Sweet is the evening song from purple shroud, And sweet the orient blushes of the morn; Sweeter than all the beauties that adorn The female form in youth and maiden bloom. O! why should passion ever man suborn To work the sweetest flower of nature's doom, And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom!
O! fragile flower! that blossoms but to fade! One slip recovery or recall defies;
Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid, Fair as the habitants of yonder skies,
Like them thou fallest, never more to rise. O! fragile flower, for thee my heart's in pain! Haply a world is hid from mortal eyes, Where thou may'st smile in purity again, And shine in virgin-bloom that ever shall remain.
EVENING SCENE.
FROM THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene; Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new, And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.
See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptur'd shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest,
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!
MINE be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.
The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.
INSTINCT BY WHICH BIRDS BUILD THEIR
FROM MONTGOMERY'S PELICAN ISLANDS.
THUS perfected in all the arts of life, That simple Pelicans require, save one, Which mother-bird did never teach her daughter, The imitable art to build a nest;
Love, for his own delightful school reserving That Mystery which novice never fail'd To learn infallibly when taught by him; Hence that small masterpiece of Nature's art, Still unimpair'd, still unimproved, remains The same in site, material, shape, and texture. While every kind a different structure frames, All build alike of each peculiar kind:
The nightingale that dwelt in Adam's bower, And pour'd her stream of music through his dreams;
The soaring lark, that led the eye of Eve Into the clouds, her thoughts into the Heaven Of Heavens, where lark nor eye can penetrate; The dove that perch'd upon the Tree of Life,
And made her bed among its thickest leaves; All the wing'd inhabitants of Paradise,
Whose songs once mingled with the songs of angels,
Wove their first nests as curiously and well As the wood-minstrels in our evil day, After the labours of six thousand years, In which their ancestors have failed to add, To alter, or diminish any thing
In that, of which Love only knows the secret, And teaches every mother for herself, Without the power to impart it to her offspring.
ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.
HIGHER, higher will we climb, Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls.
Deeper, deeper let us toil
In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil,
Win from school and college;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.
Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty.
Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth.
Closer, closer let us knit
Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather ;- O! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home.
FROM THE ODE ON THE OLDEN TIME.
Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, Nocturnos Lemures, portentaque Thessala.
THE skies are blue; the moon reclines
Above the silent grove of pines,
As if devoid of motion;
The ivied abbey frowns forlorn ; And stilly to the ear are borne
The murmurs of the ocean. эк
The nightshade springs beside the walk; Luxuriantly the hemlock stalk
Expands its leaves unthwarted
Above the monumental stones, Above the epitaphs, and bones, Of beings long departed.
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