182

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.

I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!
The Battle of our Life is brief,

The alarm, the struggle,-the relief,-
Then sleep we side by side.

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast,
Fling out your field of azure blue;
Let star and stripe be westward cast,
And point as Freedom's eagle flew !
Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars!
Point home, my country's flag of stars!

The wind blows fair, the vessel feels
The pressure of the rising breeze,
And, swiftest of a thousand keels,

She leaps to the careering seas!
O, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail,

In whose white breast I seem to lie,
How oft, when blew this eastern gale,

I've seen your semblance in the sky,
And long'd, with breaking heart, to flee
On such white pinions o'er the sea!

Adieu, O lands of fame and eld!

I turn to watch our foamy track,
And thoughts with which I first beheld
Yon clouded line, come hurrying back;

My lips are dry with vague desire,

My cheek once more is hot with joy;

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.

My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire!

O, what has changed that traveler-boy!

As leaves the ship this dying foam,

His visions fade behind his weary heart speeds home!

Adieu, O soft and southern shore,

Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven; Those forms of beauty, seen no more,

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given! O, still the enamour'd sun delays,

And pries through fount and crumbling fane,

To win to his adoring gaze

Those children of the sky again!

Irradiate beauty, such as never

That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home for ever; And, could I live for this alone,

Were not my birthright brighter far

Than such voluptuous slave's can be;
Held not the west one glorious star,
New-born and blazing for the free,
Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet,

Rome, with her helot sons, should teach me to forget!

Adieu, O, fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim,

And, though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore;
As spreads the rain-drop in the river

In which it may have flow'd before-
To England, over vale and mountain,
My fancy flew from climes more fair,
My blood, that knew its parent fountain,
Ran warm and fast in England's air.

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184

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.

My mother! in thy prayer to-night

There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner,

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea!
The ear of heaven bends low to her!

He comes to shore who sails with me!
The wind-toss'd spider needs no token
How stands the tree when lightnings blaze:
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken,
I know my mother lives and prays!

Dear mother! when our lips can speak,
When first our tears will let us see,
When I can gaze upon thy cheek,

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me→ "Twill be a pastime little sad

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers'

Upon each other's forms have had;

For all may flee, so feeling lingers!
But there's a change, beloved mother,
To stir far deeper thoughts of thine;
I come but with me comes another,

To share the heart once only mine!
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely,
One star arose in memory's heaven;
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only,
Water'd one flower with tears at even:
Room in thy heart! The hearth she left
Is darken'd to make light to ours!
There are bright flowers of care bereft,

And hearts that languish more than flowers;

She was their light, their very air

Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer!

TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

BY THOMAS WARD.

THOU bright and star-like spirit!
That, in my visions wild,

I see mid heaven's seraphic host—

O! canst thou be

my child!

My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.

Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin;

The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see ;

Thou art to me a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state,

Now threads the mazy track of spheres,

Or reads the book of fate.

16*

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186

TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,
Now range the realms of space—
Look down upon the rolling stars,
Look up to God's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,

With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their GOD.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful;
Before the throne divine

'Tis pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.

What bliss is born of sorrow!
'Tis never sent in vain-

The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.

Our GOD, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down;

And now, still more to tempt our hearts,

Has taken up our own.