Oн, who would flee the melody
Of woodland, grove, and stream-
The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky
By morning's virgin beam;
To wander 'mid the busy throng
That threads each city's street,
Where cank'ring care and folly's glare
In unblest union meet?
Emilia! o'er the fleeting hours
Thy smile once bathed in light,
Fond memory hovers pensively,
And joins them in their flight;
And lovelier far than sunset's glow,
By rainbow beauties spann'd,
Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole
When first I press'd thy hand.
The south wind, on its joyous way,
Came fraught with balmier breath,
And frolic life, in thousand forms,
Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!
Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,
Re-tuned the shepherd's song;
And bird and bee, in reckless glee,
Pour'd melody along.
The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade
Upon the streamlet's breast,
The red bird, on the chesnut bough,
Re-builds its fairy nest;
But through the thicket's leafy screen
Fancy alone can trace
The sparkling eye-the vermeil dye
That mantled o'er thy face.
Though since that hour, upon my path
Are graven hopes and fears,
And transient smiles, like April beams,
Have gilded sorrow's tears;
From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,
My soul with rapture flies
To the sweet grove, where faith and love
Beamed from Emilia's eyes!
Then woo me not to sculptured halls,
Where pride and beauty throng;
Far lovelier is my mountain-home,
The wild-wood paths among;
And though the hopes by boyhood nursed
Have vanish'd like the dew,
In Memory's light they bless my sight
With charms for ever new.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
WHILE you, my friend, with tearful eye,
These soft elegiac lines read o'er,
And while you heave the tender sigh
For lov'd Amanda now no more.
This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,
Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,
This lesson from Amanda learn,—
That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.
That he alike his ruthless reign
Does o'er each age, each sex, extend,
That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,
Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.
But in the height of Beauty's bloom,
Each dear connexion of the heart,
He points them to the gloomy tomb,
He bids them--and they must depart.
THE Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling There are songs in the stream-there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale; The desolate reign of old winter is broken
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm,—and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.
The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,.
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers —
He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.
The young bird is out on his delicate pinion
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure
The woodlands are singing — the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom ! -
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild-wood-the sheen of the blossom
The fresh-welling fountain, their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the past with 'so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.
From the wide-spreading earth-from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:
The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth —
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave; -
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended —
"T is not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the newness and sweetness of Being are ended —
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping -
There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.
It is shut to the glow of this present existence —
It hears, from the past, a funereal strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish-
Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.
It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given,
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven —
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.
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