Oh, ask the mind!—oh, ask the immortal mind,
And this will be stern reason's firm reply —
"T will echo over ocean's swelling tide:
The hand that form'd us was a Deity!
How great, how wonderful the human mind,
Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread,
Mysterious truth; which spurns the fetters
Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer
Round it; which, yearning for a world more pure,
And more congenial with its heavenly thoughts,
Confines its soaring spirit to the region
Of death and sin! But oh, how glorious
The sublime idea, that though this frame,
Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust,
There is a spark within, which, while on earth,
Gives to the clay its energy and life,
And when that clay returneth to the dust
From whence it came, may rise triumphant
From the senseless clod, and soaring, mount on high, To dwell with beings holy and divine;
And there, with its ever-growing ken,
Clasp the great universe; with angels there
To expand those heaven-born powers, which here
Were fetter'd with the earthly chains that bind
Misguided man-pride, sorrow, discontent,
And cold ambition, foolish and perverted-
But destined there to burn in all its light,
And urge the enfranchised on to seek
Glories still undiscover'd, wonders
As yet unknown. And can it be? Does this
Weak, trembling frame conceal within itself
A soul ethereal and immortal?
A glorious spark, sublime and boundless,
"Struck from the burning essence of its God,"
The great I AM, the dread Eternal?
Oh, how tremendous is the awful thought!
The soul shrinks back alarm'd, too weak to gaze
On its own greatness, or rather on the greatness
Of that God who made it! Yes! 'tis his work!
The moulding of his mighty hand! How dread,
How peerless, how incomparably great
The Governor and Former of this vast machine!
Who watches from on high its slightest thought,
And omnipresent and unbounded, sways
Each feeling and each impulse! and whose touch,
However slight, may turn its passions from
Their common channel, and whose breath can tune
Aright those delicate and hidden fibres,
Which, rudely touch'd, would yield their finest chords,
And thus destroy the harmony of all,
Leaving a blank and darken'd chaos
Where once was harmony and joy!
Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind,
Tamper not lightly with the human mind;
But when an erring friend from virtue strays,
Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide
Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom.
Oh 'tis a fearful thing to see the mind,
Derived from such a pure and holy source,
Debased by sin, by dark, offensive crime,
And render'd equal with the beasts that roam?
To see the wreck of all that once was good,
The shrinking remnant of a noble soul,
Like the proud ship, which for a while may stem
The roaring ocean, but o'ercome by storms,
With half its voyage done, is torn apart-
The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all,
The guiding helm-until the shatter'd hulk
Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts,
Threaten'd by frowning rocks;—but as some
Friendly hand may snatch from death's embrace
The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour's love
Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner,
And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven!
The mighty God who saw him err, can change,
Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart,
And give to his apostate soul those pure
And blessed dreams of heaven,
Those hopes of immortality, which soothe
The dying Christian; and when his spirit
Ascends to dwell with Him it once despised,
Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord,
It there may join in love and hope with all
The angel band, in singing praises
To their glorious King, the great Jehovah!
Oh that we too might cherish every virtue,
Prepare our minds for immortality,
Where undisturb'd they may expand,
And reach perfection in a future world.
1834.
ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER'S RETURN.
WHY rejoices my heart at the passage of time,
As it sweeps on the wind o'er the fast-rolling year,
And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines,
His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear?
I pause not to question if wise it may be,
But faster I'll hurry old Time on his way;
And while hours unnumber'd shall rapidly flee,
I'll laugh as they fade from the fast-closing day
When the icy-cold spell of stern winter shall break,
And the snow shall dissolve like the dewdrops of morn; When spring from his death-like embraces shall wake, And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn;
To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile,
The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide;
More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile,
And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed.
I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom,
Aroused, as by magic, from winter's cold tomb,
For my heart will be gladden'd as near and more near
The period approaches when he will be here.
Oh June! how resplendent thy flowers shall appear,
The loveliest, the sweetest which bloom in the year!
For with me a fond brother your grace shall admire,
And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire.
But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vain,
He never may visit the loved scene again;
On his home the dread weight of affliction may rest,
And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast;
Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever
And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever.
But love will illumine the future with light,
And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright
As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted,
Or fancy with all her illusions has granted.
1834.
TO MY MOTHER.
THE spring of life is opening
Upon my youthful mind,
And every day the more I see,
The more there is to find.
The path of life is beautiful
When sprinkled o'er with flowers,
And I ne'er felt affliction's touch,
Or watch'd the weary hours.
To guard my youthful couch from wo,
An angel hovers near,
Watches my bosom's every throe,
And wipes each childish tear.
It is my mother-and with her
Through life I'd sweetly glide,
And when my pilgrimage is o'er
I'd moulder at her side.
To her I dedicate my lay,
"T is she inspires my song;
Oh that it might those charms possess,
Which to the muse belong.
BOABDIL EL CHICO'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA.
THE youthful lyre would shrink from tales of woe,
Would tune with hope and love each quivering string;
But when truth bids the sorrowing numbers flow,
Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring.
'Tis sweet to tell of laughing mirth and glee;
Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy;
And when deep anguish pours unmix'd and free,
Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy.
But faithful history still the page unfolds
Of war and blood; of carnage fierce and dark;
Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould,
And hearts unwarm'd by pity's gentle spark.
Then cast your garb of merry music by,
Assume the mantle of unbrighten'd woe;
A cloud is gathering o'er the peaceful sky,
And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow.
Robed in a mantle of unrivall'd light,
The glorious sun was sinking o'er the plain,
And tinging, with a glow of radiance bright,
The towering domes and palaces of Spain.
Between the lofty mounts which rise around,
And form the deep ravine or shady dell,
Granada's towers in mighty grandeur stood,
And on the plain their darkening shadows fell.
The beams were gilding all her lofty towers,
As on Nevada's side Alhambra stood,
And o'er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers,
Her marble courts, they pour'd a dazzling flood.
Her gothic arches glitter'd in the ray,
While many a gushing fountain cool'd the air,
And o'er the blushing flowers diffused their spray,
Which bloom perennial in a world of care.
The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung,
O'er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose,
And o'er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung
A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows.
And can it be !-can scenes so fair as this
Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss?
Will heaven's bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed,
As if in mockery, upon sorrow's head?
Will skies of azure pour their softest light
On hearts which grief has sear'd, and woe doth blight?
Will earth rejoice, while earthly hearts are riven,→
While man, oppress'd, to dark despair is driven?
Retire, oh sun! reserve thy cheering rays
For calmer hours, for brighter, happier days!
Go shine on England's spires, or India's bowers,
But gaze not on Alhambra's humbled towers!
Cease, cease thy soft meanderings, sparkling river!
Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquivir!
No more thy waves through Moorish woodlands glance,
No more reflect the Moorish warrior's lance,
Nor view the tournament and sprightly dance.
Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood!
Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood!
Captive Boabdil leaves his rightful throne,
To others yields a kingdom once his own.
Behold yon gate!1 the ancient sages say
No stone shall loosen, till that awful day,
When yonder guardian hand, now firmly clasp'd,
The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp'd;
At that dread hour each crumbling stone shall fall,
And in one common ruin bury all;
But not till then, though first Alhambra lie
A shapeless ruin, 'neath a frowning sky.
Why should she last? the monument of shame,
Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name!
Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil,
Her maidens left, the conqueror's spoil!
Murder'd her children, scorn'd each lovely dame,
Oh, that the mystic hand had power
To veil Granada's shame;
That in one dark and awful hour,
Might perish each dishonour'd name.
Lo! on yon mount appears a mournful train!
Behold the newly-conquer'd slave of Spain!
El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way,
For, with his home, he leaves the light of day.
Ill-fated prince! thine errors still I mourn;
A father's hatred caused each bursting sigh;
Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn,
Condemn'd a father's cruelty to fly.
Thy heart was never form'd for kingly state;
It teem'd with softest feeling, gentlest thought!
Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate,
For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought!
Though the brave may not tremble when war shall surround them,
Or shrink when the mantle of death shall have bound them,
Yet the eye which can gaze unconcern'd on the tomb,
Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom,
Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard's dark spell,
When it bids the sweet home of its childhood farewell.
The exiled monarch slowly turn'd away;
He could not bear to view those towers again,
Which proudly glitter'd in the sun's last ray,
As if to mock their wretched master's pain.
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