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The weeping minstrel sings,
And, while her numbers flow, My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of wo.
THE COMMON LOT. ONCE in the flight of ages past, There lived a man ;-and WHO WAS HE? -Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: His name has perish'd from the earth, This truth survives alone :
Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake his wild harp's clearest tones, The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
And yet, to soothe the mind
With luxury of grief,
In sorrow's music feels relief.
The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire,
And on its magic pulses play ;
Mysterious murmurs fill,
Most heavenly sweet,--yet mournful still O! snatch the barp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long; 0! strike it with sublime command,
And be the poet's life thy song.
He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled, Of flowers that hear the voice of spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead :
He saw whatever thou hast seen ; Encounter'd all that troubles thee; He was--whatever thou hast been ; He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase ; And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sunset hour of peace ;
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
The annals of the human race,
Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of youth, Unchanging as Jehovah's love,
And everlasting as his truth : Sing, heavenly Hope !--and dart thine hand
O'er my frail harp, untuned so long; That harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song. Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.
That willow from Euphrates' strand,
Among thy loftiest laurels seen, Had sprung beneath his training hand.
In deathless verse for ever green-Long as revolving seasons flew,
Thy chosen tree had stood sublime, From youth to age it flourish'd ;
The storm of ages braving, By vernal winds and starlight dew,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of time By showers and sunbeams nourish'd;
Its verdant banner waving, And while in dust the poet slept,
While regal pyramids decay'd, The willow o'er his ashes wept.
And empires perish'd in its shade. Old Time beheld his silvery head
An humbler lot, O tree! was thine, With graceful grandeur towering,
-Gone down in all thy glory; Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The sweet, the mournful task be mine, The breezy lawn embowering,
To sing thy simple story; Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot
Though verse like mine in vain would raise A grove of scions from one root.
The fame of thy departed days.
Yet, fallen willow! if to me Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
Such power of song were given, The lovely Nine retreating,
My lips should breathe a soul through thee, Beneath its twilight solitude
And call down fire from heaven, With songs their poet greeting.
To kindle in this hallow'd urn Whose spirit in the willow spoke,
A flame that would for ever burn. Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.
THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing;
Around the willow dancing;
In beauty green and glorious,
O'er mine was oft victorious;
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
—'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
He spake, and struck a silent blow
With that dread arm whose motion Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
And wields o'er land and ocean The unremitting axe of doom, That fells the forest of the tomb. Deep to the willow's root it went,
And clest the core asunder,
Without recording thunder:
Where loves and graces revella,
The thin gray leaves dishevellid, And every wasting winter found The willow nearer to the ground.
Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the axe assail'd it:
--The swans of Thames bewail'd it, With softer tones, with sweeter breath, Than ever charm'd the ear of death.
This shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
Moments, and months, and years away;
Since light and motion first began,
What is it? -Mortal man !
Yet, in its calm career,
And still, through each succeeding year
O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long
The wondering world enchanted, Amidst thy paradise of song
This weeping willow planted;
Nor only o'er the dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,
From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys. And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn. -Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow, 1, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.
A parent's heart may prove a spare ;
The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind : Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a mother's love. Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord, And pour'd upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word ; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is eternity begun: Behold that mother's love.*
Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Each frail beholder's doom.
Though time's triumphant fight be shown, The truest index on its face
Points from the churchyard stone.
A MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name !
What is a mother's love?
Enkindled from above,
This is a mother's love.
Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
And know the fear of God:
Taught by that mother's love.
What was that mother's love?
That kindles from above
This was that mother's love.
The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the femase caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train
To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
And feel herself new-born,
This is a mother's love.
To cherish on her breast,
And lull it there to rest;
This is a mother's love.
Its opening charms admire,
of intellectual 'fire; To smile and listen while it talks, And lend a finger when it walks ;
This is a mother's love.
When evening closes nature's eye,
The glow-worm lights her little spark, To captivate her favourite fly,
And tempt the rover through the dark. Conducted by a sweeter star
Than all that deck the fields above, He fondly hastens from afar,
To soothe her solitude with love. Thus in this wilderness of tears,
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb. Unhappy he whose hopeless eye
Turns to the light of love in vain ; Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely main.
And can a mother's love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
Nor weep for grief-for joy!
- Is this a mother's love?
* 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.
AGITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.
Tue tall oak, towering to the skies,'
O’erwhelm’d at length upon the plain,
What is the world ?-A wildering maze,
Her victims to ensnare;
All ending in despair.
Down to eternal night:
From darkness into light.
The Bible, need not stray:
Himself shall lose the way.
THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.
Though I have seen thy form depart
THE DAISY IN INDIA.
Farewell on earth: Heaven claim'd its own ;
Ha! those small voices, silver sweet! Fresh from the fields my babes appear; They fill my arms, they clasp my feet: -"0! could your father see us here !”
Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learn
ed and illustrious Baptist missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season
Job xiv. How few and evil are thy days, Man, of a woman born! Trouble and peril haunt thy ways: -Forth like a flower at morn, The tender infant springs to light, Youth blossoms with the breeze, Age, withering age, is cropt ere night; -Man like a shadow flees.
Thrice welcome, little English Aower!
And dost Thou look on such a one?
Thrice welcome, little English flower,
Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Thrice welcome, little English flower! Of early scenes beloved by me, While happy in my father's bower, Thou shalt the blithe memorial be ;
Wine, oil, refresbment; he'was heal'd;
The fairy sports of infancy, Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee, I find in this far clime. Thrice welcome, little English flower! I'll rear thee with a trembling hand : 0, for the April sun and shower, The sweet May dews of that fair land, Where daisies, thick as starlight, stand In every walk !-that here may shoot Thy scions, and thy buds expand, A hundred from one root. Thrice welcome, little English flower! To me the pledge of hope unseen ; When sorrow would my soul o'erpower For joys that were, or might have been, I'll call to mind how, fresh and green, I saw thee waking from the dust; Then turn to heaven with brow serene, And place in God my trust.
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
Then in a moment to my view The Stranger darted from disguise, The tokens in his hands I knew, My Saviour stood before mine eyes : He spake; and my poor name He named; “Of me thou hast not been ashamed: These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."
Night turns to day :
When sullen darkness lowers,
Storms die in calms :
When over land and ocean
Winter wakes spring :
When icy blasts are blowing
A Poon wayfaring man of grief Hath often cross'd me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief, That I could never answer, “ Nay;" I had not power to ask his name, Whither he went, or whence he came, Yet was there something in his eye, That won my love, I knew not why. Once, when my scanty meal was spread, He enter'd ;-not a word he spake :Just perishing for want of bread; I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake, And ate,—but gave me part again; Mine was an angel's portion then, For while I fed with eager haste, That crust was manna to my taste. I spied him, where a fountain burst Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ; The heedless water mock'd his thirst, He heard it, saw it hurrying on: I ran to raise the sufferer up; Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipt, and return'd it running o'er; I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof; I warm'd, I clothed, I cheerd my guest, Laid him on my own couch to rest; Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd In Eden's garden while I dream'd. Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, I found him by the highway side: I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied
War ends in peace:
Though dread artillery rattle,
Toil brings repose :
With noontide fervours beating,
Death springs to life :
Though brief and sad thy story,