Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
"T is heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,—
'T is want that makes my cheek so pale;
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy ;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,—
She could not bear to hear my joy;
For with my father's life 't was bought,―
And made me a poor orphan boy.
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; "Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd,—
My mother answered with her tears!
"O, why do tears steal down your cheek,”
Cried I, "while others shout for joy?"
She kissed me, and in accents weak,
She called me her poor orphan boy.
"What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasped for breath, And her eyes closed! I shrieked for aid, But ah! her eyes were closed in death.
My hardships since I will not tell;
But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah! lady, I have learned too well What 't is to be an orphan boy.
O, were I by your bounty fed—
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide;
Trust me,
I mean to earn my bread,—
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep; what is 't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents, look and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!
MYSTERIOUS Night, when our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! Creation widened on Man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
While flower, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
THE tears I shed must ever fall:
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead;
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
The flatt'ring veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
Those pangs to ev'ry feeling due: Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor, To win a heart-and break it too!
[No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest-and broke my heart.]
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn;
Neglected and neglecting all;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn;
The tears I shed must ever fall.
HELEN CRANSTOUN STEWART.
To an Indian Gold Coin.
SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine,
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm;
The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to charm.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,
Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,
I haste to an untimely grave;
The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine, thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widowed heart to cheer:
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave
Dark and untimely met my view,—
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
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