« EdellinenJatka »
These eyes beheld Creation's day,
And taught Archangels their triumphant song. Pleased I surveyed bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread, Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flowering earth,
And Ocean heave on his extended bed ;
Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
And, as he rose, the high behest was given,
That I alone of all the host of Heaven, Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth. Thus the Almighty spake: he spake, and called me
AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. God of my life and Author of my days ! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; And trembling take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name, to harps of Seraphs sung, Yet here the brightest Seraphs could no more Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere Are equal all, for all are nothing here. All Nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which Nature's works, through all her parts proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ; Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide ; At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke;
If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart—Beware! With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on Thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name emblazoned high,
leaf that trembles to the breeze
every creature own thy forming power,
THE MARRIAGE OF YOUNG KENNEDY AND
THOUGH grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies,
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep, The soul, when released from her lingering ties,
In secret may see if their sorrows are deep. Who wept for the worthy Macdougal ?-Not one ! His darling Matilda, who, two months agone, Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme, Indulged in a painful, delectable dream.
But why do the matrons, while dressing the dead,
Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle,
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave, Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,
And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve. Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene, A vapoury silver veil floated serene, A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye, Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.
The scene was so still, it was all like a vision;
The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever. 'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision ;
And nothing was heard but the rush of the river. But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea, Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree? Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion ? There's nothing abroad !-'tis a dream !-a delusion !
But why do the horses snort over their food,
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay? What scares the old owlet afar to the wood ?
Why screams the blue heron, as hastening away? Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover? Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over ? Each white maiden-bosom still heaving so high, And fixed on another each fear-speaking eye?
'Tis all an illusion; the lamp let us trim;
Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown; The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,
And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone. Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away? Why fixed every form like a statue of clay? Say, whence is that noise and that horrible clamour ? Oh, heavens ! it comes from the marriage bedchamber.
Oh, haste thee, Strath-Allan, Glen-Ogle, away,
These outcries betoken wild horror and woe; The dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay;
Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan ! fly swift as the roe. Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim, You stood with Macdonald and Archibald the grim ; Then why do ye hesitate? why do ye stand With claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand ?
The tumult is o'er ; not a murmur nor groan;
What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon? 'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly alone,
Who hies him away by the light of the moon. All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found, The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground; Her features distorted, her colour the clay, Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.
Ere morn they returned ; but how well had they never
They brought with them horror too deep to sustain ; Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain. List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty ;Oh, sweet is the path of devotion and duty !~ When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death, And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.