Oh! welcome the smile of the gladden'd earth! And welcome the voice of the wood-bird's mirth! And welcome these varying hues which delight, Like dawn at the close of a wearisome night.
The clouds have pass'd, with the shadows they cast, And hush'd is the sound of the wind-god's power, And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass'd, Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour.
Oh! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring! And welcome the perfumes they silently bring! And the rosy-tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide O'er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride!
It hath fled in its might, the dark spirit of night, Which cast such a shade o'er the light of the soul; It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam
From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll.
Oh! welcome the smiles of a gladden'd heart ! And welcome the joy which those smiles impart! And welcome the light of that sparkling eye Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass'd by !
ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ ON A YOUNG ROBIN.
DESPITE the curling lip, the smile of scorn, Thine early fate, oh! hapless bird, we mourn; Too soon withdrawn thy scanty store of breath, Too soon thy sprightly carols hush'd in death! Here let us lay thee on thy mother's breast, Where no rude step shall come, no cares molest, No cruel puss disturb thy silent rest.
Ан, whither art straying, thou spirit of light, From thy home in the boundless sky ? Why lookest thou down from the empire of night, With that silent and sorrowful eye ?
Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, Where it fell from its throne of pride; But oh, what pictures of joy or grief, What scenes thou art viewing beside !
Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves, As they proudly heave and swell; Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves, Where the green-hair'd sea-nymphs dwell !
Thou art pouring thy beams on Italia's shore, As though it were sweet to be there; Thou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, And the monk to his midnight prayer.
Thou art casting a fretwork of silver rays Over ruin, and palace, and tower; Thou art gilding the temples of former days, In this holy and beautiful hour.
Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, Where mortal foot never hath trod;
Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, While the spirit hath gone to its God!
Thou art looking on those I love! oh, wake
In their hearts some remembrance of me, And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake Of the love I am breathing to thee.
And perchance thou art casting this mystic spell On the beautiful land of the blest,
Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, Where the weary have fled to their rest.
Oh yes! with that soft and ethereal beam, Thou hast look'd on the mansions of bliss, And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world Hath breathed thee a message to this.
'Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues, And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, And while raising it, melts and subdues.
And it whispers compassion; for lo, on thy brow Is the sadness of angels enshrined, And a misty veil, as of purified tears, Round thy beautiful form is entwined.
Hail, beam of the blessed! my heart
Has drunk deep of thy magical power, And each thought and each feeling seems bathed In the light of this exquisite hour !
Sweet ray, I have proved thee so fair
In this dark world of mourning and sin,
May I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where Nor sorrow nor death enter in.
O'er the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, Twilight has gently drawn her veil of gray,
And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, Fast fading into nothing: o'er the expanse
Are swiftly stealing hues, which mildly blend And shadow o'er the pure transparence Of the azure heaven. Now is night array'd In all her solemn livery, and one by one Appear the sparkling gems which deck her robe. Each glittering star shines brighter than its wont, As though some brilliant festival were held, Some joyful meeting in the courts above. Now mark yon group of amber-tinted clouds, Shrouding the silvery form of Luna; Their melting tints vanish away, and then The pale, cold moon springs up unshackled In her vast domain. Fair empress of the sky! Chaste queen! thy hallow'd beauty can impart A soften'd radiance to each sombre cloud Of melancholy night, and, like a noble mind, Immersed in seas of darkness, thou canst cast A portion of thy brilliant, mellow'd softness, Around the deepening gloom. While viewing thee A sweet and pensive calm o'erspreads my soul, And, conjured by thy gentle melting rays, Unerring memory hastens to my aid; With her, I view again my own dear home, My native village, 'neath thy cloudless sky Serenely sleeping: 'tis as fair a picture Of unsullied peace as ever nature drew. Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river, In one unbroken stream of molten silver, And marking in the glassy Saranac Thy graceful outline, while the fairy isles Which on its bosom rest, are slumbering In thy light, while the fair branches bending O'er thy wave, turn their green leaves above, And bathe in one celestial flood of glory. There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, That ever loved and blooming theatre, Where those I most revere have borne their parts, Amid its changing scenes. Before the threshold Tower the lofty trees, and each high branch
Is gently rocking in the summer breeze, And sending forth a low, sweet murmur, Like the soft breathings of a seraph's harp. Around its humble porch entwine the vine, While the sweetbriar and the blushing rose Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. Oh, my loved home, how gladly would I rove Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers, Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude Listless remain, unknowing and unknown- Oh no, not quite alone, for memory, And hope, and fond delight shall mingle there.
A POETICAL LETTER TO HENRIETTA.
ONCE more, Henrietta, I open your sheet To glance at its contents so playful and sweet, To admire the flow of its easy strain, And pen you an answer in nonsense again. Perchance you may turn from my page away, And with scornful lip and expression say, "I think she might better have spent her time, Than in stringing such masses of jingling rhyme;" And perhaps I might, I admit the blame, But like others, continue my fault the same. However, I think such a deacon as you, May need the refreshment of nonsense too; That a creature so sober as you are, my friend, Her ear to the whisperings of folly may lend.
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