This is, indeed, a dread and awful thing!
And he who hath endur'd the horror once
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home, but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suff'ring mariner!

SOUTHEY

TO THE GNAT.

WHEN by the greenwood side, at summer eve,
Poetic visions charm my closing eye;

And fairy-scenes, that fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,
And all is solitude, and all is night!

Ah! now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply 1,

Lifts the broad shield, and points the glitt'ring spear.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!
-I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

1 Complete armour.

ROGERS.

POWER AND GENTLENESS;

OR,

THE CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET.

NOBLE the mountain stream,

Bursting in grandeur from its vantage ground;
Glory is in its gleam

Of brightness-thunder in its deafening sound!

Mark how its foamy spray,
Ting'd by the sunbeams with reflected dyes,
Mimics the bow of day,

Arching in majesty the vaulted skies.

Thence in summer-shower,

Steeping the rocks around. O tell me where
Could majesty and power

Be cloth'd in forms more beautifully fair?

Yet lovelier in my view
The streamlet, flowing silently serene;
Trac'd by the brighter hue

And livelier growth it gives-itself unseen!

It flows through flow'ry meads,

Gladd'ning the herds which on its margin browse; Its quiet beauty feeds

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.

Gently it murmurs by

The village churchyard-its low plaintive tone, A dirge-like melody,

For worth and beauty modest as its own.

More gaily now it sweeps

By the small school-house, in the sunshine bright, And o'er the pebbles leaps,

Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,

In characters which "they who run may read,"
The charms of gentleness,

Were but its still, small voice allow'd to plead ?

What are the trophies gain'd

By power, alone, with all its noise and strife,
To that meek wreath unstain'd,
Won by the charities that gladden life?

Niagara's streams might fail,

And human happiness be undisturb'd;

But Egypt would turn pale

Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curb'd!

BARTON.

THE WIDOW'S SON.

ALAS! while health and hope were high,
And youth shone sparkling in his eye,
And scarce was manhood's spring begun
Pass'd the destroying angel by,

And smote the widow's son !

She saw him death's untimely prey,

Struck with the blight of slow decline;
She watch'd his vigour waste away,
His ardent spirit droop and pine.

The rose upon his cheek, she knew, Bloom'd not with health's transparent hue; It was a softer, fainter glow

A tint of fading loveliness,

Which told a canker lurk'd below :
So gleams, o'er fields of wintry snow,
The pale moon, cold and comfortless.
And oft she mark'd within his eye
A wild unwonted brilliancy
The lovely but delusive ray
Of nature sinking to decay;

And oft she caught the stifled moan
It breath'd a deep and hollow tone,
Which told of death ere life was gone.
At times, when fever's burning flush
Heighten'd consumption's hectic blush,
Fond hope the latest still to leave,

The first to flatter and deceive

Once more would brighten but to fly When that false flush forsook his cheek, And spoke the pang he would not speak, And froze her fears to certainty.

Nor deem it strange that hope had power To soothe her soul in such an hour.

Where time has rent the lordly tower
And moss entwines the arches grey,
Springs many a light and lovely flower
That lends a lustre to decay.
Thus, while existence wanes away,
Consumption's fever'd cheek will bloom,
And beauty's brightest beams will play,
In mournful glory, o'er the tomb.

The spirit of her son to cheer

With hopes she now had ceas'd to feel, From that dread stroke which menac'd near A few short bitter days to steal;

To soothe the languor of decay

She strove

- all other cares were fled;

And midnight's gloom, and morning's ray,
Still found her watching by his bed,
To render, with unwearied hand,
All love could do, or pain demand.
The very firmness of despair

Had nerv'd her weaker heart to bear;
Or never had that mother borne

To see him die- and thus to die.
Untimely wasting, ere the morn
Of youth had pass'd unclouded by -
While art essay'd in vain to save,
Or smooth his passage to the grave.
Whate'er his inward pangs might be,
He told not mute, and meekly still,
He bow'd him to Jehovah's will,
Nor murmur'd at the stern decree;
For gently falls the chastening rod
On him whose hope is in his God.
For her, too, who beside his bed

Still watch'd with fond maternal care,
For her he breath'd the pious prayer -
The tear of love and pity shed.
Oft would he bid her try to rest,

--

And turn his pallid face away, Lest some unguarded look betray The pangs, nor sigh nor sound express'd: When torture rack'd his breast, 'twas known

By sudden shiv'ring starts alone;

Yet would her searching glance espy

The look of stifled agony

For what can 'scape a mother's eye?

She deem'd in health she lov'd him more

Than ever mother lov'd before;

But oh! when thus in cold decay,

So placid, so resign'd he lay,
And she beheld him waste away,