And I hop'd, though disfigur'd, some token to find, Of the names, and the carvings, impress'd on the rind.
All eager I hasten'd the scene to behold,
Render'd sacred and dear by the feelings of old, And I deem'd that, unalter'd, my eye should explore
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore!
'Twas a dream-not a token or trace could I view Of the names that I lov'd, of the trees that I knew; Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, Like a tale that is told-they had vanish'd away!
And methought the lone river that murmur'd along, Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, Since the birds, that had nestled, and warbled above, Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove!
I paus'd, and the moral came home to my heart,-
Behold how of earth all the glories depart;
Our visions are baseless-our hopes but a gleam,
Our staff but a reed, and our life but a dream!
Then oh! let us look-let our prospects allure
To scenes that can fadé not, to realms that endure;
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time!
· From Samor, Lord of the Bright City.
SUNK was the sun, and up the eastern heaven,
Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage,
Mov'd the meek star of eve; the wandering air
Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like
Slept, weary of the garish, babbling day.
Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing
Droops not in slumber; Lilian, thou alone,
'Mid the deep quiet, wakest.-Dost thou rove,
Idolatrous of yon majestic moon,
That like a crystal-throned Queen in heaven,
Seems with her present deity to hush
To beauteous adoration all the earth?
Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops
Stand up and worship! the translucent streams
Down the hills glittering, cherish the pure light
Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung
At intervals; the lake, so silver-white,
Glistens ; all indistinct the snowy swans
Bask in the radiance cool. Doth Lilian muse
To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn?
Nursling of solitude, her infant couch
Never did mother watch; within the grave
She slept, unwaking: scornful turn'd aloof
Caswallon, of those pure, instinctive joys
By fathers felt, when playful, infant grace,
Touch'd with a feminine softness, round the heart
Winds its light maze of undefin'd delight,
Contemptuous: he with haughty joy beheld
His boy, fair Malwyn; him in bossy shield Rock'd proudly, him upbore to mountain steep Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest To battle with the eagle's clam'rous brood.
But she, the while, from human tenderness
Estrang'd, and gentler feelings that light up
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile,
Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone
By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild
Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew,
A lonely child, by not one human heart
Belov'd, and loving none: nor strange if learnt
Her native fond affections to embrace
Things senseless and inanimate; she lov'd
All flow'rets that with rich embroidery fair
Enamel the green earth; the odorous thyme,
Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spared
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears.
Grey birch and aspen light she lov'd, that droop
Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze
That wanton'd with her brown and glossy locks;
The sunbeam chequ❜ring the fresh bank; ere dawn
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve,
By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge,
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.
Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce
heard,
Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid
Soothing the child with simple tale or song.
Hence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears,
Life's sins and sorrows: better known the voice
Belov'd of lark from misty morning cloud
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird.
Nor they of love unconscious, all around
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet
Tuned emulous; her knew all living shapes
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,
Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouch'd,
Courting her fond caress; nor fled her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy.
HEAV'N! What enormous strength does Death possess!
How muscular the giant's arm must be,
To grasp that strong-boned horse, and, spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the earth!
Yet, hold, he rises!-no-the struggle's vain,
His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe
Of the remorseless monster, stretch'd at length
He lies, with neck extended, head hard press'd
Upon the very turf where late he fed.
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain!
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!
Oh, how he glares!-and, hark! methinks I hear
The bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins!
Amazement! horror! what a desp'rate plunge!
See, where his iron'd hoof has dash'd the sod
With the velocity of lightning. Ah!-
He rises, triumphs;—yes, the vict❜ry's his!
No, no! the wrestler, Death, again has thrown
And, oh! with what a murdering, dreadful fall!
Was't from his chest, or from the throat of Death Exulting in his conquest? I know not.
But, if 'twas his, it surely was his last;
For, see, he scarcely stirs; soft! Does he breathe?
Ah, no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!
How still he's now:-how fiery hot-how cold!
How terrible, how lifeless! all within
A few brief moments!-my reason staggers!
Philosophy, thou poor enlighten'd dotard,
Who can'st assign for every thing a cause,
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee
The headstrong atheist, him who laughs at Heav'n,
And impiously ascribes events to chance,
To help to solve this wonderful enigma!
First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners,
Where the vast strength this creature late possess'd
Has fled to? How the bright sparkling fire,
Which flash'd but now from these dim rayless eyes,
Has been extinguish'd?-Oh, he's dead, you say.
I know it well:-but, how, and by what means?
Was it the arm of chance which struck him down,
In height of vigour, and in pride of strength,
To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me :
Nay, shake not thus the heads that are enrich'd
With eighty years of wisdom glean'd from books,
From nights of study, and the magazines
Of knowledge which your predecessors left.
What! not a word!-I ask you once again,
How comes it that the wondrous essence,
Which gave such vigour to these strong-nerv'd limbs,
Has leap'd from its enclosure, and compell'd
This noble workmanship of Nature thus
To sink into a cold inactive clod?
Nay, sneak not off thus cowardly!-Poor fools!
Ye are as destitute of information
As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!
-The subject of my thoughts!-yes,-there he
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