[EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 1781-1849.] THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. STRONG climber of the mountain side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling spreads his wing, Where dewy daisies gleam; And here the sun-flower+ of the spring Burns bright in morning's beam. To mountain winds the famish'd fox Complains that Sol is slow,
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks His royal robe to throw. But here the lizard seeks the sun, Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun Its beauteous nest to make.
The Hedge Sparrow.
The Dandelion. The Golden-Crested Wren.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee, Where verdure fires the plain, Walk thou with me, and stoop to see The glories of the lane!
For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day
Look down on earth secure ; Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature ;
A world not scorn'd by Him who made Even weakness by his might; But solemn in his depth of shade, And splendid in his light. Light not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm-loved mountains spread, Or widely-teaching sun and star
Thy glorious thoughts are read; Oh, no! thou art a wond'rous book, To sky, and sea, and land- A page on which the angels look, Which insects understand! And here, oh, Light! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood; 'This driplet feeds Missouri's tide- And that Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heav'n in madness flings The blind foam of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll-
The roar that ne'er is still? "Tis mute as death !—but in my soul It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone!
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone!
[ledge, With shade o'er shade, from ledge to Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge
Of mountains mushroom high.
Oh, God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things
On these grey stones unseen may dwell! What nations with their kings!
I feel no shock, I hear no groan
While fate perchance o'erwhelms Empires on this subverted stone- A hundred ruin'd realms ! Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, Impell'd by woe or whim, May crawl, some atom cliffs to see- A tiny world to him! Lo! while he pauses, and admires The work of nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night!
Oh, God of terrors! what are we ?- Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee, Could smite us into nought! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of thy hand Thy little ones would sleep.
O from their home paternal may they go, With little to unlearn, though much to know!
Them, may no poison'd tongue, no evil eye,
Curse for the virtues that refuse to die ; The generous heart, the independent mind,
Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting behind!
May temperance crown their feast, and friendship share !
May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit, there! May they shun baseness as they shun the grave!
May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave !
Sweet peace be theirs-the moonlight of the breast
And occupation, and alternate rest;
LOVE STRONG IN DEATH.
WE watch'd him, while the moonlight, Beneath the shadow'd hill, Seem'd dreaming of good angels, And all the woods were still. The brother of two sisters
Drew painfully his breath : A strange fear had come o'er him, For love was strong in death. The fire of fatal fever
Burn'd darkly on his cheek, And often to his mother
He spoke, or tried to speak: "I felt, as if from slumber I never could awake: Oh, Mother, give me something To cherish for your sake! A cold, dead weight is on me— A heavy weight, like lead: My hands and feet seem sinking Quite through my little bed: I am so tired, so weary-
With weariness I ache: Oh, Mother, give me something To cherish for your sake! Some little token give me,
Which I may kiss in sleep- To make me feel I'm near you, And bless you though I weep. My sisters say I'm better-
But, then, their heads they shake : Oh, Mother, give me something To cherish for your sake!
Why can't I see the poplar,
The moonlit stream and hill, Where, Fanny says, good angels
Dream, when the woods are still? Why can't I see you, Mother? I surely am awake:
Oh, haste! and give me something To cherish for your sake!" His little bosom heaves not;
The fire hath left his cheek: The fine chord-is it broken?
The strong chord-could it break? Ah, yes the loving spirit
Hath wing'd his flight away: A mother and two sisters Look down on lifeless clay.
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul !
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN. The Isle of Palm.. IT is the midnight hour:-the beauteous
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, Far down within the watery sky reposes. As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd With inward life, a sound is heard, Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;
'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, That lies like a garment floating fair Above the happy deep.
The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd By evening freshness from the land, For the land it is far away;
But God hath will'd that the sky-born
In the centre of the loneliest seas Should ever sport and play. The mighty Moon she sits above, Encircled with a zone of love, A zone of dim and tender light That makes her wakeful eye more bright: She seems to shine with a sunny ray, And the night looks like a mellow'd day! The gracious Mistress of the Main Hath now an undisturbed reign, And from her silent throne looks down, As upon children of her own, On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest!
MAGDALENE'S HYMN. The City of the Plague. THE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie; By day and night the death-bell tolls, And says, "Prepare to die."
The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wond'rous fair, Hath faded, ere his course was run, Beneath its golden hair.
I see the old man in his grave, With thin locks silvery-grey; I see the child's bright tresses wave In the cold breath of clay.
The loving ones we loved the best, Like music all are gone! And the wan moonlight bathes in rest Their monumental stone.
But not when the death-prayer is said The life of life departs; The body in the grave is laid, Its beauty in our hearts.
And holy midnight voices sweet Like fragrance fill the room, And happy ghosts with noiseless feet Come bright'ning from the tomb.
We know who sends the visions bright, From whose dear side they came! -We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name!
This frame of dust, this feeble breath The Plague may soon destroy; We think on Thee, and feel in death A deep and awful joy.
Dim is the light of vanish'd years In the glory yet to come; O idle grief! O foolish tears! When Jesus calls us home.
Like children for some bauble fair That weep themselves to rest; We part with life-awake! and there The jewel in our breast!
SACRED POETRY.
How beautiful is genius when combined With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd
By the soft hand of Piety, and hung Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the ear of God. And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?
Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,
That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Or on some moonlit hill, the shepherd pour'd
Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive
Erst chanted to the lyre of Israel, More touching far than ever poet breathed Amid the Grecian isles, or later times Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.
THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. WITH laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heartfelt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; Circled by joy, like planet bright, That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, Thy image such, in former time,' When thou, just entering on thy prime, And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace; Though happy still, yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By tay glad youth and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary time; For thou art doom'd in age to know, The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode,
Thy lustrous soul; then harp and hymn, From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in Immortality.
[HORACE SMITH. 1779-1849.]
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeThen say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, [to glass; Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication.
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN I need not ask thee if that hand, when
BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.
AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's street three thousand years ago, [glory, When the Memnonium was in all its And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dumby;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.
Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect
[fame? To whom we should assign the Sphinx's Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
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