I leave the dreams that charmed my earlier day,
And all the heaven that youthful poets know;
For youth is fled; and thou mayst not remain,
To 'sort with furrowed brow and silver hairs;
Yet sure to lose thee gives me mickle pain;
Thy hand alone the balm of life prepares,
The only zest for joy, the only cure for cares.
O, yes; perforce the parting tear will flow ;-
So old a friend, that loved me yet a child,
Teaching my step the ocean path to know,
And my young voice to sing the tempest mild.
I wooed thee oft in western wood afar,
Where stranger foot had never trod before,
By twilight dim, or light of evening star,
Listening remote to Niagara's roar;
And Nature's self, and thou, didst inspiration pour.
Guide and companion of my wandering way,
What various lands our voyage since hath seen,
From plains where Tiber's glorious waters play,
To distant Morven's misty summits green.
How loath to leave the spot we lingered near,
Athena's walls and grove of Academe!
How, pilgrim like, we saw, with hallowed fear,
Afar the Holy City's turrets gleam,
And prayed on Zion's mount, and drank of Jordan's stream!
Then fare thee well! but not with thee depart
The loftiness of soul that thou hast given;
Once to have known thee shall exalt my heart,
When thou, celestial guest, art fled to heaven.
Then what, though Time may wither Fancy's bloom,
And change her voice to dissonance uncouth?
Thy nobler gifts receive a nobler doom,
And live and flourish in eternal youth-
The firm, unbending mind, the consciousness of truth.
SWEET Sabbath of the year,
While evening lights decay,
O kind Conductor of these wandering feet,
Through snares and darkness, to the realms of day!
Soon did the Sun of Righteousness display
His healing beams; each gloomy cloud dispel :
While on the parting mist, in colors gay,
Truth's cheering bow of precious promise fell,
And Mercy's silver voice soft whispered," All is well."
Fragment of an Epistle written while recovering from severe Illness.-RICHARD H. Dana.
A wearied ear I'll urge you lend
My tale of sickness. Aches I've borne
From closing day to breaking morn-
Long wintry nights and days of pain-
Sharp pain. 'Tis past; and I would fain
My languor cheer with grateful thought
On Him who to this frame has brought
Soothing and rest; who, when there rose,
Within my bosom's dull repose,
A troubled memory of wrong,
Done in health's day, when passions strong
Swayed me,-repentance spoke and peace,
Hope, and from dark remorse release.
Lonely, in thought, I travelled o'er
Days past and joys to come no more;
Sat watching the low beating fire,
And saw its flames shoot up, expire
Like cheerful thoughts that glance their light
Athwart the mind, and then 'tis night.
For ever night?-The Eternal One,
With sacred fire from forth his throne,
Has touched my heart. O, fail it not
When days of health shall be my lot.
Beside me, Patience, Suffering's child,
With gentle voice, and aspect mild,
Sat chanting to me song so holy,
A song to soothe my melancholy;
Won me to learn of her to bear
Sorrows, and pains, and all that wear
Our hearts-me-chained by sickness-taught,
"Prisoner to none the free of thought:"
A truth sublime, but slowly learned
By one who for earth's freshness yearned.
From open air and ample sky
Pent up, thus doomed for days to lie,
Was trial hard to me, a stranger
To long confinement,-me, a ranger
Through bare or leafy wood, o'er hil!,
O'er field, by shore, or by the rill
When taking hues from bending flowers,
Or stealing dark by crystal bowers
Built up by Winter on its bank,
Of branches shot from vapor dank:
And hard to sit, and see boys slide
O'er crusted plain stretched smooth and wide;
Or down the steep and shining drift,
With shout and call, shoot light and swift.
But I could stand at set of sun,
And see the snow he shone upon
Change to a path of glory,-see
The rainbow hues 'twixt him and me-
Orange, and green, and golden light:
I thought on that celestial sight,
That city seen by aged John,
City with walls of precious stone.
Brighter and brighter grew the road
'Twixt me and the descending God-
Methought I could the path have trod.
Silent and slow the sun has gone,
And left me on the earth alone.
And gone's his path, like the steps of light
By angels trod at dead of night,
While Jacob slept. Around my room
The shadows deepen; while the gloom
Visits my soul, in converse high
Lifted but now, when heaven was nigh.
Why could not I, in spirit, raise
Pillar of Bethel to his praise
Who blessed me, and free worship pay,
Like Isaac's son upon his way?
Are holy thoughts but happy dreams
Chased by despair, as starry gleams
By clouds?-Nay, turn, and read thy mind;
Nay, look on Nature's face; thou'lt find
Kind, gentle graces, thoughts to raise
The tired spirit-hope and praise.
O, kind to me, in darkest hour
She led me forth with gentle power,
From lonely thought, from sad unrest,
To peace of mind, and to her breast
The son, who always loved her, pressed;
Called up the moon to cheer me; laid
Its silver light on bank and glade,
And bade it throw mysterious beams
O'er ice-clad hill-which steely gleams
Sent back-a knight who took his rest,
His burnished shield above his breast.
The fence of long, rough rails, that went
O'er trackless snows, a beauty lent:
Glittered each cold and icy bar
Beneath the moon like shafts of war.
And there a lovely tracery
Of branch and twig that naked tree
Of shadows soft and dim has wove,
And spread so gently, that above
The pure white snow it seems to float
Lighter than that celestial boat,
The silver-beaked moon, on air,—
Lighter than feathery gossamer;
As if its dark'ning touch, through fear,
It held from thing so saintly clear.
Thus Nature threw her beauties round me; Thus, from the gloom in which she found me,
She won me by her simple graces,
She wooed me with her happy faces.
The day is closed; and I refrain
From further talk. But, if of pain
It has beguiled a weary hour;
If to my desert mind, like shower
That wets the parching earth, has come
A cheerful thought, and made its home
With me awhile; I'd have you share,
Who feel for me in ills I bear.
Lines occasioned by hearing a little Boy mock the Old South Clock, as it rung the Hour of Twelve.-MRS. CHILD.
Ay, ring thy shout to the merry hours:
Well may ye part in glee;
From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And, laughing, look on thee.
Thy thrilling voice has started tears:
It brings to mind the day
When I chased butterflies and years,
And both flew fast away.
Then my glad thoughts were few and free;
They came but to depart,
And did not ask where heaven could be-
'Twas in my little heart.
I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men:
How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!
But youthful joy has gone away;
In vain 'tis now pursued;
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.
I know too much, to be as blessed
As when I was like thee;
My spirit, reasoned into rest,
Has lost its buoyancy.
Yet still I love the winged hours:
We often part in glee
And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.
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