But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying and weaving anew
Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea
How gently, O sleep! fall thy poppies on me;
For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,
And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night;
So, hurrah! for thee, water! hurrah, hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art riband and star!
Hurrah! for bright water! hurrah, hurrah!
STRANGE that the wind should be left so free,
To play with a flower or tear a tree;
To range or ramble wherever it will,
And, as it lists, to be fierce or still;
Above and around, to breathe of life,
Or to mingle the earth and sky in strife;
Gently to whisper, with morning light,
Yet to growl, like a fetter'd fiend, ere night;
Or to love, and cherish, and bless, to-day,
What, to-morrow, it ruthlessly rends away.
Strange that the sun should call into birth
All the fairest flowers and fruits of the earth,
Then bid them perish, and see them die,
While they cheer the soul, and gladden the eye.
At morn, its child is the pride of spring,
At night, a shrivelled and loathsome thing!
To-day, there is hope and life in its breath,
To-morrow, it shrinks to a useless death.
Strange doth it seem, that the sun should joy
To give life, alone, that it may destroy.
Strange that the ocean should come and go
With its daily and nightly ebb and flow-
Should bear on its placid bosom at morn
The bark that, ere night, will be tempest-torn;
Or cherish it all the way it must roam,
To leave it a wreck within sight of home;
To smile, as the mariner's toils are o'er,
And wash the dead to the cottage-door;
And gently ripple along the strand,
To watch the widow behold him land!
But stranger than all, that man should die,
When his plans are formed, and his hopes are high;
He walks forth a lord of the earth to-day,
And the morrow beholds him part of its clay;
He is born in sorrow, and cradled in pain,
And from youth to age, it is labour in vain ;
And all that seventy years can show,
Is, that wealth is trouble, and wisdom is woe;
That he travels a path of care and strife,
Who drinks the poisoned cup of life!
Alas! if we murmur at things like these,
That reflection tells us are wise decrees;
That the wind is not ever a gentle breath-
That the sun is often the bearer of death-
That the ocean-wave is not always still—
And that life is chequered with good and ill:
If we know 'tis well that such change should be,
What do we learn from the things we see?
That an erring and sinning child of dust
Should not wonder, nor murmur, but hope and trust!
JANE TAYLOR.
BORN, 1783; DIED, 1824.
HERE'S a beautiful earth and a wonderful sky,
And to see them, God gives us a heart and an eye;
Nor leaves us untouched by the pleasure they yield,
Like the fowls of the heaven, or the beasts of the field.
The soul, though encumbered with sense and with sin,
Can range through her own mystic chambers within;
Then soar like the eagle to regions of light,
And dart wondrous thoughts on the stars of the night.
Yea more, it is gifted with vision so keen,
As to know the unknown and to see the unseen;
To glance at eternity's numberless days,
Till dazzled, confounded, and lost in the maze.
Nor will this suffice it, oh wonderful germ,
Of infinite blessings vouchsafed to a worm!
It quickens, it rises, with boundless desires,
And heaven is the lowest to which it aspires.
Such, such is the soul though bewildered and dark,
A vital, ethereal, unquenchable spark;
Thus onward and upward by nature it tends,
Then wherefore descends it? ah! whither descends;
Soon droops its light pinion, borne down by a gust,
It flutters, it flutters,-it cleaves to the dust;
Then feeds upon ashes-deceived and astray;
And fastens and clings to this perishing clay.
For robes that too proud were the lilies to wear—
For food we divide with the fowls of the air-
For joy that just sparkles and then disappears,
We drop from heaven's gate to this valley of tears.
How tranquil and blameless the pleasures it sought,
While it rested within the calm region of thought!
How fraught with disgust and how sullied with woe,
Is all that detains and beguiles it below!
Oh Thou, who when silent and senseless it lay,
Didst breathe into life the inanimate clay,
Now nourish and quicken the languishing fire;
And fan to a flame that shall never expire!
HUMAN LIFE.
"WHAT is the gift of Life?”
Speak thou, in young existence revelling;
To thee it is a glorious, god-like thing;
Love, Hope, and Fancy lead the joyous way;
Ambition kindles up her living ray.
There is a path of light marked out for thee,
A thornless path, and there thy way shall be:
A thousand spirits by thy side shall fall,
But thou shalt live, and look beyond them all:
Yes, Life indeed may seem a joyous thing.
"What is the gift of Life"
To thee, subdued and taught by Wisdom's voice,
Wisdom of stern necessity, not choice?
Whose cup of joy is ebbing out in haste,
Who hast no fountain to supply the waste;
Whose spirit, like some traveller gazing round,
On broken columns in the desert ground,
Sees but sad traces on a lonely scene,
Of what Life was, and what it might have been:
Oh! is not Life a sad and solemn thing?
"What is the gift of Life"
To him who reads with Heaven-instructed eye? 'Tis the first dawning of eternity;
The future heaven just breaking on the sight;
The glimmering of a still increasing light;
Its cheering scenes foretastes of heavenly joy;
Its storms and tempests sent to purify:
Oh! is not Life a bright inspiring thing?
THE PLEASURES OF BENEVOLENCE.
"What is the gift of Life"
To him whose soul through this tempestuous road
Hath passed, and found its home, its heaven, its God?
Who sees the boundless page of knowledge spread,
And years, as boundless, rolling o'er his head;
No cloud to darken the celestial light;
No sin to sully, and no grief to blight;
Is not that better Life a glorious thing?
WILLIAM HAMILTON DRUMMOND.
THE PLEASURES OF BENEVOLENCE.
Of mind may boast a pleasure pure as thine,
Divine Benevolence ?-Th' affections bland
That heart unite to heart; those sympathies
So fine, so complicate, so closely knit
With all the good and ill of all mankind,
Are thy loved daughters.-Trebly blest the heart
Which, like a well-toned instrument, they string
Responsive to the notes of weal or woe!
Pure, exquisite, sublime are all the joys,
Taste's fair attendants boast; but more sublime,
More exquisite, more pure the joys that flow
From virtue's sacred fount. The sweetest voice
That warbles in the grove, is not so sweet
As thine, Compassion-nor the boldest deed
Of hero's arm so worthy of the lyre,
As act of Mercy; nor, in all the round
Of being, is there aught in God's pure eye,
So blessed, so sanctified as those kind thoughts
That stir the bosom of Benevolence.
What are the joys of heaven but those of love?
What God's own bliss?—The bliss of doing good,
Unlimited and perfect. Next to God,
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