Yet mortal life is sad,

Eternal storms molest its sullen sky;
And sorrows ever rife
Drain the sacred fountain dry-

Away with mortal life!

But, hail the calm reality,
The seraph Immortality,

Hail the heavenly bowers of peace,
Where all the storms of passion cease.
Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,
The wearied spirit weeps no more;
But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Tasting bliss without alloy.
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,
Where no passing tempest lowers;
But the azure heavens display
The everlasting smile of day;
Where the choral seraph choir,
Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;
And the spirit sinks to ease,
Lulled by distant symphonies.

Oh! to think of meeting there

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The friends whose graves received our tear,

The daughter loved, the wife adored,

To our widowed arms restored;

And all the joys which death did sever,
Given to us again for ever!

Who would cling to wretched life,

And hug the poisoned thorn of strife-
Who would not long from earth to fly
A sluggish senseless lump to lie,
When the glorious prospect lies
Full before his raptured eyes?

MUSIC.

Written between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, with a few subsequent verbal alterations.

Music, all-powerful o'er the human mind,

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, And e'en fierce anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie;
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace,
Melts the charmed soul to thrilling ecstasy,
And bids the jarring world's harsh clangor cease.

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise,
Infuse new ardor, and with youthful fire,

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.

Far better she when with her soothing lyre.
She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,
And melting into pity vengeful ire,

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,
At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,
And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,
In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,

Of softest flute or reeds harmonic joined, With rapture thrilled each worldly passion dies,

And pleased attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell;
Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul With joy I'd yield each sensual wish to live Forever 'neath your undefiled control.

Oh, surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.

MOON of harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labor's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,

And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide,
Where innocence and peace reside;

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of harvest, I do love

O'er the uplands now to rove,

While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high
In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat,
Ripened by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,
And thinking soon,

Oh, modest moon!

How many a female eye will roam

Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,

Hence

away,

the season flee,

Foes to light-heart jollity;

May no winds careering high,

Drive the clouds along the sky;

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Harvest

Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes;

He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;
Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy:

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,

And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I sleep's dull power to woo:

Press ye still the downy bed,

While fev'rish dreams surround your head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapt in contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG,

TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!