Universal nature slumbers,
And my soul partakes the calm, Breathes her ardour out in numbers, Plaintive song or lofty psalm.
Now my passion, pure and holy,
Shines and burns, without restraint; Which the day's fatigue and folly Cause to languish, dim and faint: Charming hours of relaxation! How I dread the ascending sun! Surely, idle conversation
Is an evil, match'd by none.
Worldly prate and babble hurt me;
Unintelligible prove;
Neither teach me nor divert me;
I have ears for none but love.
Me, they rude esteem, and foolish,
Hearing my absurd replies;
I have neither art's fine polish,
Nor the knowledge of the wise.
Simple souls, and unpolluted,
By conversing with the great,
Have a mind and taste, ill suited
To their dignity and state;
All their talking, reading, writing,
Are but talents misapplied;
Infants' prattle I delight in,
Nothing human choose beside.
"Tis the secret fear of sinning
Checks my tongue, or I should say,
When I see the night beginning,
I am glad of parting day:
Love this gentle admonition
Whispers soft within my breast;
'Choice befits not thy condition,
Acquiescence suits thee best.'
Henceforth, the repose and pleasure
Night affords me, I resign;
And thy will shall be the measure,
Wisdom infinite! of mine:
Wishing is but inclination
Quarrelling with thy decrees;
Wayward nature finds th' occasion-
"Tis her folly and disease.
Night, with its sublime enjoyments,
Now no longer will I choose;
Nor the day, with its employments,
Irksome as they seem, refuse;
Lessons of a God's inspiring,
Neither time nor place impedes;
From our wishing and desiring,
Our unhappiness proceeds.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps;
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy —
'Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy:
No ling'ring hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be
In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past,
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungen'rous scorn away.
And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,
I lay my head beneath the willow tree,
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parting spirit ling'ring near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at ev'ning hour, to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclin'd,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love and all my woe?
TO A MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
(The Child asleep on the Mother's bosom.)
[REV. HOBART CAUNTER.]
FOND Mother! how those mild and mellow'd orbs
Of love and beauty, ting'd with the pure blue
Of heaven, beam sweetly on thy babe! How calm
Its sleep! how lovely in its slumbers! hush'd
By a soft voice, whose witching minstrelsy
Steals o'er the heart like gentle summer airs
Breathing upon the waters tenderly,
To ruffle not, but sweetly agitate
Its still clear bosom. Cherub! thou art lull'd
To slumber with the gentlest lullaby
That ever fell upon the wearied sense,
And pillow'd where an angel's cheek might rest,
Nor feel a taint through his pure essence spread----
So perfectly has virtue hallow'd thee.
God's blessing be upon thy babe, fond mother!
See how it smiles, as if that earnest pray'r
Stole o'er its sleeping sense-as if that smile
Gave forth the sweet Amen.
Pure innocent! an anxious mother's eye
Watches thy slumbers-thy young dreams have now
Nought to disturb them? Like the twilight dawn,
Where all is redolent, one genʼral hue
Pervading nature, looking smilingly
Thro' the thin veil of morning, to thine eye
Is the fair view of life. There's harmony
In all that breathes around thee. To thy young
And ardent ken, the world seems one vast sphere
Of living beauty, and a storehouse fraught
With ev'ry thing for joy; but shortly, child,
The film shall drop from thy delighted eye,
And shew thee all its hideousness: anon
Stern time shall ripen thy perceptions, now
So dull and immature; when thou shalt look
Down its dark vista with an eager glance,
And there behold the lucid orb of bliss
Peering behind the murky fogs of woe,
Lighting their gloomy track-like the bright sun
Riding amid his fires, through flashing clouds,
To shew the gath'ring storm.
Above, who shall direct thee through the clash
angry elements, to that pure rest
Where angels wait to welcome thee. When years
Shall have unlock'd thy reason's stores, may vice
Find no asylum in thy heart! In Him
Who perish'd for thee, may thine ardent soul
Repose its trust; and from this chequer❜d world-
When thou hast pluck'd its roses with their thorns-
ascend the Zion of the skies,
ove the rolling spheres, where reigns Thy still incarnate God; and dwell with him, And all the glorious company of heav'n,' In bliss ineffabie, and light divine.
THERE is a calm for those who weep;
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil;
To slumber in that dreamless bed
The grave that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen!-I will speak no more:
Art thou a mourner? hast thou known The joy of innocent delights,
Endearing days for ever flown,
And tranquil nights?
'Olive! and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past; Rely on Heav'n's unchanging will
|