THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET. WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end? Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest- And some deceived, and some are with the dead. But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart! PASSING AWAY. "Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains. Ir is written on the rose, In its glory's full array Read what those buds disclose It is written on the skies Of the soft blue summer day; "Passing away." PASSING AWAY. It is written on the trees, As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these "Passing away." It is written on the brow Where the spirit's ardent ray Lives, burns, and triumphs now "Passing away." It is written on the heart— Should claim from Love a part Friends, friends!-oh! shall we meet In a land of purer day, Where lovely things and sweet Pass not away Shall we know each other's eyes, And the thoughts that in them lay, When we mingled sympathies— ? "Passing away?" Oh! if this may be so, Speed, speed, thou closing day! How blest, from earth's vain show To pass away! 171 THE ANGLER.' "I in these flowery meads would be; * And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave." ISAAC WALTON. THOU that hast loved so long and well Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine, Wearing the shadow of thy line, One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. And there but low sweet sounds are heard The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead: Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 'This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled Death's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric Watts. DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. Tis not the stag, that comes to lave, 'Tis not the bittern by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is fill'd with summer's breath, 173 The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death! But if, where silvery currents rove, Then, lover of the silent hour, By deep lone waters past, Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, 66 DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. "Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume I am the lord of the lonely tomb, "Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chiefBid her a long farewell! Like the morning's dew shall pass that griefThou comest with me to dwell! "Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep Thy steed o'er the breezy hill; But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, "Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death! And is thy day so near? Then on the field shall my life's last breath "Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, Above me as I die! And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky. 66 High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, And the eyes I love shall weep my fall,- "Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart, But I can bend its pride! How should'st thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory's tide? "It may be far from thy steel-clad bands, It That I shall make thee mine; may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine! |