Oh! when will the tempest subside, The storm of Affliction be o'er ; The sea-shattered bark safely ride, Where billows can toss it no more? I long for that haven of rest, Where pleasures unfading remain; Where trouble shall cease to molest, And Satan ne'er harass again! By a Lady. THE LILY. ONCE as I strayed where two fond rills, From Jura's height that wend, Far in the shade of circling hills Their lucid waters blend ; I saw, the Valley's grace and pride, A modest Lily blow : Its bending form, you'd think, would hide A bosom white as snow. Gentle it was, as that fair star That shines with lonely light, When Evening leaves her radiant car, And gives the reins to Night. It seemed t have felt the chilling rain, And bowed before the storm : Yet none of all its sister-train Might show a rival-form. Sweet 'twas and lovely. The warm winds That wander here their way, And on its bosom play.. Thus, while the modest flow'ret shed Its fragrance on the gale, “ The Lily of the Vale!" Silent I gazed : my soul the while Was lured, so sweet it breathed : Nor did I fear one latent wile Around its freshness wreathed. Yet thou hast marked upon the brow The triumph of the heart; That would have barbed its dart. - That pride I've caught in darksome guise, And what that glance would speak : But, dost thou hate the throb that dyes Truth's undissembling cheek? Nay! was that eye in woman dark, Yet told thee what was there? Its loveliness that bade thee mark, A brow of beauty fair ? No! 'twas the look, whose timid soul withdrew : Yon deep, retiring blush, which stole That heart-drawn sigh from you. Sweet unassuming flower ! thy breast No guilty swell had raised, Tho', by its balmy beauties blest, A world its snows had praised. While, musing thus, I view'd its form Traced in the passing tide, A smile-methought ;-but was it warm With vain impassioned pride ? No! such a smile on Sorrow's cheek Would speak a heart resigned: Tell thee, that death alone could break The chain which bound her mind : ! Tell thee, that long her bleeding breast Had worn the weight of woe: That, now, her Saviour spoke of rest, And she was glad to go : Tell thee, that rest was promised too, -In blood its purchase paid That, lost in wonder at the view, She there her Lord surveyed !. That, now, in faith upborne on high, - The wings of faith how fleet ! She dwelt in Heaven-nor tear, nor sigh, Disturbs that blissful seat ! Still as I watched it, lost in thought, To Fancy's forming eye, It seemed to heave a sigh. When lo! a voice; “ Go! quit a breast,”: Stole softly on my ear- |
