« AnteriorContinuar »
Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy!
SUMMER EVENING, AT HOME.
COME, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace
of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe, The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row scene, Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd, To pay him for his farewell song,-all these Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please The stilly-stirring fancies,-though my hours (For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs) Pass lonely oft,—and oft my heart is sad; Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes around, And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound, That seems to say, "Forget the transient tear Thy pale youth shed,-repose and peace are here."
WINTER EVENING, AT HOME.
FAIR moon! that at the chilly day's decline
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere!
O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile,
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all this heart must leave
As one, who, by long wasting sickness worn,
He the green slope and level meadow views,
In varying forms fantastic wander white;
With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,
Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!
WHOSE was the gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
That oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;
How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
The hedge-rows shall ring aloud, and on the slope
The shrubs and laurels which I love to tend,
Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave lies!
FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;
But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate
On this world's passing pageant, and the lot
Of those who once full proudly in their prime And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fallen like thee; pale and forlorn,
Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn This short-lived scene of vanity and wo; Whilst on their sad looks, smilingly, they bear The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care!
I SHALL look back, when on the main,-
And almost think I hear again
Thy voice, and view thy smile.