Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,
And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.
We are deceived, though, even as we drink,
We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone
The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,
"Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings;"
And in the wild ambition of the soul
We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer
To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.
I need not follow the similitude.
Truth is vitality, and if the mind
Be fed on poison, it must lose its power.
The vision that forever strains to err,
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought,
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.
Another lesson with my manhood came.
I have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom, you may see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim,
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip,
That was as free and changeful as the wind-
Even in sadness redolent of love-
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made
Full of all warm affections, and with power
To look through all things lovely up to God,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
With but one use for reason to despise!
Oh, if there is one law above the rest
Written in wisdom-if there is a word
That I would trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child—
If there is any thing that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill-'tis human love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When man's best monuments have pass'd away.
The law of heaven is love; and though its name
Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given;
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
And every tree, and flower, and running brook,
We see how every thing was made to love.
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find any thing to hate but human pride!
Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived-
If this familiar spirit that communes
With yours this hour-that has the power to search
All things but its own compass-is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God-
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend-
If, when these weary organs drop away,
We shall forget their uses, and commune
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their light, in silence and in love-
What is this fleshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal flowers!
How do we ever gaze upon the sky,
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost,
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear for our imprison'd wings!
BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE.
'Tis the day my mother bore her son! She has thought since morn of her absent one. At break of day she remember'd me
With trembling lip and bended knee;
And, at the hour of morning prayer,
She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair;
And, as my father bow'd to pray
For one much loved and far away,
My mother's heart has stirr'd anew,
And tears have gush'd her fingers through;
And with moving lips and low-bent head,
Her soul to heaven has melting fled.
Mother! dear mother! I've wander'd long, And must wander still, in these lands of song. My cheek is burnt with eastern suns; My boyish blood more tamely runs: My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd; My once free nature check'd and steel'd; I have found the world so unlike thee; I have been so forced a rock to be; It has froze my heart!-of my mother only, When the hours are sad, in places lonelyOnly of thee-does a thought go by That leaves a tear in my weary eye: I see thy smile in the clouded air; I feel thy hand in my wind-stirr'd hair;
I hear thy voice, with its pleading tone,
When else I had felt in the world alone-
So alone, that there seem'd to be
Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me!
Mother! dear mother! the feeling nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain; 'Tis the only one that will long remain; And as, year by year, and day by day, Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh, dost thou see
How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee! Malta, Jan. 20, 1834.
PASS thou on! for the vow is said
That may ne'er be broken;
The trembling hand hath a blessing laid
On snowy forehead and auburn braid,
And the word is spoken
By lips that never their word betray'd.
Pass thou on! for thy human all
Is richly given,
And the voice that claims its holy thrall
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