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From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace; For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain
To bear is to conquer our fate.
FLY NOT YET.
FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower, That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon!
"Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; "Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing!
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to night, that, oh! 'tis pain
Fly not yet; the fount that play'd,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!
I LOVE to set me on some steep,
I love when seated on its brow,
And eye the distant vale;
From thence to see the waving corn,
I love far downward to behold
I love to range the valleys too,
And overhead the sky.
I love to see, at close of day,
Spread o'er the hills the sun's bright ray,
When every cloud in rich attire,
I love, when evening veils the day,
And see ten thousand worlds of light
O'er the vast vault profound.
I love to let wild Fancy stray,
Where thousand thousand burning rays
And charm the ravish'd sight.
I love from thence to take my flight
And reach my native plain,
Just as the flaming Orb of day,
Drives night, and mists, and shades away,
And lights the world again.
A POET'S TOMB.
THOUGH my visions of life are soon to depart,
For me, love! no sweetwasting odours shall burn,
And that urn be abroad in the sun and the show'rs.
When the gay-coloured evening shines cheerfully through: Around it the shadows of twilight shall sail,
And the mists of the morning embalm it in dew.
Sweet girl! may thy relics be laid in that shrine!
For though death, we are told, is unconscious of love, Yet it soothes me to hope they may mingle with mine, As our spirits will mingle for ever above.
And if, when the race of our being is run,
Any record remain of the loves that we bore, Our story shall be, that in life we were one, And in dying we met, to be parted no more.