Is the heron asleep on the silvery sand grey, To whom belongs this valley fair, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth O! that this lovely vale were mine, There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of Time! And did I ask to whom belong'd This vale? I feel that I have wrong'd She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea, long as Nature's humblest child Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, A CHURCH-YARD DREAM. METHOUGHT that in a burial-ground One still, sad vernal day, Upon a little daisied mound I in a slumber lay; While faintly through my dream I heard The hymning of that holy bird, Who with more gushing rapture sings The higher up in heaven float his unwearied wings! In that my mournful reverie, Such song of heavenly birth, The voice seemed of a soul set free From this imprisoning earth; Higher and higher still it soared, Just then a child in sportive glee And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God. The flowers that shine all round her head For flowers are they that spring hath shed, And well the tenderest gleams may fall Of sunshine, on that hillock small On which she sleeps, for they have smiled O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious child. In bridal garments, white as snow, A solitary maid Doth meekly bring a sunny glow Into that solemn shade: A church-yard seems a joyful place A soul is in that deep blue eye Too good to live on earth,-too beautiful to die. But Death behind a marble tomb Looks out upon his prey; And smiles to know that heavenly bloom Is yet of earthly clay. Far off I hear a wailing wide, And, while I gaze upon that bride, A silent wraith before me stands, And points unto a grave with cold, pale, clasped hands. A matron, beautiful and bright, As is the silver moon, Whose lustre tames the sparkling light Of the starry eyes of June, Is shining o'er the church-yard lone; And round their native urn shake wide their golden hair. Oh! children they are holy things, In sight of earth and heaven; But the vulture stoops down from above, And, 'mid her orphan brood, bears off the parent dove. The young, the youthful,-the mature Have smiled and all past by, As if nought lovely could endure Beneath the envious sky; While bow'd with age, and age's woes Still near, yet still far off the close Of weary life, yon aged crone Can scarce with blind eyes find her husband's funeral-stone. All dead the joyous, bright, and free, To whom this life was dear! The green leaves shiver'd from the tree, O dim wild world !--but from the sky And, startled by his liquid mirth, I rose to walk in faith the darkling paths of earth. THE WIDOWED MOTHER. BESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept, And as the sobs thick-gathering came, Well might that lullaby be sad, Stedfastly as a star doth look While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke Ah me! what kindling smiles met there, With joy fresh sprung from short alarms, All tears at once were swept away, Sufferings there are from Nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor Poet's tongue May venture to declare; But this as Holy Writ is sure, The griefs she bids us here endure, THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. WITH laughter swimming in thine eye, |