But wild, and waste, and desolate, A wilderness is stretch'd around me ; The lilac bowers are ting'd with red; Heav'n is his home, and Life a season!" THE BEACON. ANONYMOUS. THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye, Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it : The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope, (All hush'd was the billow's commotion), And I thought that the Beacon look'd lovely as Hope, The star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar ; In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, Oh then may the Seraph of Mercy arise, TO THE WILD BROOK. MRS ROBINSON. UNHEEDED emblem of the mind! When weeping Twilight's shadows close, I wander where thy mazes wind, And watch thy current as it flows: Now dimpling, silent, calm, and even ; Now brawling, as in anger driven; Now ruffled, foaming, madly wild,— Like the vex'd sense of Sorrow's hopeless child! Beside thy surface now I see, Reflected in thy placid breast, Hush'd Summer's painted progeny, In smiles and sweets redundant drest; While on thy tranquil breast appears And seems thy silvery bed to warm: To dress with sweets the smallest flower that grows. But when destroying blasts arise, And clouds o'ershade thy withering bounds, And loud the ruthless torrent sounds, Such is the human mind! Serene When Fortune's glowing hour appears! And lovely as thy margin green, Are buds of Hope, which Fancy rears: Then Adulation, like the flower, Bends as it greets us on our way; But, in the dark and stormy hour, Leaves us unmark'd, to trace our troubled way. ELEGY ON A LONELY GRAVE. JOHN AMBROSE WILLIAMS. AH! who beneath this lonely heap Is laid in that unstartled sleep The living eye hath never known? No stone, no record, tells us here, Perchance, tho' humble be this grave, Tho' none may hither come to mourn, Tho' o'er the turf no laurel wave, Nor pompous stands the sculptur'd urn; Yet here may Mercy's beams descend, Perchance, but now by all forgot, No friendly eye, no faithful heart, But, tenant of this lonely mound! ODE ON PITY. ANONYMOUS. How lovely in the arch of heaven As, darting through the clouds of even, Sweet is the murmur of the gale That whispers through the summer grove, Soft is the tone of friendship's tale, And softer still the voice of love: Richer than richest diadem That glitters on the monarch's brow, Or all that wealth or art can show- Is there a spark in earthly mould Let false Philosophy decry The noblest feelings of the mind; To sink in Nature's last decay, Without a friend to mourn our fall To mark life's embers die away, Deplor'd by none-unwept by all |