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He suffer'd,—but his pangs are o'er;
Till all the air around
Mysterious murmurs fill,
Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still
He loved,---but whom he loved, the grave
O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long : O! strike it with sublime command
And be the Poet's life thy song. Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled, Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring.
And burst and blossom from the dead;
He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encounter'd all that troubles thee; He was—whatever thou hast been; He is—what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase, And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sun-set hour of peace ; Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of Youth, Unchanging as Jehovah's love,
And everlasting as his truth: Sing, heavenly Hope !—and dart thine hand
O'er my frail Harp, untuned so long; That Harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song. Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.
The annals of the human race,
Verges written for an Urn, made out of the trunk of the Weep
ing Willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.
THE HARP OF SORROW. I GAVE my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long, They will not speak at my command ;
They warble only to her song. Of dear, departed hours,
Too fondly loved to last, The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,
Snapt in their freshness by the blast: Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath, And endless ages of despair,
Beyond the judgment-day of death :The weeping Minstrel sings,
And, while her numbers flow,
Responsive to the notes of woe.
And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones, The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb or only utter moans.
Wiin .uxury of grief,
In sorrow's music feels relief.
ERE POPE resign'd his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
Upon the drooping Willow;
From youth to age it flourish'd;
By showers and sunbeams nourish'd ; And while in dust the Poet slept, The Willow o'er his ashes wept. Old Time beheld his silvery head
With graceful grandeur towering, Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The breezy lawn embowering,
The lovely Nine retreating,
Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire,
And on its magic pulses play;
Whose spirit in the Willow spoke, Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.
Yet, fallen Willow! if to me
Such power of song were given,
And call down fire from heaven,
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing ; Bright Ariel's troop, on Thames's side,
Around the Willow dancing ; Gay sylphs among the foliage play'd, And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree
In beauty green and glorious, • The hand," he cried, “ that planted thee
O'er mine was oft victorious;
He spake, and struck a silent blow
With that dread arm whose motion Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
And wields o'er land and ocean
A WALK IN SPRING.
A little mountain stream
Beneath the morning beam.
From cottage roofs conceal'd, Below a rock abruptly broke,
In rosy light revealed.
While from the ranging eye,
To meet the bending sky.
The Blackbird's loud wild note, Or, from the wintry thicket drear,
The Thrush's stammering throat.
Deep to the Willow's root it went,
And cleft the core asunder, Like sudden secret lightning, sent
Without recording thunder: -From that sad moment, slow away Began the Willow to decay.
In vain did Spring those bowers restore,
Where loves and graces revell’d, Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,
The thin grey leaves dishevellid, And every wasting Winter found The Willow nearer to the ground.
Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the ax assail'd it:
-The swans of Thames bewail'd it. With softer tones, with sweeter breath, Than ever charm'd the ear of death.
O Pore! hadst thou, whose lyre so long
The wondering world enchanted,
This Weeping Willow planted;
In rustic solitude 't is sweet
The violet from its tomb,
The sorrel's simple bloom.
Fresh-opening bells I see ;
Hope buds on every tree.
As yet unheard, unseen,
Of days that once had been ;-
Or, on more curious quest,
To see the linnet's nest.
And mock'd the cuckoo's call;
The evening rainbow fall.
The plant whose pensile flowers
Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime,
The storm of ages braving, Triumphant o'er the wrecks of Time
Its verdant banner waving, While regal pyramids decay'd, And empires perish'd in its shade.
An humbler lot, O Tree' was thine,
-Gone down in all thy glory;
To sing thy simple story ;
Yet, lowly Cowslip, while in theo
Fresh in perennial prime,
The woes and waste of Time.
Lone on a mossy bank it grew,
Among the verdure crept ;
The breezes lightly swept.
Then fied in airy rings;
Glancing his glorious wings.
Nor ever sought in vain,
Is dancing on the plain
In calm delicious hours,
'Midst love-awakening showers. Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand, In briery glens, o'er pasture-land,
Thy fairy tribes we meet ; Gay in the milk-maid's path they stand,
They kiss her tripping feet. From winter's farm-yard bondage freed, The cattle bounding o'er the mead,
Where green the herbage grows,
Upon thy tufts repose.
Sports with thy flexile stalk,
To crop it in his walk. Where thick thy primrose blossoms play, Lovely and innocent as they,
O'er coppice lawns and dells, In bands the rural children stray,
To pluck thy nectar'd bells ; Whose simple sweets, with curious skill, The frugal cottage-dames distil,
Nor envy France the vine, While many a festal cup they fill
With Britain's homely wine.
This fading eye and withering mien
Since more and more estranged,
Through Folly’s wilds I ranged. Then fields and woods I proudly spurnd, From Nature's maiden love I turn'd,
And woo'd the enchantress Art; Yet while for her my fancy burnd,
Cold was my wretched heart,-
My peace untimely slain,
To fields and woods again. 'Twas Spring ;-my former haunts I found My favorite flowers adorn'd the ground,
My darling minstrels play'd;
The valleys dun with shade.
My infant hopes and fears
Of retrospective years.
With mellowing tints, portray
For ever fall'n away.
The future good to find ;
For bliss we look behind.
A DEED OF DARKNESS.
Unchanging still from year to year,
With undiminish'd rays,
The dawn of lengthening days.
Thy self-renewing race
In this neglected place.
From scythe and plow secure,
While earth and skies endure !
The body of the Missionary, John Smith, (who died Feb nary 6, 1824, in prison, under sentence of death by a court-me dal, in Demerara), was ordered to be buried secretly at nighe and no person, not even his widow, was allowed to follow the corpse. Mrs. Smith, however, and her friend Mrs. Elliot, accompanied by a free Negro, carrying a lantern, repaired beforehand to the spot where a grave had been dug, and there they awaited the interment, which took place accordingly. His Majesty's pardon, annulling the condemnation, is said to have arrived on the day of the unfortunate Missionary's death, from the rigors of confinement, in a tropical climate, and under the slow pains of an invelerate malady, previously afflicting him.
COME down in thy profoundest gloom,
Without one vagrant fire-fly's light, Beneath thine ebon arch entornb
Earth, from the gaze of Heaven, O Night' A deed of darkness must be done, Put out the moon, hold back the sun.
Are these the criminals, that flee
Like deeper shadows through the shade ? A flickering lamp, from tree to tree,
Betrays their path along the glade, Led by a Negro ;-now they stand, Two trembling women, hand in hand.
O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
birth! -T is the loveliest land on the face of the earth
Imitated from the Italian of Metastasio.
A grave, an open grave, appears;
O'er this in agony they bend,
Sighs following sighs their bosoms rend:
Look forth, for what they fear to meet: It comes; they catch a glimpse ; it flies :
Quick-glancing lights, slow-trampling feet, Amidst the cane-crops,—seen, heard, gone, Return - and in dead-march move on. A stern procession !-gleaming arms,
And spectral countenances, dart, By the red torch-flame, wild alarms,
And withering pangs through either heart; A corpse amidst the group is borne, A prisoner's corpse, who died last morn. Not by the slave-lord's justice slain,
Who doom'd him to a traitor's death ;
O'er land and sea to save his breath :
Were impotent to spare or kill;
Nor turn its edge aside, at will :
THE tall Oak, towering to the skies,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
That corpse is to the grave consign'd; The scene departs this buried trust,
The Judge of quick and dead shall find, When things which Time and Death have seald Shall be in flaming fire reveal'd.
The fire shall try Thee, then, like gold,
Prisoner of hope !-await the test; And 0, when truth alone is told,
Be thy clear innocence confess'd ! The fire shall try thy foes ;-may they Find mercy in that dreadful day.
This shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away,
Since light and motion first began,
Yet, in its calm career,
And still, through each succeeding year
This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,
From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys, And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn, Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn. -Ah! soon, beneath the inevitable blow I too shall lie in dust and darkness low. Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb, Whose moving shadow shall portend Each frail beholder’s doom
THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG,
IN A FOREIGN LAND.
Imitated from the French.
O, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore ?
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,
Though Time's triumphant flight be shown, The truest index on its face
Points from the church-yard stone.
Then listen, Agnes, friendship sings;
Seize fast his forelock grey,
A feather every day.
And bid him plow your face,
Shall be a line of grace.
Addressed to a Friend on the Birth of his first Child.
Start not: old age is virtue's prime;
Most lovely she appears, Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time,
Down in the vale of years. Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,
The eternal mountains rise ; Virtue descends not to the tomb,
Her rest is in the skies.
'Two Roses on one slender spray,
In sweet communion grew, Together hail'd the morning ray,
And drank the evening dew;
They open'd into bloom,
Their beauty and perfume ;
They faded in the wind,
The loveliest of their kind,
The bud unfolding rose,
From dawn to sun-rise glows,
The golden age of man,
-Life's little, less'ning span ;
Art thou a man of honest mould,
With fervent heart, and soul sincere?
Thy brother slumbers here.
Once cheer'd his eye, now dark in death The wind that wanders o'er his lomb
Was once his vital breath.
The roving wind shall pass away,
The warming sun forsake the sky; Thy brother, in that dreadful day,
Shall live and never die.
THE OLD MAN'S SONG. SHALL man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear, Oft but a moment, and, at most,
A momentary year? There was a time,- that time is past,
When, youth! I bloom'd like thee! A time will come,-'t is coming fast,
When thou shalt fade like me :
And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms.
The pledge of future charms,
Like me through varying seasons range,
And past enjoyments mourn ;The fairest, sweetest spring shall change
To winter in its turn.
Till, planted in that realm of rest
Where Roses never die, Amidst the gardens of the blest,
Beneath a stormless sky, You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod, That blossom'd at the sight of God.
In infancy, my vernal prime,
When life itself was new, Amusement pluck'd the wings of time,
Yet swifter still he flew.
Repiy to some Lines, beginning, "Arrest, O Time, thy fleeting
Time will not check his eager flight,
Though gentle Agnes scold, For 't is the Sage's dear delight
To make young ladies old.
Summer my youth succeeded soon,
My sun ascended high, And pleasure held the reins till noon,
But grief drove down the sky. Like autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign; My harvesi-moon scarce fill'd her horn, When she began to wane.