Oh! not to Lady Fortune's captious hate Are fine and delicate spirits first to bow; Wealth and young Hope, like thine, made desolate, Have broken many a sterner heart: but thou Hast quiet thoughts, and exquisite affections, And dreams that waft thee far from storms of Earth, Sweet tears, lone musings, cherish'd recollections; And Poesy smiled on thee at thy birth; And o'er thy path one loved and tranquil Star Still flings its cheering radiance from afar. III. (With the MS. from which the following Lines are extracted.) No freak I send of venturous Phantasy, But the dull coinage of a College brain, Wrought with fatigue, and heaviness, and pain, And hours of cold and sober industry; A thing of rhyme and syntax, writ to gain Haply a week's poor notoriety. Young Poet, 't is a dearer pride to me To know that this weak, wayward Muse of mine Hath touch'd a few such gentle hearts as thine, With her faint, melancholy minstrelsy. Thou hast the pinions of poetic might; Mine is a poor and lowly destiny, To gaze, far off, upon thine eagle-flight, And hail thy proud ascent to Immortality. THE EXTRACT, FROM A TERRIBLE LONG MS. POEM. THOU brightest idol of th' enthusiast's heart, Thy calm and solemn musings,—do we raise Wafting th' entranced soul through many a scene Of bliss to be, and rapture which hath been. Thine are a thousand "thoughts too deep for tears," Thoughts of the hours which with our heartstrings wove Thoughts of the impulse warm, the grasp close-strain'd, The look that utter'd all the heart contain'd; The voice that cheer'd, the gentle eyes that smiled On the gay, sinless, and unthinking child; And yet far holier musings oft are thine, Beautiful hour! when first from cloudless skies The presence of the One Divinity. Then, with what meek devotion, through the air, Till, o'er his soul, entranced in rapture deep, First stole the awful heaviness of sleep. Alas! how changed that soul! how fallen its pride, When, with his gentle partner at his side, Again he watch'd the sunset fade away, The first, sad sunset of a toilsome day! What gloomy visions then their fancy cross'd, What sad repinings for their Eden lost! What dark forebodings of impending woes, Of care, and pain, and sin, and death, arose! Yet, as beneath those bright and tranquil skies, Till, in the silence of their bliss, they smiled, * * JUAN. THE LOVER'S SONG. SOFTLY sinks the rosy sun, And the toils of day are past and done, Come, dear Image, come for a while, Come from that unvisited cell, Where all day long thou lovest to dwell, Come, with all thy heraldry Of mystic fancies, and musings high, And griefs, that lay in the heart like treasures, Till Time had turn'd them to solemn pleasures: And thoughts of early virtues gone,— -Too solemn for day, too sweet for night, And in the white and silent dawn, When the curtains of night are half undrawn, G. MONTGOMERY. THE BACHELOR. T. Quince, Esq. to the Rev. Matthew Pringle. You wonder that your ancient friend Has come so near his journey's end, O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labour's hill, The toilsome way with constant smile, * And at set of sun, When my task is done, Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary!-BARRY CORNWALL. |