thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow from rocks of adamant, will deign to approach so near us, is it for us to stand aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our own insignificance, and brave the tempest of life alone? Oh! how depraved that heart must be, which such condescension will fail to affect! and how happy the bosom for ever confiding in its God! calm in the midst of afflictions, resigned while the torments of grief pour on the soul; which, though borne down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly and steadily forward to the calamities which it is certain will terminate in an end. less communion with its Maker.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH.
Он tremble, ye proud ones! oh tremble with fear!
For Jehovah has come in his wrath;
Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow,
And lightning attends on his path.
Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye,
As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high!
Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin!
Before his dread presence in penitence bow;
Oh, dash the bright wine-cup in terror away,
And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow,
For the angel of mercy no longer is there,
To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair.
The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd,
His broad flaming weapon is waving on high;
Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast,
'Tis written in fear on yon lightning-crown'd sky;
Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance,
As he cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance.
The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne,
The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower,
For the soft voice of music hear sorrow's deep moan,
And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his power;
The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear,
But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear.
Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread,
For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow.
Oh, haste ere each fast-failing hope shall have fled,
Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow.
The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd,
Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain;
The sword of destruction is levell'd at last,
And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again.
VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN.
Он thou, who rollest far above,
Round as my father's shield in war!
From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun,
Which shine for ever and afar?
All cold and pale, the feeble moon
Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power;
The western wave conceals its light
At morning's bright resplendent hour.
But thou, unchanging, mov'st alone!
Oh who may thy companion be?
The rugged rocks, the mountain's fall,
But who may stand in might like thee?
The ocean shrinks and grows again,
All earthly things will fade away,
But thou for ever art the same,
Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray;
Rolling and rolling on thy way,
Enlightening worlds from day to day.
When o'er yon vault the thunders peal,
And lightning in its pathway flies;
When tempests darken o'er the world,
And cloud the once resplendent skies,
Thou rear'st on high thy noble form,
And laughest at the raging storm.
But now thou look'st to me in vain,
For I behold thy beams no more;
I languish here in darkness now,
On Erin's green and fertile shore.
I know not if thy yellow hair
Is floating on the western clouds,
Or if the fleecy veil of morn
Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds ;
But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me,
Shall days of rest and silence see.
Amid the clouds thy form may sleep,
Regardless of the morning's voice;
Exult then, mighty orb of day,
And in thy vigorous youth rejoice.
TO MY DEAR MAMMA.
ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK.
THOUGH my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long
That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung,
If 't will call but one smile of delight to thy cheek,
I will waken the notes which so long were unsung.
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
|