Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love :
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow :
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow :
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound!
IN what delightful land,
Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth?
Thou art no offspring of the common earth,
By common breezes fann'd!
Full oft my gladden'd eye,
In pleasant glade, or river's marge, has traced
(As if there planted by the hand of taste)
Sweet flowers of every dye.
In mead, or mountain, or domestic bower, 'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower, One half so fair as thee!
Thy beauty makes rejoice
My inmost heart-I know not how 'tis so,-
Quick coming fancies thou dost make me know,
For fragrance is thy voice.
And still it comes to me,
In quiet night, and turmoil of the day,
Like memory of friends gone far away,
Or, haply, ceased to be.
Together we'll commune,
As lovers do, when, standing all apart,
No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart,
Save the all-silent moon.
Thy thoughts I can divine,
Although not utter'd in vernacular words,
Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds;
Of venerable wine;
Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots;
Of summer days, when men their thirsting slake
In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake,
While eating wood-grown fruits.
Thy leaves my memory tell
Of sights and scents and sounds, that come again,
Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain
Is echo'd in its shell.
The meadows in their green, Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways, The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen.
'Mong sylvan shades, near music haunted springs, Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child.
The beauty of the sky,
The music of the woods, the love that stirs
Wherever nature charms her worshippers,
Are all by thee brought nigh.
I shall not soon forget
What thou hast taught me in my solitude,
My feelings have acquired a taste of good,
Sweet flower! since first we met.
Thou bring'st unto the soul
A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought;
And dost the goodness and the power denote
Of Him who form'd the whole.
a volume, just published, of very pleasing poetry, entitled Rivulet: a Contribution to Sacred Song, by THOMAS T. LYNCH.
IN silence mighty things are wrought-
Silently builded, thought on thought,
Truth's temple greets the sky;
And, like a citadel with towers,
The soul, with her subservient powers,
Is strengthen'd silently.
Soundless as chariots on the snow,
The saplings of the forest grow
To trees of mighty girth;
Each nightly star in silence burns,
And every day in silence turns
The axle of the earth.
The silent frost, with mighty hand,
Fetters the rivers and the land
With universal chain;
And smitten, by the silent sun,
The chain is loosed, the rivers run,
The lands are free again.
The following stanzas were composed by HORACE SMITH, while ing outside a country church in Sussex, much regretting that, as it s a week-day, he could not gain admittance to the interior of the =red edifice.
WHY are our churches shut with zealous care,
Bolted and barr'd against our bosoms' yearning,
Save for the few short hours of Sabbath-prayer,
With the bell's tolling statedly returning?
If with diurnal drudgeries o'erwrought,
Or sick of dissipation's dull vagaries,
We wish to snatch one little space for thought,
Or holy respite, in our sanctuaries;
What! shall the church, the house of prayer no more,
Give tacit notice from its fasten'd portals,
That for six days 'tis useless to adore,
Since God will hold no communings with mortals?
Are there no sinners in the churchless week
Who wish to sanctify a vow'd repentance?
Are there no hearts bereft which fain would seek
The only balm for death's unpitying sentence?
Why are they shut?
Are there no poor, no wrong'd, no heirs of grief,
No sick, who, when their strength or courage falters,
Long for a moment's respite or relief,
By kneeling at the God of mercy's altars?
Are there no wicked, whom, if tempted in,
Some qualm of conscience, or devout suggestion,
Might suddenly redeem from future sin?
Oh! if there be, how solemn is the question
In foreign climes mechanics leave their tasks
To breathe a passing prayer in their cathedrals:
There they have week-day shrines, and no one asks,
When he would kneel to them and count his bead-rolls,
Why are they shut?
Seeing them enter sad and disconcerted,
To quit those cheering fanes with looks of gladness,— How often have my thoughts to ours reverted!
How oft have I exclaim'd in tones of sadness,
or who within a parish-church can stroll, Wrapp'd in its week-day stillness and vacation, or feel that in the very air his soul
Receives a sweet and hallowing lustration?
he echoes of our footsteps, as we tread
On hollow graves, are spiritual voices;
nd, holding mental converse with the dead,
In holy reveries our soul rejoices.
there be one-one only-who might share
This sanctifying week-day adoration,
Vere but our churches open to his prayer,
Why-I demand with earnest iteration-
rom a volume published anonymously in the year 1816 entitled, Naiad, and other Poems.
THE moon was wandering quietly
Over the starry spotted sky;
And sending down a silvery light
To deck the melancholy night;-
Green leaves caught a pallid hue,
Fresh grass whiten'd to the view;
All was still o'er earth and trees,
So reposing was the breeze;-
Here and there a cloud was spread,
Calm and bright above the head,
Steep'd in light the moon had shed.
In the mead a little lake
Seem'd, like nature, not awake;
Waveless was its cool clear breast,
By the moonbeams charm'd to rest ;-
And its lilies pure and white,
Breathed a perfume on the night,
As if to mingle with the quiet light.
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