And that the richest boon of heaven
To man-is rather lent than given.
To-day he sits on Reason's throne,
And bids his subject-powers obey:
Thought, Memory, Will,—all seem his own,
Come at his bidding, list his sway;
To-morrow from dominion hurl'd,
Madness pervades the mental world!
Yet think not, though forlorn and drear
The maniac's doom-his lot the worst,
There is a suffering more severe
Than these sad records have rehears'd:
'Tis his, whose virtue struggles still
In hopeless conflict with his will.
e-before whose mental eye
Truth has her chastest charms display'd; But gaudier phantoms fluttering by,
The erring mind have still betray'd;
Till gathering clouds in awful night,
Have quench'd each beam of heavenly light.
whose mental ear has heard
The "still small voice!" yet, prone to wrong,
Have proudly, foolishly preferr'd
The sophist's creed, the syren's song;
And stak'd upon a desperate throw,
Their hopes above-their peace below.
There are, in short, whose days present
One constant scene of painful strife :
Who hourly for themselves invent
Fresh conflicts;-till this dream of life
Has made their throbbing bosoms ache,
And yet, alas! they fear to wake.
With theirs compared, the maniac's doom,
Though abject, must be counted blest :
His mind, though often veil'd in gloom,
At times may know a vacant rest:
Not so, while Thought and Conscience prey
Upon the heart which slights their sway.
O Thou! whose cause they both espouse,
In mercy bid such conflict cease:
Strengthen the wakening sinner's vows,
And grant him penitence and peace;
Or else, in pity, o'er the soul
The dark'ning clouds of madness roll.
What is that,
that, Mather?
The morn has but just looked out and smiled,
When he soars aloft from his grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm, on his own mountain-vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die,
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home!
Christian Triumphs.
THOUGH laurel crowns and victor wreaths
Be for the sons of triumph twin'd:
Though Song her sweetest music breathes
For the destroyers of our kind;
O let them weep, for time shall sweep
Their perishable pomp away;
O let them mourn, for death shall turn
The proudest conqueror into clay.
But here's a deathless coronet,
Wrought for the holy and the wise :
And here is music sweeter yet,
Which never faints and never dies;
The good may see earth's glory flee,
Heaven's ever-living glory theirs,
Their path is peace and pleasantness,
And they are Joy's immortal heirs.
HAIL, gentle Echo, Music's softer daughter,
Reclining on thy deep romantic seat;
From cliff, or thick-set wood, or rocky water,
Springing to meet us on ethereal feet!
Yet in the soul doth softer Echo linger,
It seems the spirit of departed song;
When touch'd again by MEMORY's airy finger,
The harp note wanders lovelily along.
Such is the train of holy thought returning,
When sacred seasons long have passed away,
By Memory rekindled, glowing, burning—
Indeed with fainter, but as sweet a ray.
So the lost sunbeam, in its soft reflection,
Beam'd from the bosom of the Queen of night,
Sheds over Nature's face a recollection,
More fair, more tender, though, indeed, less bright.
Thus will the touch of Memory awaken,
And bid the sabbath shine along the week,
And bring again sweet moments long forsaken,
And altars which the spirit fain would seek
Of holy converse and of high communion,
Of praise celestial, and of ardent prayer,
|