Lover of woman, whose sad heart
Wastes like a fountain in the sun,
Clings most, where most its pain does start,
Dies by the light it lives upon;
Come to the land of graves; for here
Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear,
Gather'd in holy trust;
Here slumber forms as fair as those
Whose cheeks, now living, shame the rose,
Their glory turn'd to dust.
Lover of fame, whose foolish thought
Steals onward o'er the wave of time,
Tell me, what goodness hath it brought,
Atoning for that restless crime?
The spirit-mansion desolate,
And open to the storms of fate,
The absent soul in fear;
Bring home thy thoughts and come with me,
And see where all thy pride must be:
Searcher of fame, look here!
And, warrior, thou with snowy plume,
That goest to the bugle's call,
Come and look down; this lonely tomb
Shall hold thee and thy glories all:
The haughty brow, the manly frame,
The daring deeds, the sounding fame,
Are trophies but for death!
And millions who have toil'd like thee,
Are stay'd, and here they sleep; and see,.
Does glory lend them breath?
O, THOU who fling'st so fair a robe
Of clouds around the hills untrod-
Those mountain-pillars of the globe
Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD!
All glittering round the sunset skies,
Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd,-
As if to shade from mortal eyes
The glories of yon upper world;
There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, O God of love, art there.
The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet,
Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, O God!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,-
Give me, O Lord, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells,
In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air—
'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there.
Hark! from yon casement, low and dim,
What sounds are these that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn
Arrests the fisher on the seas;
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended par,
Until those soft delicious airs
Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God, art with him there.
The birds among the summer blooms
Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet, familiar airs,
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around'!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach thy throne in grateful prayer.
The stars-those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white
That trembles round the form it veils,—
They touch the heart as with a spell,
Yet set the soaring fancy free:
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell
Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
THE PRESENCE OF GOD,
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair-
They speak of thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt,
May strive to cast thee from its thought;
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that comest unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,
Magnetic-like, where'er we be,
Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to thee.
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest-
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou, the living God, art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,
Where soaring fancy oft hath been, There is a land where Thou hast said The pure in heart shall enter in ; There, in those realms so calmly bright, How many a loved and gentle one Bathe their soft plumes in living light,
That sparkles from thy radiant throne! There, souls once soft and sad as ours Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers; They dream no more of grief and care, For Thou, the God of peace, art there.
THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion waves are lull'd to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret
We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.
In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born;
We knew not, cared not, it was born to die.
Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue,
Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.
And manhood felt her sway too,—on the eye,
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;
And though at times might lower the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
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