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170 TRUE RICHES.
On the same young, flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refined, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love;
There, beneath the smiling skies,
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.
There are endless beauties more
Earth hath no resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul;
'T is a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its own,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader't is, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery stage
Cannot coast it in an age!
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand days or more.
Yet the silly, wandering mind,
Loth to be too much confined,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round the narrow shores.
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence;
Or she sits at Fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And to herself a stranger living.
Never, never, would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.
THE MOSS ROSE.
The Angel of the flowers one day
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, —
That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dew from heaven.
Awakening from his slight repose,
The Angel whispered to the Rose, —
"O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all is fair,
For the sweet shade thou hast given me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
Then said the Rose, with deepened glow, —
"On me another grace bestow; "—
The Angel paused in silent thought, —
What grace was there the flower had not?
'T was but a moment, — o'er the Rose
A veil of moss the Angel throws,
And, robed in Nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?
172 A Monarch's Death-bed.
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. —Mrs. Hemam.
A Monarch^ on his death-bed lay, —
Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps, from their silvery ray,
Through his proud chambers gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,
Beneath a darkening sky,—
A lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire from spear?
Was there a banner for his pall,
A buckler for his bier?
Not so, — nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,
And friendly vassals, nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the fading eye ? —
A peasant-girl that royal head
Upon her bosom laid;
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,
The face of death surveyed.
Alone she sat, — from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood,
Treason its worst had done!
With her long hair she vainly pressed The wounds, to stanch their tide,— Unknown, on that meek, humble breast, Imperial Albert died.
Say, is there aught that can convey
An image of its transient stay?
'T is an hand's-breath;'t is a tale;
'T is a vessel under sail;
'T is a conqueror's straining steed;
'T is a shuttle in its speed;
'T is an eagle in its way,
Darting down upon its prey;
'T is an arrow in its flight,
Mocking the pursuing sight;
'T is a vapor in the air;
'Tis a whirlwind rushing there;
'T is a short-lived, fading flower;
'T is a rainbow on a shower;
'T is a momentary ray,
Smiling in a winter's day;
'T is a torrent's troubled stream;
'T is a shadow 't is a dream;
,rFis the closing watch of night,
Dying at approaching light;
'Tis a landscape vainly gay,
Painted upon crumbling clay;
'T is a lamp that wastes its fires;
'T is a smoke that quick expires;
'T is a bubble;'t is a sigh;
Be prepared, O man, to die!
VIRTUE. — George Herbert.
Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
TO A SKYLARK.— Wordsworth.
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain;