Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead:
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

BEAMS of the daybreak faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe

Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,

I mark your traces pale.

Tired with the taper's sickly light,

And with the wearying, numbered night,
I hail the streaks of morn divine:

And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths
That round my rural casement twine;

The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow, it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,
And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.

Now let me leave my restless bed,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the customed wood walk wend;
By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale,
It breathes into my breast!

My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,
Is with new colours dressed.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze,

Invigorate my frame:

I'll join with thee the buskined chase,
With thee the distant clime will trace
Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view!

Before me all is burnished gold,
Behind the twilight's hue.

The mists which on old Night await,

Far to the west they hold their state,

They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly,

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds

adorn.

And hark! the thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,

And oft the hedger's bill is heard
Among the rustling leaves.

The slow team creaks upon the road,
The noisy whip resounds,

The driver's voice, his carol blithe,
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe
Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat
Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,
And catch the healthy breeze,
Than on the silken couch of Sloth

Luxurious to lie;

Who would not from life's dreary waste

Snatch, when he could, with eager haste,
An interval of joy!

To him who simply thus recounts

The morning's pleasures o'er,

Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close

To ope on him no more.

Yet Morning! unrepining still,

He'll greet thy beams awhile;

And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whispering willows wave,

Wilt sweetly on him smile:

And the pale glowworm's pensive light [night. Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad:

Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

[twine.

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye the lingering knell

That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Though from Hope's summit hurled,
Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaver

To wean me from the world;

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discussed)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall;

[pall

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her

The most beloved on earth

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 't was passing sweet,

But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile, and fleet,