Euphrates' waves are brightly sparkling Beneath Aurora's rosy beam,
As though the night had never darken'd Above its broad and rapid stream.
The close of evening view'd it smiling, Deck'd with barks and forms of light, The weary moments still beguiling, Sporting on its bosom bright. Where are all its beauties banish'd? Why its banks so lone and still? Have all its pride and glory vanish'd, All save desolation chill ?
The Mede and Persian have been here, Heaven's just vengeance to fulfil, Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, God has wrought his sovereign will.
TO MY MOTHER ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
WHEN last this morning brightly shone, Around my youthful head, Inspiring love and joy and glee, Dismissing fear and dread,
I thought not, I should see thee here Reclining on thy Margaret's breast, I thought that in a brighter sphere Thy weary soul would sweetly rest.
But since the mighty God above Has granted this my fervent prayer, My heart is fill'd with joy and love For all his kindness and his care.
Oh may his guardian wings o'erspread, To guard from sorrow, pain or harm, My mother's weary aching head, And every rising fear disarm.
May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, And fill with peace thy beating heart, And may the feast which love prepares, A sweet security impart.
When He, who warm'd thy gentle soul, And planted every virtue there Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss And free from earthly sin and care.
Oh, may a daughter's tender hand The pillow of affliction smooth, Teach every grief to lose its pang, And every sorrow fondly soothe.
ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA.
Он, if a painter's touch can form thee thus, So bright with all an artist's hand can give, How passing beautiful those scenes must be, Which here inanimate, there sweetly live.
Each verdant shrub, which here inactive bends, So gently waving o'er the placid stream, And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, Reflecting back the sun's effulgent beam.
Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, And see yon crumbling fort, with moss o'ergrown, O'er whose high wall the weeping willow bends.
Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, Lake Leman, placid, beautiful, and clear, So gently murmuring, as it flows along, Of peace and happiness implanted there.
And towering far above, the mighty Alps
Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime, Each snow-capp'd summit mingling with the clouds, Seems to defy the ravages of time.
It seems as though the glowing canvass moved, Each figure fill'd with life and joy and love,
As if the dark blue waters at my feet,
Would break the chain which binds them there, and move.
Each hill, each rock seems bursting into life,
The painter mock'd reality so well;
It seems as if those shadowy forms would speak, Could they but break the artist's magic spell.
HARK! the loudly pealing bell Rises on the morning air; Its tones subdued and sadly swell, For death, unpitying death is there!- Hark! again it peals aloud,
Bearing sorrow on its tone; While from the sad assembled crowd, Is heard the echoing sob and groan.
Yes, in that solemn note is heard A voice, proclaiming wo and death; A voice which tells of endless time. Of sorrow's desolating breath.
To the warm fancy it would say, In words which strike the heart with fear;
Words for the thoughtless, vain, and gay, Words echoed from the sable bier :-
"A spirit from the world hath fled, A soul from earth departed; While mourners weep above the dead, Despairing-broken-hearted ! Through the vast fields of viewless time That conscious soul hath gone ; To answer for each earthly crime, At God's eternal throne.
"There at his mighty bar it stands, A trembling, guilty thing, To answer all his Judge demands, Or his dread praises sing! Dust to its kindred dust returns! Earth to its mother earth!
Still'd are its passions and its cares, And hush'd its voice of mirth.
"Then learn from this, how weak and vain Is every earthly gift;
How in one instant all may fade, And leave thee thus bereft,
When thy fond heart is fill'd with joy, With gay and mirthful feeling, Bethink thee, that the form of death Beside thee may be stealing. That, ere another hour has past, That rosy smile may fade, And the light form that glides so fast, In the cold tomb be laid.
"That the young heart within that clay, To God's dread bar shall pass away,
And the dim future, dark to thee, Shall bear it on its tideless sea, To light or darkness, joy or wo, Just as thy life hath pass'd below."
VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TWELVE YEARS OF AGE.
ON RECEIVING A BLANK-BOOK FROM MY MOTHER.
THOUGH the new year has open'd in sickness and fear, Though its dawning has witness'd the sigh and the tear, Though the load on my heart and the weight on my brain, And the sadness around me cause sorrow and pain, Each feeling of wo from my bosom is driven While I view the sweet volume affection has given, And gazing delighted on binding and leaf, I forget every thought which is tinctured with grief. Though it needed no gift from my mother to prove The depth of that current of long-cherish'd love, Which hath flow'd on unceasing, unaltering still, Through sorrows unable its bright waves to chill, Yet, 'tis strangely delightful, 'tis sweet to possess Some memento to cherish and gaze on like this, Some gift which long hence may impart to the mind Fresh hues of the image there sweetly enshrined: Which, when every gay feeling is clouded with night, May burst on the soul like an angel of light, And presenting unalter'd the visions of love, Which had slumber'd awhile the more sweetly to soothe, May illumine the darkness with radiance sublime, But more bright from repose, and unclouded by time.
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