My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside,
And other enjoyments I've sought for a while; But though lured by their brilliance, still none can compare With my dear little harp and my mother's sweet smile. With joy I return to my books and my pen,
To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, For while scribbling each thought of my half-crazy brain I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear.
Oh excuse my poor harp, if the lines do not rhyme,
'Tis so long since it warbled aught breathing of sense, That the chords, though I'm striving to tune them aright, Still warble of folly and pleasure intense.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB.
In vain I strike my youthful lyre,
Some gayer music to impart,
And dissipate the gloom which hangs
Too sadly round my mourning heart.
Oh, I would wish its low deep tones,
Some gentler, sprightlier strains to borrow;
But still they only can respond
The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow.
For she, the young, the bright, the gay,
Has left us here to weep,
While cover'd with her parent clay,
And wrapt in death's long sleep.
But memory still can paint the scenes
Of past, but ne'er forgotten joy,
When we have sported wild and free,
No sorrow pleasure's tide to cloy.
Thy form, as it was wont to be,
Still mingles with each thought of home;
My earliest sports were join'd by thee,
When graced by beauty's brightest bloom.
Again I view that hazel eye,
With life and pleasure beaming;
Again I view that fair, white brow,
Those dark locks o'er it streaming.
Again I view thy blushing cheek,
The glow of love and pride,
When, 'mid the throng of smiling friends,
A blooming, happy bride.
But more than these, the angel mind
Should all our thoughts engage;
Oh, 't was unsullied and refined
As is this spotless page.
How changed the scene! the star of hope
Has set in clouds of darkest night,
And she, the lovely and the gay,
Is laid in the grave with her beauty and light.
Oh, where shall the mother, all mourning and sad,
Oh, where shall she look for the child she adored!
And where shall the husband, half frantic with grief,
Find the wife in whose bosom his sorrows he pour'd!
How lonely and silent each well-beloved scene,
Each garden, each grove, which she loved to frequent; The sweet flowers she nurtured so fondly and long, In sorrow their heads to the damp ground have bent. But a flow'ret more lovely, more tender and pure, Is languidly drooping, no mother to guide; The fond kiss of a mother it never can feel,
And to her the warm prayer of a mother's denied. But the spirit we mourn has ascended on high,
And there it will watch o'er its little one's fate; In whispers her voice will be heard from the sky, With a mother's affection which ne'er can abate. 1834.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
THOUGH yon broad vault of heavenly blue
Is spangled o'er with gems of light;
Though veil'd beneath its azure hue
Is glittering many a star so bright;
Though thousands wait around the throne
Of yon cold monarch, proudly fair;
Though all unite their dazzling powers
To vie with Luna's brilliance there;
Each star which decks her cloud-veil'd brow,
Or glitters in her snowy car,
Would shrink beneath thy dazzling ray,
Sweet little sparkling evening star!
No twinkling groups around thee throng,
Thy path majestic, lonely, bright!
A radiant softness shades thy form,
First wanderer in the train of night!
While gazing on thy glorious path,
It seems as though some seraph's eye
Look'd with angelic sweetness down,
And watch'd me from the glorious sky.
As the dim twilight steals around,
And thou art trembling far above,
I think of those no longer here,
Dear objects of my earliest love.
And the soft ray which beams from thee,
A soothing calmness doth impart;
And from each poignant sorrow free,
A sweet composure fills my heart.
Oh! then shine on thus pure and bright,
Pour on each mourning soul thy balm!
Soothe the sad bosom's rankling grief,
And fill it with thy heavenly calm!
Till meek, submissive, and resign'd,
It seeks above a purer joy;
And stays the fickle, wayward mind
On pleasures which can never cloy.
TO MY FATHER.
Он, how I love my father's eye,
So tender and so kind!
Oh, how I love its azure dye,
The index of his mind!
Oh, how I love the silver hair
Which floats around his brow!
I love to press my father's form,
And feel his cheek's warm glow.
Oh what is like a parent's love?
What heart like his will feel,
When sorrow's waves are raging round,
And cares the thoughts congeal?
Would he not die his child to save?
Would not his blood be shed
That yet one darling might remain
To soothe his dying bed?
Oh, what is like a parent's care
To guard the youthful mind?
Oh, what is like a parent's prayer,
Unbounded grace to find?
Ah, yes! my father is a friend
I ever must revere,
And, if I could but cease to love,
His virtues I would fear.
"How beautiful is Nature!" Every soul, Beating with warm and gentle feeling, Must repeat with me these heartfelt words, "How beautiful is Nature!" In the dark
Awful waving of the sky-crown'd forest,
Her gentle whisper, like an angel's voice,
Still breaks upon the stillness;-in the stream
Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet murmur;
While on the varied sky, the frowning mount,
Her chainless hand majestical is laid!
What voice so sweet as hers? what touch so soft,
So delicate? what pencilling so divine?
Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture
To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful!
Say, can imagination, light as air,
Capricious as each varying wind which blows,
Create a model of more perfect loveliness,
More grace and symmetry? Can thought present
A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous,
Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow,
Blending in grace more lovely with another?
Ah no! but 'tis the sin which dwells within
That casts a dark'ning shade o'er Nature's face-
Nought can there be more beauteous and divine;
But to the eye of discontent and wo,
Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow;
And to the chilling glance of stern despair,
Her sweetest smile is but a threatening cloud;
Just as the mind is turn'd she smiles or frowns,
And to each eye a different view appears.
The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt,
Like a white tablet, opens to receive
Each passing hue, and as the colours flit
Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil,
And fit to take once more the forms of joy,
Which ever, as they glide so sweetly by,
Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene.
If dark, degrading sin had never cast
Its shade of gloom o'er Nature's lovely brow,
This world had been an earthly paradise.
An all-presiding God has deck'd our globe
With grace, and life, and light; each object glows
With heavenly tints, and every form
Contains some hidden beauty, which, to minds
Unburden'd with a consciousness of guilt,
Proclaims the power of Him who rules o'er all.
The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee,
Small though they seem, may still contain a world
Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom,
Mix'd with human guilt, can never fathom.
The smallest item in this wondrous plan,
Replete with grace, and harmony, and light,
Would form employment for a fleeting life?
Oh, 't were a home for angels! and a home
No angel might despise, if human guilt
Had never stain'd it with its crimson glow.
Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin
Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams,
And ne'er profaned its broad luxuriant fields
With scenes of wickedness and thoughts of woe,
Had thus remain'd; each heart o'erflowing
With delight and love; each bosom fill'd
With heavenly joy. How awful is the change!
And how tremendous the effect of sin
On nature and on man! The wayward soul,
Once open'd to degrading guilt, is deaden'd
To her beauty; and all the glowing charms
Which waken'd it to love and happiness,
Ere thus ensnared, are pass'd unnoticed now!
Oh, could we purify our souls from sin,
Would we desire a brighter heaven than this?
More glorious, more sublime, more varied,
Or more beauteous? The softly rippling stream,
The rising mountain, and the leafy wood,
Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene!
The light-crown'd firmament, the tinted sky,
And all the sweetly varying graces
Which bedeck the queenlike brow of nature,
Serve but to show the power of nature's God,
The mighty Lord of this immense creation!
The heavenly Maker of our lovely world.
1834.
TO THE INFIDEL.
BEHOLD, thou daring sinner! canst thou say,
As rolls the sun along its trackless course,
A God has never form'd that orb of day,
Of life, and light, and happiness the source?
Who made yon dark blue ocean? Who
The roaring billow and the curling wave,
Dashing and foaming o'er its coral bed,
Of many a hardy mariner the grave?
Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue,
So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear,
Deck'd with its stars and clouds of fleecy white,
Like the bright entrance to another sphere?
Who made the drooping flow'ret? Who
The snowy lily and the blushing rose-
Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round,
As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows?
Who raised the frowning rock? Who made
The moss and turf around its base to grow?
Who made the lofty mountains, and the streams
Which at their feet in rippling currents flow?
Say, was it not a God? and does not all
Bear the strong "impress of his mighty hand?'
Oh yes his stamp is fix'd on all around-
All sprang to being at our Lord's command.
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