TO A FRIEND ON THE LOSS OF HIS CHILD.
NOT every bud that grows
Shall bloom into a flower:
Not every hope that glows
Shall have its prospering hour:
A blight the bud may sever,
The hope be quenched for ever.
In every joy there lurks
An impulse of decay:
With silent speed it works,
While all without is gay;
Ere yet we dream of ruin,
The breach is past renewing.
Yet, like the bending bough
From some dead weight released,
The spirits bound, we know not how,
When woe's first press hath ceased;
But this may ne'er be spoken
Of heart or bough that's broken.
There is a pulse in man
That will not throb to grief;
Let woe do all it can,
That pulse will bring relief:
We feel, though self-accusing,
That pulse its balm diffusing.
Since human hopes are vain,
And joy remaineth not,
"Tis well that human pain
When dealt, is thus forgot.
The smile shall leave no traces :
The tear itself effaces.
Then, if apart from all
Thou sheddest still the tear,
Too early doomed to fall
Warm on thine infant's bier,
War not with nature's sorrow,
For peace will come to-morrow.
Or should reviving peace
E'en now be kindly given,
Oh! suffer woe to cease,
And thank indulgent heaven,
That breathes the breath of healing
On wounds of deepest feeling.
London Magazine.
WHAT Spirit fills this holy place?
Is it Religion's mystic torch
That sheds a more than mortal grace
On fractured arch and ruined porch?
Beneath this sky-like dome hath prayed
The heroes of the stormy ages;
And here their noble dust is laid,
Commingled with the saint's and sage's.
Untold thy strongest charm remains-
A Poet found thy secret powers,
Rebuilt thee by his heavenly strains,
And wrapt in glory all thy towers.
Now see we but what he hath told:
His Spirit fills this mighty shrine: Restores the lost, renews the old :His immortality is thine.
MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage; when an officer, sent by the Roman Governor of Africa, came, and thus addressed him- Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you, that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy.' Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length, the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the Governor ? 'Go and tell him,' said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting among the ruins of Carthage.' PLUTARCH.
"Twas noon-and Afric's dazzling sun on high,
With fierce resplendence filled the' unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While, desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay;—her prostrate Fanes
Had strewed their precious marble o'er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown,
The lizard basked upon the altar-stone;
'Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near-dread offspring of the burning day—
Coiled, 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay.
There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer's high, yet faded mien,
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene;
Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed brow;
Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendancy;
While the deep meaning of his features told,
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolled,
Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled:
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm.
But slow his step-and where, not yet o'erthrown,
Still towered a pillar, 'midst the waste alone;
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept and darkly on his brief repose,
The' indignant Genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head-
Crownless, but regal still.-With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!
' And sleep'st thou, Roman ?' cried his voice austere ;
Shall son of Latium find a refuge here?
Awake! arise! to speed the hour of fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage, desolate!
Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave;
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!
"Yes! from the awful gulph of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophecies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time-while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
'Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth !
Who shall awake the mighty ?-Will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
-Barbarians revel in their ancient halls!
And their lost children bend the subject-knee,
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free!
'Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal-Thou, whose eye
Was lightening to the earth-whose pinion waved,
In haughty triumph, o'er a world enslaved ;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory's noon is o'er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course-thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banished from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reached thee-rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings!
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
'But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And empire's widow veils with dust her head!
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine;
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations, 'midst her desarts wait,
To learn the fearful oracles of fate.
'Still sleep'st thou, Roman? Son of victory! rise!
Wake to obey the' avenging destinies !
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood.
My children's manes call-awake! prepare
The feast they claim-exult in Rome's despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries;
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies!
Let Carnage revèl e'en her shrines among!
Spare not the valiant! pity not the young!
Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!'
The vision flies a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear:
|