The humble offering of a friend, May this, like years behind you fled, Your sun is still ascending high, Not yet in his meridian sky; Long may he shine in splendour bright, May not a cloud pass o'er his breast, But at his setting brightest shine, L STANZAS TO SILENCE. WHAT art thou, Silence? who has thee On earth, in air, or heard, or seen? No pen can trace thy pedigree, Nor pencil sketch thy form and mien. To seek for thee in heaven were vain, For hymns of praise still echo there; In mansions of unchanging pain Are heard the groans of dark despair. Thou wert not at creation's birth; Ages have rolled, and Time has passed, And seen thee still compelled to roam, A wanderer 'midst creation vast, A fugitive, without a home. When thou would'st seek the flowery vale, The song of joy breathed soft around, Thou loath'st the garish blaze of day, To court the stillness of the night. Yet thou wilt fly, if tempests roar, And mountain oaks groan in the gale;— If murmuring waves but kiss the shore, And listening echo catch the tale. Though dear to thee the shady grove, In pathless wilds and deserts drear Thou'lt linger, in his lonely cell; Unstable still thy dwelling there; Even that is not thy home of rest; For thou wilt vanish at his prayer,— Start from the sigh that heaves his breast. Although thou ever fliest afar The trumpet's clang and rattling drum ; Yet wilt thou seek the field of war, When victory's blood-stained day is come. To hover o'er the gory bed Where valour cold and lifeless lies, Till startled by the plunderer's tread, Or scared by flapping vulture's cries. Where Tadmor's ruins stand sublime, Or Babylon, before her time, Swept from the earth, her place unknown, Thou hauntest still; but these deny There is a spot where thou can'st reign, |