And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of heaven his upward ken,
There it is with us, e'en as is our trust,
He that believes, is near the Holy then.
There shall each feeling, beautiful and high,
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day--
Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye,
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.
Methinks it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world like this,
Where even the breezes and the common air
Contain the power and spirit of harmony.-COLERIDGE.
HARP of the winds! What music may compare
With thy wild gush of melody;-Or where
'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet
Tones like to thine-so soothing and so sweet!
Harp of the winds! When Summer's Zephyr wings His airy flight across thy tremulous strings,
As if enamoured of his breath, they move
With soft low murmurs,-like the voice of Love
Ere passion deepens it, or sorrow mars
Its harmony with sighs!-All earthborn jars
Confess thy soothing power, when strains like these,
From thy bliss-breathing chords, are borne upon the
breeze!
But when a more pervading force compels
Their sweetness into strength,-and swiftly swells
Each tenderer tone to fulness,-what a strange
And spirit-stirring sense that fitful change
Wakes in my heart!-Visions of days long past,—
Hope-joy-pride-pain-and passion-with the blast,
Come rushing on my soul,-till I believe
Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive,
Hath fixed its spell upon me, and I grieve
I may not burst its bonds!-Anon the gale
Softly subsides, and whisperings wild prevail
Of inarticulate melody, which seem
Not music, but its shadow;-what a dream
Is to reality;-or as the swell
(Those who have felt alone have power to tell,)
Of the full heart, where love was late a guest,
Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest!
The charm is o'er! Each warring thought flits by,
Quelled by that more than mortal minstrelsy!
Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet control,
And peace once more returns, and settles on my soul !
Harp of the winds! thy ever-tuneful chords,
In language far more eloquent than words
Of earth's best skilled philosophers, do teach
A deep and heavenly lesson! Could it reach,
With its impressive truths, the heart of man,
Then were he blest indeed; and he might scan
His coming miseries with delight! The storm
Of keen adversity would then deform
No more the calm stream of his thoughts, nor bring
Its wonted "grisly train ;" but, rather wring
Sweetness from out his grief,-till even the string
On which his sorrows hung, should make reply,
However rudely swept, in tones of melody!
THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in Pæstum's* garden blew,
Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
Oh! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the withered rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays,
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has poured her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit, that longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.
In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path, And all the endearments that pleasure hath Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, *Biferique rosaria Pæsti.-Virg.
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy-dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repressed,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enlivened and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining, And life wears out with no repining, And the whisper, that tells of early death, Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, When it comes at the hour of still repose, To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose; And the lip, that swelled with a living glow, Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow; And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there, When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, And giving a tinge to her icy lips, Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red, and as transient too, As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honour the sun at his golden set: O! then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss ;
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes.
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.
AUTHOR OF THE SORROWS OF ROSALIE.
THEY tell me, lady, that thy face
Is as an angel's fair,
That tenderness is all the trace
Of earth thy features wear;
That we might hold thee seraph still,
But sighs with smiles unite,
And that thy large dark eyes will fill
With tears as well as light.
They tell me that thy wit when gay
Will turn to sad again-
The likeness of the lightning ray,
That melts in summer rain;
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