Oh it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wings' impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest-
Upon the world's ignoble breast,
But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and Heaven!
But when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air, in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink!
Oh, Virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak:
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow,
And plunge again to depths below;
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every ling'ring stain away,
And panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once, and fix me there.
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!
He turned not-spoke not, sunk not-fixed his look,
And set the anxious frame that lately shook :
He gazed-how long we gaze despite of pain,
And know—but dare not own, we gaze in vain !
In life itself, she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contained,
In that last gasp as tenderly were strained
As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fring'd her lids of snow—
And veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurks below-
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that last long eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips!
Yet-yet they seem, as they forbore to smile,
And wish'd repose-but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long-fair-but spread in utter lifelessness
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier.
But she is nothing-wherefore is he here?
I PASSED my childhood's home, and lo! 'twas dark!
The night winds whistled 'mid its leafless trees!
No taper twinkled cheerily to tell
That she, the friend, had heaped the social fire,
Spread the trim board, and with an anxious heart,
Expected me, her "dearest boy," to pass
With her the evening hour! oh, no! 'twas gone,
The friendly taper, and the warm fire's glow,
Trembling athwart the gloom! I listened long,
Nor heard, save the unfeeling blast of night,
That chilled my frame, or the sear ice-glazed twig
That hoarsely rustled! 'twas too much—I wept!
Then I bethought me, she was coffined far
Away-laid on the earth's cold lap!
I look'd again—such thoughts were too, too true,
For no ray glimmered! I did pass along,
Shivering, and bowed to earth with heaviness.
MORN on the waters! and purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her penon streams onward, like hope in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along!
See! she looks up to the golden edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds;
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who, as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who-as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs :
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below,
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er !
MONODY ON R. B. SHERIDAN.
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps
itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment, on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord, and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ?
"Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When Summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes,
When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a Power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeathed—no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!
The flash of wit, the bright intelligence,
The beam of song, the blaze of eloquence,
Set with their Sun-but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
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