Friends-now the altered or the dead, A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, Alone! it is in that deep word And are these lost? —and have I said -So bid the willow lift its head Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd- On one, one friend thy weakness cast― HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. FATHER! that in the olive shade O! by the anguish of that night, Send us down bless'd relief; Or to the chasten'd, let thy might WHERE IS THE SEA? And Thou, that when the starry sky "Thy will be done;" By thy meek spirit, Thou of all That e'er have mourn'd the chief- 165 WHERE IS THE SEA? SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied "The sea-where is it?" WHERE is the sea?-I languish here Where is my own blue sea? I miss that voice of waves which first Awoke my childhood's glee; The measured chime-the thundering burst Where is my own blue sea? Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, Soft, soft your winds may be; Yet my sick heart within me dies Where is my own blue sea? I hear the shepherd's mountain flute- TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. How is it that before mine eyes, As in a mirror seen? What spell within thee hath been shrined, Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory's springs; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours;— Such power is thine!-they come, the dead, And smiling back the changed are led, And voices that are music flown Speak to me in the heart's full tone: 'Painted by W. E. West, in 1827, and engraved in the first volume of this publication. TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress- But thou, the while-oh! almost strange, That on thy brow of peace no change Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in thy face. To see thee calm, while powers thus deep Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep O that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by! Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be, Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 167 NO MORE. No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, Breathe through those words-those murmurs of farewell No more! To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, No more! A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove, And turn, and read our own heart's answer there— Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's-the woe Their passion breathes-the desolately deep! That sound in Heaven-oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weep No more! |