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While Contemplation, on seraphic wings,
opens on my
soul.- J. Montgomery.
Hid from the glance of urchins' eyes, Peering already for the prize; While daily, hourly intervene The clustering leaves, a closer screen. In bank, in bush, in hollow hole High on the rocking tree, On the gray cliffs, that haughtily The ocean waves control; Far in the solitary fen, On heath, and mountain hoar, Beyond the foot or fear of men, Or by the cottage door; In grassy tuft, in ivy'd tower, Where'er directs the instinctive power, Or loves each jocund pair to dwell, Is built the cone, or feathery cell. Beautiful things ! than I, no boy Your traces may discern, Sparkling beneath the forest fern, With livelier sense of joy: I would not bear them from the nest, To leave fond hearts regretting; But, like the soul screen'd in the breast, Like gems in beauteous setting, Amidst Spring's leafy, green array I deem them; and from day to day, Passing, I pause, to turn aside, With joy, the boughs where they abide. The mysteries of life's early day Lay thick as summer dew, Like it, they glitter'd and they flew, With ardent youth away:
But not a charm of
yours has faded,
there springs Life from each tinted cone; And wandering thought has onward flown With speed-careering wings, To lands, to summer lands afar, To the mangrove, and the palm ; To the region of each stranger star Led by a blissful charm: Like toys in beauty here they layThey are gone o'er the sounding ocean's spray; They are gone to bowers and skies more fair, And have left us to our march of care.
THE FIRST GRIEF.
brother back to me; I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee
Where is my brother gone?
Across the sunbeam's track !
Oh! call my brother back.
The flowers run wild,--the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden tree;
Oh! call him back to me.
may not come to thee;
On earth no more thou’lt see!
Such unto him was given;
Thy brother is in heaven!
And must I call in vain ?
Will he not come again?
Are all our wand'rings o'er ?
Would I had lov'd him more! Mrs. Hemans,
The hills all glow'd with a festive light,
I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on
throngs, Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; There was music forth from each palace borneA peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; The forests heard it, the mountains rang, The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; Rich and victorious was every tone, Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown. Didst thou not meet a mourner for all the slain ? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fellGrief in the homes they have left must dwell; Grief o'er the features of childhood spread, And bowing the beauty of woman's head : [moan Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender For the many brave to their slumber gone? I saw not the face of a weeper thereToo strong, perchance, was the bright lamp’s glare ! I heard not a wail ’midst the joyous crowdThe music of victory was all too loud ! Mighty it rolld on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; Through torches and streams its floods swept byHow could I listen for moan or sigh? Turn then away from life's pageants ! turn, If its deep story thy heart would lear: Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe! But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to
what its folds conceal : So must thy spirit be taught to feel !