Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields
Of ether, where the day is never veiled
With intervening vapors; and looks down
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face.
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed
The glaring sunbeam plays.
Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes;
And from his tower of mist,
Night's watchman hurries down.
THERE was a little bird upon that pile;
It perched upon a ruined pinnacle,
And made sweet melody.
The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,
For other note none swelled the air but his.
It seemed as if the little chorister,
Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,
Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,
Yet withal cheerful.-I have heard the note
Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,
Much musing-
O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint
Thy melancholy ray:
When the still night's unclouded saint
Is walking on her way.
Through my lattice leaf embowered,
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam;
And o'er my silent sacred room,
Casts a chequered twilight gloom;
I throw aside the learned sheet,
I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.
Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,
Or why am I so frail?
Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,
And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards!
Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak
Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far
From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.
O GIVE me music-for my soul doth faint;
I am sick of noise and care, and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.
Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,
When all is still; and now it grows more strong,
As when the choral train their dirges weave,
Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,
O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.
Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,
АH! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie?
Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,
Secure his own will never need it too!
Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye, The illusive past and dark futurity;
AND must thou go, and must we part!
Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;
The pang that rends in twain my heart,
Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?
Thy sex is fickle,-when away,
Some happier youth may win thy—
WHEN I sit musing on the chequered past,
(A term much darkened with untimely woes,)
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, though half disowned;-and binding fast
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her she robbed me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth.-'Tis true my breast
Received from her this wearying lingering smart;
Yet ah! I cannot bid her form depart;
Though wronged, I love her—yet in anger love,
For she was most unworthy.-Then I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * *
The native pride of my much injured heart.
WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream,
Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire;
Spell-struck, and filled with many a wondering dream,
First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre.
All there was mystery then, the gust that woke
The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge;
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke,
To their light morrice by the restless surge.
Now to my sobered thought with life's false smiles,
The vagrant, Fancy, spreads no more her wiles,
And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.
HUSHED is the lyre-the hand that swept
The low and pensive wires,
Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires.
Yes it is still-the lyre is still;
The spirit which its slumbers broke,
Hath passed away,-and that weak hand that woke Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.
Yet I would press you to my lips once more,
Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,
Mixed with decaying odors; for to me
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,
As in the wood-paths of my native—
ONCE more, and yet once more,
I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay;
I heard the waters roar,
I heard the flood of ages pass away.
O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell
In thine eternal cell,
Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years;
I saw thee rise,-I saw the scroll complete,
Thou spakest, and at thy feet,
The universe gave way.
LOUD rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud
O'er the cold north star casts her fitting shroud;
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