even the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again :

To bear is to conquer our fate.


UNFAVING Hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power !
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phenix spirit burns within !

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes !

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Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die !
Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun !
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss !

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul !
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill !

TO-MORROW. How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow,

When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display, How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow,

A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day!

When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish

For health, and the comforts it bears on its wing, Let mne hope, oh, how soon it would lessen my anguish!

That to-morrow will ease and serenity bring. When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,

Sweet hope that to-morrow my wandering will cease; That at home then with 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 may see us most happily meet. When six days of labour, 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. And when the vain shadows of time are retiring,

When life is fast fleeting, and death is in sight, The Christian believing, exulting, aspiring,

Beholds a to-morrow of endless delight ! But the infidel then, he sees no to-morrow :

Yet he knows that his moments are hastening away; Poor wretch ! can he feel, without heart-rending sorrow,

That his joys and his life will expire with to-day!

THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; “ Hark ye,” said he, “ 'tis an odd story this About the crows !"-"I don't know what it is,” Replied his friend.--"No! I'm surprised at that ; Where I come from, it is the common chat;

But you

shall hear: an odd affair indeed ! And that it happened, they are all agreed : Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, who lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up Three Black Crows !"

“Impossible!"-"Nay, but 'tis really true; I bad it from good hands, and so may you." “ From whose, I pray?”. -So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. “Sir, did you tell"-relating the affair

Yes, sir, I did ; and if 'tis worth your care, 'Twas Mr. Such-a-one, who told it me ; But, by the by, 'twas Two black crows, not Three.

Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Quick, to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir"_and so forth—"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact ; It was not Two black crows, 'twas only One, The truth of that you may depend upon: The gentleman himself told me the case.” Where may I find him ?”—“Why, in such a place."

Away he went; and having found him out, Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.”. Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know, if true what he had heard ; “ Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?”—“NOT I.”“ Bless me!-how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one ; And here, I find, all comes at last to None ! Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?”“Crow--crow—perhaps I might, now I recall The matter o'er."

And, pray, sir, what was't ?"
Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was -as black, sir, as a crow.”

QDE TO INDEPENDENCE.. Thy spirit, Independence, let me share,

Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye, Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian genius, thou didst teach my youth

Pomp and her tinsel livery to despise : My lips, by thee chastised to early truth,

Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.

Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,

Where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread,

And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind : Where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,

And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow, And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,

Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow :

Where ever dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,

Presents her cup of stale profession's froth, And pale Disease with all his bloated train,

Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's car behold the minion ride,

With either India's glittering spoils oppressed : So moves the sumpter-mule in harnessed pride

That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.

For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,

And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string ; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay,

And all her gingling bells fantastic Folly ring ; Disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene,

And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,

Shook from the baneful pinions of Isgust.

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