And round the sinewy neck 't was plain No more: behind yon distant pines Not mine to trespass on the ground LOVE. BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ. WONDERFUL passion!-clasping all, yet single! Yea, there are scenes which ever can revive Feelings long past, breathing our youth anew, And to disused eye-lids strangely give Hot tears- else cold, as is the marble dew. TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. UNHAPPY child of indiscretion! Poor slumberer on a breast forlorn, Pledge and reproof of past transgression, Dear, though unwelcome to be born. For thee, a suppliant wish addressing prayer. But spite of these, my mind unshaken, And lest the injurious world upbraid thee, A nameless mother oft shall aid thee, And though to rank and place a stranger, Thy life an humble course must run, Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger, Which I, too late, have learned to shun. Meantime, in the sequestered valleys, Here too thy infant wants are given, My tears have dropt, and mingled there! ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III. BELLS toll for peasants, and we heed them not We pause to listen, and reflecting sigh! We cannot grieve alike for youth and age: But thee, the age-worn Monarch of these realms, Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night, To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved, O! what a rapturous change, from dark to light, Those darkened eyes no more obstruct the day, Far from her wretched tenement of clay, All eye-all reason—soars the happy soul! As death drew near, O! did not angels stand, Come where, beyond the portals of the grave, The loved-the lost-to thy embraces press; THE PARTING SONG. BY MRS. HEMANS. I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! thou'rt from my native dell, Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of fare well! And fare thee well;-flow on, my stream! flow on thou bright and free, I do but dream that in thy, voice one tone laments for me. tears; The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known: The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone! I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the groves, The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother loves! The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene,— Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come, Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home? Not as the dead!-no, not the dead! we speak of them-we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep; We hallow even the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung, I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply. Brightly it would have gushed, but thou-my mother! thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own. |