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Ami takes its name from sufTring's fiercest
hour:— Be tliis thy noblcat fame, imperial Passionflower!
Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name,
Be this the closing tribute of my strain! Be this, fair flowers! of charms—your last
and best! That when Tub Son Of God for Man was
slain, Circled by you, He sank awhile to rest,— Not the Grave's captive, but a Garden's
guest, So pure and lovely was his transient tomb! And He, whose brow the wreath of thorns
had prcst. Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom, But won (Ac thornless croum of amaranthine
TEMPORALS AND SPIRITUALS.
What is lovelier far than the Spring can he, To the gloom of dark Winter succeeding, When the blossoms arc blushing on flower
and tree, And the lambs in the meadows are feeding; While the earth below, and the heavens above. Resound with the anthems of joy and love?
'Tis the Spring of the soul! when on Sin's dark nigbt
A ray from above is descending,
And the tear of contrition, lit up by its light,
With its beauty is silently blending;
When the heart's broken accents of prayer and praise
Are sweeter than Nature's softest lays.
What is stronger and brighter than Summer's sun.
In his noon-tide effulgence shining?
Yet gentler than he, when his goal is won,
And his beams in the west are declining?
More glorious than Summer's most cloudless day,
Whose loveliest splendour soon passes away?
Tis the Christian's zenith,the Summer of him
to grace, Outshines the Sun in his glorious race.
What is richer than Harvest? what gladdens the heart
Beyond Autnmn, with bounty o'erllowing?
What is wealthier than all the proud trophies of art;
More ripe than the red vintage glowing;
Yet majestic and touching as Autumn's eve,
W hen the Sun's calm glory is taking its leave?
'Tis the Saint's ripe harvest; the gathering-in
To the garner of thanks and of glory;
H is prayer and praise for redem ption from sin;
His hopes, now his locks are hoary,
That the mercy and goodness, vouchsaf'd
him long, May still be his stay, and his even-song.
What is stiller and fairer than Winter's night, When the full moon and stars are unclouded; When earth is bespangled with glory and
light. Though its life deep within it bo shrouded; When all is so calm and so lovely around, That a whisper might startle the car )ty its
'Tis the parting-hour of the Saint, when his
cheek Is ting'd with delightful emotion; When his eye and his smile in silence speak The spirit's sublimest devotion; When his earthly beauty and vigour have
flown, But tho brightness of Heaven is over him
It is an awful thing to die!
But did not Man thy form supply
With terrors not its own. Not thus to life would mortals cling, Nor view thee as a gloomy thing
To waken fear alone.
But we have ransack'd Fancy's realm
Life's nerveless, weakest hour:
Wc aggravate thy power.
Thy form would -we personify,
Gaunt, ghastly, fleshless, dire;
Fresh horrors to inspire.
With stifled breath we speak thy name,
Would thy approach declare;
Were more than man could dare.
Not only do we strive to blind
From others we conceal
Thy sentence to repeal.
Thus to attempt ourselves to cheat,
And in another's case,
To look thee in the face.
To doubt such courage may be won,
This might excuse supply;
And taught us how to die.
Thou mayst be terrible, O Death!
Each treasure of the heart;
From all they prize must part
But to tho Christian, who, serene,
Has look'd through Faith on things unseen—
Thy solemn, trying hour
And trusts a Saviour's power.
His treasure is laid up on high,
Where moth and rust can come not nigh,
Nor thieves break through and steal; The only bonds which hold him here Are duty, reverential fear,
And ties that all should feel.
But duty, is he call'd above,
Con cast out every fear;
Who gave them earth to cheer.
| Then thou, the Inst and deadliest torn Of Man, art laid for ever low,
No longer to appal; From sin redeem'd, with humble trust. The spirit waits to join the just,
Where God is all in all.
And thou art stingless! while the grave No victory over such can crave;—
Through Faith and Hope sublime, Heaven over Earth the triumph gains; Joys yet to be o'er present pains;
Eternity o'er Time!
Too oft on thee, in wayward mood,
And Flattery found its choicest food
The artless tribute I would raise.
In simple truth, alone, essays
To speak my gratitude to Thee.
How vast, how complicate the debt
I owe to thee, 'twere vain to tell:— In childhood, can I e'er forget
The voice, which, like a soothing spell, Beguil'd each grief? how softly fell
On youth's fond ear a gentler tone! How sweet, e'en now, it is to dwell
On thy lov'd voice, and thine alone!
I owe thee much, for I was rear'd
Beneath thy kind and fost'ring care; Thy smiles my earliest joys endear'd;—
As life advane'd more priz'd they were. Prompting me manhood's ills to hear;
And now, of all created things. Thou, chiefly, chidest dark despair.
And unto thee Hope fondly clings.
They feel not thy transcendent worth
Who love thee most in sun-bright hoars: I know thy smile enn heighten mirth.
As day-light gladdens opening flowers; I know that e'en thy playful powers
In sportive mood,—thy look, thy voire. When some light cloud around us lower*.
Can bid Man's grateful heart rejoice.
But 'tis in seasons far more drear.
Of outward, inward gloom combin'd. When sorrow knows no bursting tear.
But dark despair o'erclouds the raind'Tis then in thee the wretched fmil
That purer, gentler power display'd. Which, fond, yet firm, appears design's'
To dissipate each darker shade.
None, none can paint, who hare not known
Such hours, what thou canst then reveal; That charm peculiarly thy own,
Which seems, by art that all can feel, The sufferer from himself to steal;
The balm of sympathy to shed
And call back hope as from the dead.
'Tis not thy beauty that can give
This influence o'er the mourner's heart; This pure, this high prerogative
Is gain'd thee by no studied art: A fever'd spirit's rankling smart
Heeds not a face, nor form, nor air; The charm that thou canst then impart
Proclaims that something else is there.
It is the patient, quiet power
Of deep affection, given with birth; Thy richest, and thy noblest dower,
Far, far above thy smiles of mirth: That love which knows no wintry dearth
In bleak adversity's chill blast,
Endures unshaken to the last.
Yet though this glorions gift appear
Thy nat'ral birth-right here below, Let meek humility and fear
Its holiest source both feel and know: Mere earthly love may come and go,
As meteors o'er our path may shine; But that which lives through care and woe,
Religion's influence must refine.
This only gives that higher zest
To which thy spirit should aspire; Thy influence o'er Man's grateful breast
By this dominion should acquire: The painter's hues, the poet's lyre,
Thy mortal graces may display; But thou shouldst for thyself desire,
And seek a yet more deathless sway.
Man is immers'd in worldly cares,
And ceaseless conflicts;—science, fame, Commerce,—the world's uncounted snares—
Beset his every earthly aim: Thine is the privilege to claim
A more sequester'd path ;—O! strive To cherish that ethereal flame
Which shall mortality survive.
The busiest life that Man can lead
Has many a moment's breathing space: Seek thou for wisdom, strength to plead
In snch for pure Religion's grace;
Meekly the Gospel's power adorn,
Man is, indeed, of Woman born.
A RELIQUE OF NAPOLEON,
OB VERSES OK A LEAF GATHERED FROM HIS GRAVE.
Is this, departed scourge of earth!
A Reliqne worthy Thee?
Its littleness to see;
Would more offended be;—
But to a Poet's thoughtful view
This frail memorial teems With feelings, fancies, tender, true,
Worth all ambition's dreams; Nor could a homily express More on the empty nothingness Of conquest's wildest schemes, Than this poor wither'd leaf displays To meditation's thoughtful gaze.
Those who regard with dazzled eye
Thy comet-like career,
With cold, contemptuous sneer; And think a pyramid's proud height, To awe, and overwhelm the sight,
Shonld be emblazon'd here,
Ill-judging Men !• Thy reliques found
A tomb by Nature plann'd,
Their guardians seem to stand:
The seaman's outstretch'd hand
What could Ambition's self desire
To tell its votary's lot?
If this content them not?
Like that rock-girdled spot.
Had but thy fame (for fame was thine)
Been truly good and great, No monument could Art assign
With such a one to mate: Those who most idolize thy name
Could scarcely wish for thee to claim
Sublimer funeral state, Or mausoleum more august To tell thy death, and guard thy dust.
For me, though through thy stormy day
I reverene'd not thy power,
A monarch's noblest dower;
In Fortune's adverse hour;— Nor would I willingly deface This relique of thy resting-place.
'Tis all I wish it:—just enough
To waken thoughts of thee, Which need not dread a Slave's rebuff,
Much less offend Tiik Fheb:
A selfish, servile knee:—
Rather would I, in thoughtful frame,
O'er this poor relique bend, Which seems to say: "Of earthly fame
Behold the fruitless end:
To silent dust descend:—
Time was, when o'er his crownless head
My beauty lov'd to bow,
Theirs round his living brow;
They are—what / am now!
OH A LINE OF 8ALVAT0R ROSA. iNisci poena, vita labor, neceaee mini.
O! say not that the boon of birth
Is punishment alone: Goo, who bestow'd it, knew its worth;
The gift was all His own— Dcsign'd to servo a noble end. Would but thy thoughts to llim ascend.
Think not that Life is nothing more
Than labour:—hath it not,
Full many a flowery spot,
Nor look on Death, Man's latest foe,
As necessary ill: Seek but Thy Savioub's power to know.
And do thy Maker's will— And Death, the end of care and strife, Shall be the door of endless life!
Types of eternal rest—fair buds of bliss. In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week— The next world's gladness imag'd forth in this— Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak!
Eternity in Time—the steps by which %
We climb to future ages—lamps that light Man through his darker days, and thought enrich, Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight.
Wakeners of prayer in Man—hia resting bowers
As on he journeys in the narrow way. Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hoars
Ara waited for as in the cool of day.
Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust.
To raise our thoughts, and purify our powers— Periods appointed to renew our trust—
A gleam of glory after six days' showers!
A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear, By radiant suns that warm as well as shine— A clue, which he who follows knows no fear. Though briars and thorns around his pathway twine.
Foretastes of Heaven on earth—pledges of joj Surpassing fancy's flights, and fiction'* story— The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy. And the bright out-courts of immortal glory!
II O M E.
WiiniE burns the lov'il licnrth brightest,
Cheering the social breast?
Its humble hopes posscss'd?
Of meek-eyed patience born, Worth more than those of gladness,
Which Mirth's bright check adorn?— Pleasure is mark'd by fleetnesa,
To those who ever roam; While grief itself has sweetness
At Home! dear Home!
There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief: There eyes, in all their splendour,
Are vocal to the heart, And glances, gay or tender,
Fresh eloquence impart: Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure?
O! do not widely roam; But seek that hidden treasure
At Home! dear Home!
Does pure Religion charm thee
Far more than aught below? Wouldst thou that she should arm thee
Against the hour of woe? Think not she dwelleth only
In temples built for prayer; For Home itself is lonely
Unless her smiles be there: The devotee may falter,
The bigot blindly roam; If worshiplcss her altar
At Home! dear Home!
Love over it presideth,
With meek and watchful awe, Its daily service guideth,
And shows its perfect law; If there thy faith shall fail theo,
If there no shrine be found, What can thy prayers avail thee
With kneeling crowds around? Go! leave thy gift unofler'd,
Beneath Religion's dome.
At Home! dear Home!
TO THE RIVER DEBEN.
Could Muse of mine give fame to thee,
Shakspeare has shed on Avon's stream
While flows the winding Oise along,
An unromantic stream art thou,
Have I not seen thy waters bright
Though many a river's banks outvie
In graceful curve thy waters glide,
And, worihier still of Poet's lay,
I sought thy shore a youth unknown,
Though since I knew thee years have sped,
Then roll thy waters to the sea,
But with them bear one strain from me;
Nor ask I sweeter earthly fame,
Than blending with thy own my Name.
THE TWELVE MONTHS OF HUMAN LIFE.
Twelve months compose each fleeting year;
And, unto those who rightly scan,
Compris'd in life's accustom'd span: