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"How long so'er the measure given To bound thy moments fugitive,

These shatter'd boughs, though rent and riven, The narrow confines shall o'erlive.

"Thou, blending in thy compass small
Impending age with infant birth,
Ere many seasons pass, must fall,

And mingle with thy parent earth.

"Yet, though the feeble frame that moulds
Thy substance, all decaying be,
That frame of fragile dust enfolds
The germ of immortality.

"Spirit, of origin sublime!

Age is maturing strength to thee; Death, thy best heritage, and time The portal of eternity."

Voice of the Oak! whate'er thou be,
Of wild and visionary race,
That calls such things to memory
As no light fancy should efface;
Still may thy warning hold a place
Within my heart, nor pass away,
Till latest time's faint shadow trace
The dawnings of celestial day!

TO THE MOON.

WHAT is it gives thee, mild queen of the night,
That secret intelligent grace?

O why should I gaze with such tender delight
On thy fair but insensible face?

What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
Beyond the warm sunshine of day?

Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream,
Where dances thy tremulous ray.

Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile,

Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?

Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile, And loves thee almost as a friend?

The tear that looks bright on thy beam as it flows,
Unmov'd thou dost ever behold;

The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee it has never been told;

And yet thou dost sooth me, and ever I find,
While watching thy gentle retreat,

A moonlight composure steal over the mind,
Poetical, pensive, and sweet.

I think of the years that for ever are fled,
Of follies by others forgot;

Of joys that have vanish'd, of hopes that are dead,
Of friendships that were, and are not.

I think of the future-still gazing the while

As thou could'st those secrets reveal;

But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile,

To answer the mournful appeal.

Those beams that so bright through my casement appear,
To far distant scenes they extend;

Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,

And sleep on the grave of my friend.

Then still I must love thee, mild queen of the night,

Since feeling and fancy agree

To make thee a source of unfading delight;

A friend and a solace to me.

WOMAN.

These two stanzas were originally designed for the Scotch air, for which Burns has composed a song, "She's fair and fause," in Thomson's collection. It ends thus:

"O woman, lovely woman fair,

An angel-form's fa'n to thy share,

'Twou'd ha' been our mickle to ha' gie'n thee mair,
I mean an angel mind."

WOMAN, dear woman, in whose name

Wife, sister, mother meet;

Thine is the heart by earliest claim,
And thine its latest beat:

In thee the angel-virtues shine,
An angel-form to thee is given;
Then be an angel's office thine,
And lead the soul to heaven.

From thee we draw our infant strength,
Thou art our childhood's friend;
And when the man unfolds at length,

On thee his hopes depend ;

For round the heart thy power has spun
A thousand dear mysterious ties:
Then take the heart thy charms have won,
And nurse it for the skies.

A CHARACTER.

A FRAGMENT.

AT length her sorrows drew the lines of care
Across her brow, and sketched her story there:
Years of internal suffering dried the stream
That lent her youthful eye its liquid beam.
A mild composure to its glance succeeds,
Her gayest look still spoke of widow's weeds.
1 Her smile was that of patience, not of ease,
An effort made to cover, or to please;

While grief, with thorny pencil, day by day,
In silence delv'd the flagging cheek away;

Chased the gay bloom that peaceful thoughts bestow,
To spread, instead, the sallow tints of woe;
And where the magic dimple used to start,
In early wrinkles wrote-a broken heart.
And when at length, as satiate with spoil,
Grief seem'd relenting from her daily toil,

Time, who had check'd her pow'r, assum'd his own,
(His labours he divides, but not his throne,)
And features that in sorrow's mould were cast,
His master chisel finishes at last.

Perchance the casual undiscerning gaze,
That never read a history in a face,
In the gay circle had supposed her gay,
Nor marked the nascent traces of decay:
But oh! to those whose nicer feelings take
The fine impression that a look can make,
Who, skilled by sorrows of their own, descry,
The prisoned secret speaking in the eye,
(As weeping captives at their windows pine,)
To them there was a voice in every line,
The brow by effort raised to seem serene,
Round every smile the circling wrinkle seen;
The sudden cloud that came, and passed away,
Chased by a cheerless struggle to be gay;
At certain words or names the quick, short sigh,,
And, when neglected long, the absent eye,
That seemed on images long past to fall,
Unconscious of aught else these told them all.

But few among the selfish, busy, gay,
Permit a quiet face to stop their way;
A face that holds no lure, no tribute seeks,
Demands no homage, nothing strange bespeaks;
That looks, as hundreds look that they have known,
Just mark'd enough to call some name its own:

O few in folly's course can check their speed,
The simple lines of character to read:
Or if they pause, that rude unfeeling eye,
The cold inquiry, contumelious sigh,
And all the world's gross pity can impart,
Are caustic to the festers of the heart.

535

VERSES,

Written on a blank leaf in the "Hymns for Infant Minds." By the Author of Original Poems, Rhymes for the Nursery, &c.

ADDRESSED TO ANNE AND JANE.*

WHEN the shades of night retire
From the morn's advancing beam,
Ere the hills are tipt with fire,
And the radiance lights the stream,
Lo! the lark begins her song,
Early on the wing and long:

Summon'd by the signal notes,
Soon her sisters quit the lawn,
With their wildly-warbling throats
Soaring in the dappled dawn:
Brighter, warmer spread the rays,
Louder, sweeter swell their lays.

Nestling in their grassy beds,
Hearkening to the joyful sound,
Heavenward point their little heads,
Lowly twittering from the ground,
Till their wings are fledged to fly
To the chorus in the sky.

Thus, fair minstrels! while ye sing,
Teaching infant minds to raise
To the Universal King

Humble hymns of prayer and praise,
O may all who hear your voice,
Look, and listen, and rejoice.

Faltering like the skylark's young,
While your numbers they record,
Soon may every heart and tongue
Learn to magnify the Lord;
And your strains divinely sweet
Unborn millions thus repeat.

Minstrels! what reward is due
For this labour of your love?—
Through eternity may you,
In the Paradise above,

Round the dear Redeemer's fect,
All your infant readers meet!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

*The signatures used by these amiable writers in their former publications.

FINIS.

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