ORIGINAL POETRY-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
TO A MOTHER ON THE ABSENCE OF HER DAUGHTER.
OH! wherefore should those trembling tears,
Successive, dim a mother's eye!
Oh, chase away those useless fears
Which prompt the sorrow-freighted sigh!
Remember that the faithful dove,
When bidden from the ark to roam,
Was guided by a God of love
And brought the peaceful olive home.
So she, whose absence now you mourn,
By no maternal fondness pressed,
Shall soon with fluttering heart return,
To plant the olive in thy breast.
Then, as the new-born rainbow streamed
Its beauteous colour o'er the skies,
To tell the wanderers, redeemed
From floods, that floods no more should rise;
So she, when safe within thy arms,
With sweetest smiles her lips shall dress,
To quiet all thy heart's alarms
And bid thy tears forever cease!
The following lines are by E. Ruthson, the interesting and philanthropic blind bookseller of Liverpool. The subject is peculiarly interesting, coming from one who has experimentally known the miseries he so pathetically describes.
Ah, think, if June's delicious says
The eye of sorrow can illume,
Or wild December's cheerless days
Can fling o'er all a transient gloom.
Ah, think if skies obscure or bright
Can thus depress or cheer the mind,
Ah, think midst clouds of utter night
What mournful moments wait the blind,
And who shall tell his cause for wo
To love the wife he ne'er shall see,
To be a sire and not to know
The silent babe that climbs his knee,
To have his feelings daily torn
With pain the passing meal to find,
To live distress'd and die forlorn
Are ills that oft await the blind.
When to the breezy uplands led
At noon, or blushing eve, or morn,
He hears the redbreast o'er his bed,
While round him breathe the scented thorn:
But, Oh! instead of Nature's face,
Hills, dales, and woods, and streams combined,
Instead of paints, and forms, and grace
Night's blackest mantle shrouds the mind.
If rosy Youth, bereft of sight,
Midst countless thousands pines unblest,
As the gay flower withdrawn from sight
Bows to the earth-where all must rest.
Ah! think, when life's declining hours
To chilling penury are consigned,
And pain has palsied all his powers;
Ah! think what woes await the blind.
I am permitted to enclose you the following production from the pen of a lady, whose talents are surpassed only by her virtues. I doubt not its meeting that attention which its merits so highly deserve.
See the harsh contention braving
Angry winds the billows meet,
Billows mounting, foaming, raving,
Hoarse discordant sounds repeat.
All the earth in wild commotion,
Murmurs dread, each hollow cave,
Swelling, bursting, roars the ocean,
Lightnings gleam and thunders rave.
Now the spirit of the storm
Sails amid th' embattled air; Darkly lowers his horrid form;
He smiles; but ah! he smiles despair.
Tossed amid the surge's thunder,
Henry 'scaped from dashing rocks, Surprised, affrighted, pale with wonder, Fear each manly nerve unlocks.
And shall he perish! darling son
Of virtue, genius; when each art, By him refined with lustre shown,
And gained him every willing heart;
"And shall he perish!" Fate exclaims,
"To wound each heart with lasting grief?
No; when such worth protection claims,
I'll steer the bark, and bring relief."
But hark! upon the troubled air
Notes of softest sound I hear.
Spirit of peace! ah heavenly fair!
The notes are thine which catch the ear.
The stormy spirit mild reproaching,
See the smiling maid draw nigh. Dawning day is fast approaching; Serene the lately troubled sky.
Aurora, in her chariot blushing,
Wakes the sun, whose kindling blaze
O'er smiling Nature swiftly rushing,
With mildest radiance sweetly plays.
Such peace as this shall Virtue find,
When pursued by treacherous foes;
Such the calm sunshine of the mind,
Sweet as the incense of the rose.
The subjoined lines were originally designed as an introduction to a poem on the pleasures of literature. As the design was abandoned on the day on which it was conceived, no further progress was made; nor is it probable it will ever be resumed. If, in their present state the lines will afford any amusement, accept them, with the author's assurance of respect and esteem.
Oh! thou whose cares my early efforts cheered,
And virtue's blossoms in my bosom reared;
Whose smiles to pleasure soothed my infant heart
With all the joys which fancy's beams impart ;
Who taught me first to con the lettered line,
And all its mystic characters combine;
Whose kind attentions cheered my soul with praise,
And strove its slumbering energies to raise :
Short time, alas! I proved thy friendly care,
Till called on high, eternal joys to share.
Scarce can my memory's utmost scope retrace
The time, when decked in youthful beauty's grace,
Thy sweetest task to guide my infant mind,
In nature's paths, to purest joys refined.
Fondly thou shared's instruction's pleasing toil,
And raised my drooping spirits with a smile.
Still in my heart the dear reflection dwells,
And my sad bosom, with emotion swells.
Though such the mandate of relentless fate,
The deep impression boasts no recent date,
Still shall my soul thy sainted image bear,
With all a brother's fondness treasured there.
Though long the victim of an early doom,
Thy mortal frame has slumbered in the tomb,
Thy feeling soul, with every virtue bright,
Winged its swift course to realms of heavenly light:
There wrapt in bliss sublime thy spirit feels
The boundless joys which heaven itself reveals.
Yet fancy paints thee, in my ardent view,
To all thy former fond affections true,
Still striving, with attentions doubly kind,
To aid the efforts of my sinking mind:
Still pointing to my devious steps the way
Which soars above misfortune's iron sway.
Thus strong imagination, wild and free,
Transports my senses, till I fondly see,
As sad I wander at the close of even,
My angel sister 'mid the choir of heaven.
Oh, then, sweet spirit! from the realms above,
Display the pure effulgence of thy love;
Pour on my wearied soul thine influence bland,
And all the mind's warm energies expand.
Direct my pen, inspire the glowing theme,
And wrap my fancy in the poet's dream.
Then shall my song to deathless fame aspire,
And unborn ages shall the strain admire.
Alas! unheard the tumbling numbers roll;
No kindling transports elevate my soul;
No cheering foretaste of immortal fame,
A wo-worn spirit, such as mine, can claim.
No smiling prospects from without is seen,
And all is dark and comfortless within,
Save one bright beam of heaven-descended light,
Which streams its radiance through this gloomy night :
One joy misfortune ne'er shall banish hence,
The high-toned pride of conscious innocence.
This shall support me while my verse records
The sacred joys a lettered life affords.
This holy flame my shattered bark shall guide,
As swift she dashes through the foaming tide;
And when my fainting spirit sinks in death,
When joyful I resign a fleeting breath,
This brilliant beam shall point the onward way,
Which leads triumphant to the realms of day.
There my rapt soul shall seek her blest abode,
An humble suppliant at the throne of God.
SONNET TO STELLA, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
As oft with sad desponding soul,
Life's darker, gloomier scenes I view,
And thickening clouds around me roll,
Tinged with despair's envenomed hue;
When Hope, obscured amid the storm,
Presents no soft, no cheering light,
But Horror's mist-encircled form,
Roll sullen on the troubled sight;
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