Oh! wilder than the wilderness,
And deeper subject of distress,
'Tis unto Meditation

To mark a rose or lily blown,

'Mid mossy heaps of sculptured stone, Where grandeur erst had station.

These, like the pointing hand of Fate,
Say-Man, behold thy lorn estate,
And God, in us, bestowing

A lesson high; the palace gay,

Roof, arch, and pillar'd pride, away

Hath pass'd-to leave us growing!

Hark! 'twas the boding owl that scream'd— Too long, my spirit, hast thou dream'd

Of ages, far reclining

Amid the shadows of the past;

And, fitful as the lightning blast,

On wakeful memory shining.

Thou, holy moon, hast seen them all,
While clouds came o'er thee, but their thrall
Is passing, and in glory,

Stedfastly on the verdant ground
Thou shinest-on the graves around,

And mouldering arches hoary!

'Tis pleasant to revert the eye From life in its reality

From living things around usAnd, for a season, break the chain, Which, ah! too soon will knit again—

The

With which the world hath bound us.

grassy court-the mossy wallVault-bartizan-and turret tall

With weeds that have o'ergrown them;

Though silent as the desert air,

Yet have their eloquence, and bear

Morality upon them.

Yes! these are talismans, that break
The sleep of visions, and awake

Long silent recollections;

That kindle in the mental eye
Romantic feelings long gone by,

And glowing retrospections.

By them the mind is taught to know,

That all is vanity below;

And that our being only

Is for a day, and that we pass-
And are forgotten,—and the grass
Will wave above us lonely.

Yea, all must change-we cannot stay
The spoiler. Time, with onward sway,
All human pride defaces :

A few brief years revolve, and then
We are no more,-and other men
Shall occupy our places.

And I, now resting on a tomb,
Shall sleep within its breast, the gloom
Of dark oblivion o'er me;

And beings, yet unborn, shall tread,
On moonlight eves, above my head,

As I o'er those before me.

STANZAS ON AN INFANT.

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

WORDSWORTH.

THE rose-bud, blushing through the morning's tears,

The primrose, rising from the brumal waste,
The snow-drop, or the violet, that appears
Like nun within the myrtle's shadow placed,
Wear not a smile like thine, nor look so chaste,
Fair innocent! that, from thy mother's knee,
As yet by Earth's despoilment undefaced,
Smils't, and unheeding what the fates decree,

Dream'st not of hapless days, that yet will frown on thee !

Say, o'er thy little frame when slumbers steal,
And watch above thy cradle seraphs keep,
Do they, in love, futurity reveal,

That thus thou sweetly smilest in thy sleep?

Thy pure blue eyes were sure ne'er form'd to weep;
Those little lips to breathe the sighs of woe ;—
Alas! in life it may be thine to steep

Thy senses in nepenthe, glad if so

Thy memory may the dreams of wretchedness forego

For passion is a tyrant fierce and wild,
Leading the thoughts from Virtue's pure career;
And spirits, in their natures calm and mild,
Are duped by Flattery, or subdued by Fear ;
Love, that with promise to illume and cheer
The path of life, oft lures us to betray ;
And hopes that, robed in iris hues, appear

When the heart swells in Youth's exulting day,

Dreaming sweet dreams alone, in darkness melt away!

Sweet child, thy artlessness and innocence
Kindle deep thought, and cause my heart to bleed ;
For even to the best the Fates dispense

Sorrow and pain, nor are the happiest freed

From ills, that make existence dark indeed.