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Since guch, dear friend! is the delightful season W hen thou wast horn.oh ! let it .as it ought, Be kept with due observance, for that reason; Mot lighted up witli horrow'd splendour caught From outward themes, which time or chance may thwart: But be its zest those charms that have their flow Fresh from the source of feeling and of thought; And full of all that pure and vivid glow \\ liirh speaks them horn above, though spent on earth below.


Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd, Though a breath might have mov'd it so lightly;

Not a farewell-note from n Bweet singing
Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.

The sky was cloudless and calm, except
In the west where the sun was descending;

And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, As his beams with their beauty were blending.

And the evening-star, with its rny so clear, So tremulous, soft, and tender,

Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere Its dewy, delightful splendour.

And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill, With a landscape so lovely before me;

And its spirit and tone, so serene and still, Sccm'd silently gathering o'er me.

Far nfT was the Dcben, whose briny flood By its winding banks was sweeping;

And just at the font of the hill where I stood, The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.

How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd! An enclosure which care could not enter: And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleam'd On the solitary tomb in its centre!

When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near, And in various lights have view'd it, With what differing forms, unto friendship denr, Has the magic of fancy endued it.

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail, A white spot on the emerald billow;

Sometimes like a lamb in a low grassy vale, Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.

But no image of gloom, orofenre, or strife, Has it ever given birth to one minute;

For lamented in death, as beloved in life, Was he who now slumbers within it.

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas Was a far and a fearless ranger;

Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the oreeze, Counted lightly of death or of danger.

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept All the freshness of gentlest feeling; Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept, More of softness and kindness revealing.

Anil here, when the bustle of youth was past, He hv'd and he lov'd, and he died too;

Oh! why was affection, which death could outlast, A more lengthen'd enjoyment denied to?

But here he slumbers! and many there are Who love that lone tomb, and revere it;

And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star, Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.


I Remember a time when existence was young,

When the halo of hope round futurity hung,

When I stoop'd not to commune with sorrow or strife,

But enjoyment alone seem'd the business of life.

The bright sun himself, in an unclouded sky, Exulted not more in his brightness than I; And the clouds that his last rays of light

lov'd lo gild Could not rival the castles my fancy would


The loud-singing bird, and the blithe humming bee,

Were not happier than I, in that season of glee;

Like the butterfly, flitting round spring's gayest bowers.

Fly whither I would, I alighted on flowers. Yet then, even then, when my young spirit

found Its own heaven w it li in.and above, and around. There was nothing more dear or delightful

to me Than to gaze on the glorious and beautiful


Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart, When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart; The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole

o'er me, When its billowy boundlessness open'd before


As I stood on its margin, or roam'd on its

strand, I felt new ideas within me expand, Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that

hour, And my spirit was mute in the presence of


But soon,as young boyhood is wont,I o'ercame The feeling of awe which first master'd my

frame, And that wide world of waters appcar'd in

my view A scene of enjoyment unbounded and new.

In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round,

In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound,

In its white-drifted foam, and its darkheaving green,

Each moment I gaz'd some fresh beauty was seen.

And thus, while I wander'd on ocean's bleak

shore, And survey'd its vast surface, and heard its

waves roar, I seem'd wrapt in a dream of romantic delight. And haunted by majesty, glory, and might!

So it teas in the morning of life! but no more

Can thy grandeur, old Ocean! such visions restore;

With the freshness of youth those enchantments have flown,

But a charm still survives that is proudly thy own.

It is thine to awaken that tendcrest thrill Of pensive enjoyment, which time cannot

chill; Which survives even love, on its memory

to live. And is dearer by far than all rapture can give.

It is not a feeling of gloom or distrait.
But something that language can never ex-
'Tis the essence of joy, and the lux'ry of woe.
The bliss of the blest, faintly imag'd below.

For if ever to mortals sensations are givea As pledges of purer ones hoped for in heaies. They are those which arise, when, with

humble devotion. We gaze upon thee, thou magnificent Oceam.

Though, while in these houses of clay wr must dwell.

We but faintly can guess, and imperfectly tell

What the feelings of fetterless spirits may be;

They are surely like those which are waken'd by thee.

A sense of His greatness, whose might, and

whose will First gave thee existence, and governs thee

still; By the force of whose Fiat thy waters wen

made! By the strength of whose arm thy proud

billows are stay'd!

Nor less, when our - vision thy vastnesi would scan.

And our spirits would fain thy immensity span,

Does thy empire, which spreads from equator to pole,

Prove how feeble and finite is human control.

Yet mix'd with emotions that humble our

pride Are others to nature's best feelings allied; To the wounded in spirit, the stricken ia

heart. Thy breezes and billows can solace impart.

And this I have found, when, with spirits deprest,

I have walk'd by thy side as thy waves sank to rest;

When the winds which had swept thee were softly subsiding.

And where breakers had foam'd rippling billows were gliding.

Oh, thus! have I thought, when the tempests that roll,

And the clouds that o'ershadow and darken my soul.

Have fulfill'd their commission, my sorrows may cease,

And my thoughts, like thy waves, find ■ season of peace.

Flow on then, thou type of eternity ! flow; In boyhood iny heart in thy presence would

glow; For the strength of the happy, the might

of the free, Seem'd spread like a garment of glory o'er


But more chasten'd, and passionless, now is

thy sway, Since dark clouds hare shadow'd the noon

of my day; Oh, then! like the sun's setting heam on thy

wave, May a ray from Hope's star shed its light

on my grave!



Joanna! though I well can guess
That in mirth's very idleness,

And raillery's enjoyment,
This leaf is sent; it shall not lose
Its errand, hut afford the Muse

Some minutes' light employment.

Thou sentst it, in thy naughty wit.
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit

For a mere childish rhymer;
And I accept it, not as such,
But as indicative of much

Lovelier and far sublimer.

I own, as over it I pore,
It is a simple leaf, no more:

And further, without scandal.
It is so delicate and small,
One sees 'twas never meant at all

For vulgar clowns to handle.

But in itself, for aught I sec,
'Tin perfect as a leaf can be;

Nor can I doubt a minute,
That on the spot where first it grew,
It had each charm of shape, and hue,

And native sweetness in it.

Thus scver'd from the stem where first
To life and light its beauty burst—

It brings to recollection
A fragment of the poet's lay,
Torn from its native page away.

For critical dissection.

But 'tis not by one leaf alone,
The beauty of the flower is known;

Nor do I rank a poet
By parts, that critics may think fit
To quote, who, ''redolent of wit,"

Take up his works to show it.

If on its stem, this leaf display'd
Beauty which sought no artful aid.

And scatter'd fragrance round it;
If the sweet flower on which it grew
Was graceful, natural, lovely too,

Delighting all who found it:—

Then will I own that flower to he
A type of Wordsworth, or of thee;

For kindred virtues grace you;
And though the bard may think ine bold.
And thou mayst half resolve to scold,

I in one page will place you!



The Quaker Poet!—is such name

A simple designation;—
Or one expressive of my shame.

And thy vituperation?

If but the former—I, for one.

Have no objection to it:
A name, as such, can startle none

Who rationally view it.

But if such title would convey

Contempt, or reprobation, Allow me, briefly as I may.

To state my vindication.

It is not splendour of costume

That prompts harmonious numbers ;—

The nightingale, of sober plume,
Sings, while the peacock slumbers.

The shallow brooks, in spring so gay.

In summer soonest fail us;
Their sparkling pride has pnss'd away,

Their sounds no more regale us;

While the more deep but quiet streams,

By alders ovcrshaded,
Flow on, in spite of scorching beams,

Their beauties uninvaded.

And on their peaceful verge we sec

Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them

Hover the butterfly and bee,—
Rejoicing to have found them.

Is it the gayest of the gay,

The votaries of fashion,
Who feel most sensibly the sway

Of pure and genuine passion'/

No!—hearts there be, the world deems cold.

As warm, as true, as tender
As those which gayer robes enfold,

However proud their splendour.

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But I contend the Quaker-creed,

By fair interpretation,
Has nothing in it to impede

Poetic aspiration:

All that fair nature's charms display

Of grandeur, or of beauty;
All that the human heart can sway,

Joy, grief, desire, or duty;—

All these arc ours—The copious source

Of true poetic feeling:— And wouldst thou check their blameless course,

Our lips in silence sealing?

Nature, to aJl her ample page

Impartially unfolding,
Prohibits neither siiint, nor sage,

Its beauties from beholding.

And thus the muse her gifts assigns,

With no sectarian spirit;
For Alj, the wreath of fame she twines

Who fame and favour merit.

Xhrough every age, in every clime.
Her favour'd sons have flourish'd;

Have felt her energy sublime,
Her pure delights 'have nourished.

From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers,
Their songs arc still ascending;

Then, Quaker Poets, try your powers!
W by Bhould you fear offending'(

Still true to nature be your aim,

Abhorring affectation; l'oii with peculiar grace may claim

Each simpler decoration.

And, with such you may blend no less,

Spite of imputed weakness,
The god-like strength of gentleness,

The majesty of meekness!

The blameless pride of purity,

Chast'ning each soft emotion; And, from fanaticism free.

The fervour of devotion!

Be such your powers:—and in the range Of themes which they assign you,

Win wreaths you need not wish to change For aught that fame could twine you.

For never can a poet's lays

Obtain more genuine honor. Than whilst his Gift promotes the praise

Of Ilm, who is its Donor!

Is childhood thy kindness has often caress'd me. Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days; It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it blcss'd me. It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise.

Can I,in thy evening, forget the mild brightness Which bcam'd in thy zenith,—which shines round thee still? No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless, And the heart thou hast chcrish'd death only can chill.

Long, long since belov'd, now as warmly respected. To my fancy thou seemst like some timehonour'd tree; And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected, Still looks up with filial fondness to thee.

Dark storms passing over, perhaps may have sear'd thee. The moss of old age be thy livery now; But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee; Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough.

May that sun, which must set, in descending enwreath thee With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast; And all that has flourished around and beneath thee, Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past.


Thy latest leaf is shed,

Life's beaming sun hath set; Thou sleepst among the dead,

But art remembcr'd yet. Not only to the last

Did I look up, and love; But now, when all is past,

Thought follows thee above.

While life had aught to give That might seem bliss to thee.

I wish'd that thou raightst live. Though parted far from me.

But when existence here

Could suffering but increase;

All, nil who held thee dear
Dcsir'd thy soul's release.

It enme, nnd thou nrt free,

Nor can I mourn the stroke, Although, in losing thee,

Some sweetest ties are hroke. Farewell! hclov'd, revcr'd;

We part, hut to be nearer; Though much thy life endear'd,

Death seems to make thee dearer!


Yb viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not, in times gone by

That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or piny,

Unearthly thoughts supplied.

Awful your power! when, by your might You heave the wild waves, crested white,

Like mountains in your wrath; Ploughing between them valleys deep. Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,

Yawn like Death's opening path!

Graceful your play! when, round the bower Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,

To wreathe her dark locks there, Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe The leaves between, flit round that wreath,

And stir her silken hair.

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth:—

Ye come!—we know not whence!
Ye go!—can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight:

Though audible to sense.

The Sun,—his rise, and set we know;
The Sea, we mark its ebb, and flow;

The Moon,—her wax, and wane;
The Stars,—Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrnnt paths can tell ;—

But You his search disdain.

Ye restless, homeless, shapeless thingB!
Who mock all our imaginings,

Like Spirits in a dream;
What epithet can words supply
Unto the Bard who takes such high

Unmanageable theme?

But one:—to me, when Fancy stirs

My thoughts, ye seem Hki\kn's Mkssekcers,

Who leave no path untrnd; And when, as now, at midnight's hour, I hear your voice in all its power,

It seems the Voice Of God.


Behtifii.. sublime, and glorious;

Mild, majestic, foaming, free;— Over time itself victorious,

Image of Eternity.

Epithet-exhausting Ocean!

'Twere as easy to control
In the storm thy billowy motion,

As thy wonders to unrol.

Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,
See thy surface ebb, and flow;

Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendours steep thec
With the rainbow's glowing grace;

Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
'Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth,—her valleys, and her mountains,

Mortal man's behests obey; Thy unfathomable fountains

Scon" his search, and scorn his sway.

Such art thou—stupendous Ocean!

But if ovcrwheliu'd by thee, Can we think without emotion

What must thy Creator be?


Thou hast thy beauties: sterner ones, I own.
Than those of thy precursors; yet to thee
Belong the charms of solemn majesty
And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone
Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are

By hurrying winds across the troubled sky;
Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh
Through leafless boughs, with ivy over-
Thou hast thy decorations too: although
Thou art austere: thy studded mantle, gay
With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow
As erst Gnlcondn's; and thy pure nrray
Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow
Envelopes nature; till her fcntflrcs seem
Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when wc

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