How swift, how soon, ye passed away,
Joys of my early hours!
The loud Atlantic Ocean
On Scotland's rugged breast
Rocks, with harmonious motion,
His weary waves to rest,
And gleaming round her emerald isles,
In all the pomp of sunset smiles.
On that romantic shore
My parents hailed their firstborn boy:
A mother's pangs my mother bore,
My father felt a father's joy:
My father, mother,—parents now no more!
Beneath the Lion Star they sleep,
Beyond the Western deep,
And when the sun's noon glory crests the waves, He shines without a shadow on their graves.*
Sweet seas and smiling shores!
Where no tornado-demon roars,
Resembling that celestial clime
Where, with the spirits of the blest,
Beyond the hurricanes of Time,
From all their toils my parents rest:
There, skies eternally serene
Diffuse ambrosial balm
Through sylvan isles for ever green,
O'er seas for ever calm;
While saints and angels, kindling in His rays,
On the full glory of the Godhead gaze,
And taste and prove, in that transporting sight,
Joy without sorrow, without darkness light.
Light without darkness, without sorrow joy,
On earth are all unknown to man ;
Here, while I roved a heedless boy,
Here, while through paths of peace I ran,
My feet were vexed with puny snares,
My bosom stung with insect cares:
But ah! what light and little things
Are childhood's woes !--they break no rest;
Like dew-drops on the sky-lark's wings,
While slumbering in his grassy nest,
Gone in a moment, when he springs
To meet the morn with open breast,
In the islands of Barbadoes and Tobago.
As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow,
And veiled in mist the valley sleeps below.
Like him, on these delightful plains,
I taught, with fearless voice,
The echoing woods to sound my strains,
The mountains to rejoice.
Hail to the trees beneath whose shade,
Rapt into worlds unseen, I strayed;
Hail to the stream that purled along
In hoarse accordance to my song;
My song that poured uncensured lays,
Tuned to a dying Saviour's praise,
In numbers simple, wild, and sweet,
As were the flowers beneath my feet;-
Those flowers are dead,
Those numbers fled,
Yet o'er my secret thought,
From cold oblivion's silent gloom,
Their music to mine ear is brought,
Like voices from the tomb.
As yet in this untainted breast
No baleful passion burned,
Ambition had not banished rest,
Nor hope had earthward turned;
Proud Reason still in shadow lay,
And in my firmament alone,
Forerunner of the day,
The dazzling star of wonder shone,
By whose enchanting ray
Creation opened on my earliest view,
And all was beautiful, for all was new.
Too soon my mind's awakening powers
Made the light slumbers flee,
Then vanished with the golden hours,
The morning dreams, of Infancy;
Sweet were those slumbers, dear those dreams, to me;
And yet to mournful Memory lingering here,
Sweet are those slumbers, and those dreams are dear;
For hither, from my native clime,
The hand that leads Orion forth,
And wheels Arcturus round the north,
Brought me, in Life's exulting prime;
-Blest be that hand!-Whether it shed
Mercies or judgments on my head,
Extend the sceptre or exalt the rod,―
Blest be that hand!-It is the hand of GOD.
(Imitated from the Italian of Serafino Aquilano.)
HOPE, unyielding to despair,
Springs for ever fresh and fair;
Earth's serenest prospects fly,
Hope's enchantments never die.
At Fortune's frown, in evil hour,
Though honour, wealth, and friends depart,
She cannot drive, with all her power,
This lonely solace from the heart:
And while this the soul sustains,
Fortune still unchanged remains;
Wheresoe'er her wheel she guides,
Hope upon the circle rides.
The Sirens, deep in ocean's caves,
Sing while abroad the tempests roar,
Expecting soon the frantic waves
To ripple on a smiling shore:
In the whirlwind, o'er the spray,
They behold the halcyon play;
And through midnight clouds afar
Hope lights up the morning star.
This pledge of bliss in future years
Makes smooth and easy every toil;
The swain who sows the waste with tears,
In fancy reaps a teeming soil:
What though mildew blight his joy,
Frost or flood his crops destroy,
War compel his feet to roam,
Hope still carols Harvest Home!
The monarch exiled from his realm,
The slave in fetters at the oar,
The seaman sinking by the helm,
The captive on his dungeon floor;
All through peril, pain, and death,
Fondly cling to parting breath:
Glory, freedom, power are past,
But the dream of Hope will last.
Weary and faint, with sickness worn,
Blind, lame, and deaf, and bent with age,
By man the load of life is borne
To his last step of pilgrimage:
Though the branch no longer shoot,
Vigour lingers at the root,
And in winter's dreariest day
Hope foretells returning May.
When, wrung with guilt, the wretch would end His gloomy days in sudden night,
Hope comes, an unexpected friend,
To win him back to hated light:
"Hold!" she cries; and from his hand Plucks the suicidal brand;
"Now await a happier doom,-
Hope will cheer thee to the tomb."
When virtue droops, as comforts fail,
And sore afflictions press the mind,
Sweet Hope prolongs her pleasing tale,
Till all the world again looks kind;
Round the good man's dying bed,
Were the wreck of Nature spread,
Hope would set his spirit free,
Crying "Immortality!"
A MOTHER'S Love,-how sweet the name!
What is a Mother's Love?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold:
This is a Mother's Love.
To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone:
This is a Mother's Love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;
To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from Love's own fountain there,
And lull it there to rest;
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death:
This is a Mother's Love.
To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks:
This is a Mother's Love.
And can a Mother's Love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief-for joy?
A Mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;
-Is this a Mother's Love?
Ten thousand voices answer "No!"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;
Yet, ah! remember this,-
The infant, reared alone for earth,
May live, may die,-to curse his birth;
-Is this a Mother's Love?
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell;
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