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My sprightly neighbour, gone before
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.
FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,
A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
And Error, gilding worse designs,
Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines.
My scalded eyes no longer brook
THE HERB ROSEMARY.
SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful, and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine.
The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.
COME, Disappointment, come!
The restless and the bad.
Beneath thy shrine,
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.
Though Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,
Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;
And though the tear
By chance appear,
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here!
What is this passing scene?
A peevish April day!
A little sun, a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away.
Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields up his trust,
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.
Oh, what is Beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;
Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?
Mute, mute is all
O'er Beauty's fall;
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.
The most belov'd on earth
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.
Then, since this world is vain,
And volatile, and fleet,
Why should I lay up earthly joys
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?
Why fly from ill
With cautious skill,
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?
Come, Disappointment, come!
Thou art not stern to me;
Sad monitress! I own thy sway,
A votary sad in early day,
I bend my knee to thee.
From sun to sun
My race will run;
I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done!
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our Fathers' native soil!
O, stretch thy mighty hand,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!
For thou with magic might
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
While the Tritons of the deep
Then let the world combine,—
Though ages long have past
Since our Fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame