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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.
THE SOLITARY TOMB.
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
The sky was cloudless and calm, except
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.
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!
ON HER SENDING ME THK LEAF OF A FLOWER
Joanna! though I well can guess
And raillery's enjoyment,
Some minutes' light employment.
Thou sentst it, in thy naughty wit.
For a mere childish rhymer;
Lovelier and far sublimer.
I own, as over it I pore,
And further, without scandal.
For vulgar clowns to handle.
But in itself, for aught I sec,
Nor can I doubt a minute,
And native sweetness in it.
Thus scver'd from the stem where first
It brings to recollection
For critical dissection.
But 'tis not by one leaf alone,
Nor do I rank a poet
Take up his works to show it.
If on its stem, this leaf display'd
And scatter'd fragrance round it;
Delighting all who found it:—
Then will I own that flower to he
For kindred virtues grace you;
I in one page will place you!
THE QUAKER POET.
VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF SO DESIGNATED.
The Quaker Poet!—is such name
A simple designation;—
And thy vituperation?
If but the former—I, for one.
Have no objection to it:
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,
The shallow brooks, in spring so gay.
In summer soonest fail us;
Their sounds no more regale us;
While the more deep but quiet streams,
By alders ovcrshaded,
Their beauties uninvaded.
And on their peaceful verge we sec
Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them
Hover the butterfly and bee,—
Is it the gayest of the gay,
The votaries of fashion,
Of pure and genuine passion'/
No!—hearts there be, the world deems cold.
As warm, as true, as tender
However proud their splendour.
But I contend the Quaker-creed,
By fair interpretation,
All that fair nature's charms display
Of grandeur, or of beauty;
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
Its beauties from beholding.
And thus the muse her gifts assigns,
With no sectarian spirit;
Who fame and favour merit.
Xhrough every age, in every clime.
Have felt her energy sublime,
From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers,
Then, Quaker Poets, try your powers!
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 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
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!
TO THE WINDS.
Yb viewless Minstrels of the sky!
That ye were deified:
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,
Ye come!—we know not whence!
Though audible to sense.
The Sun,—his rise, and set we know;
The Moon,—her wax, and wane;
But You his search disdain.
Ye restless, homeless, shapeless thingB!
Like Spirits in a dream;
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.
'Twere as easy to control
As thy wonders to unrol.
Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,
Yet attempt not to explore thee
Whether morning's splendours steep thec
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
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.