The first in Nature's dainty wreath, We'll cull the brier-rose, The crowfoot and the purple heath, And pink that sweetly blows. The hare-bell with its airy flowers Shall deck my Laura's breast,— Of all that bud in woodland bowers I love the hare-bell best!

I'll pull the bonny golden broom To bind thy flowing hair; For thee the eglantine shall bloom, Whose fragrance fills the air. We'll sit beside yon wooded knoll, To hear the blackbird sing, And fancy in his merry troll The joyous voice of spring!

We'll sit and watch the sparkling waves That leap exulting by, Whilst in the pines above us raves The wind's wild minstrelsy. It swells the echoes of the grove, 'Tis Nature's plaintive voice; The winds and waters breathe of love, And all her tribes rejoice.

Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours, We'll rove the verdant glade; But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers, Like us, but bloom to fade. They spread their beauties to the sun, And live their little day, Then droop, and wither, one by one, Till all are passed away.

Already scattered in the dust My first May garland lies; The hope that owns a mortal trust, As quickly fades and dies. Then let us seek a brighter wreath Than Nature here has given; The flowers of virtue bud beneath, But only bloom in heaven!



THOU WILT THINK OF ME, LOVE.

When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping, In the silent dust are sleeping; When above my narrow bed The breeze shall wave the thistle's head— Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the queen of beams and showers Comes to dress the earth with flowers; When the days are long and bright, And the moon shines all the night— Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the tender corn is springing, And the merry thrush is singing; When the swallows come and go, On light wings flitting to and fro— Thou wilt think of me, love!

When laughing childhood learns by rote The cuckoo's oft-repeated note; When the meads are fresh and green, And the hawthorn buds are seen— Thou wilt think of me, love!

When 'neath April's rainbow skies Violets ope their purple eyes; When mossy bank and verdant mound Sweet knots of primroses have crowned— Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the meadows glitter white, Like a sheet of silver light; When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom, Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom— Thou wilt think of me, love!

Each bud shall be to thee a token Of a fond heart reft and broken; And the month of joy and gladness Shall but fill thy soul with sadness— And thou wilt sigh for me, love!

When thou rov'st the woodland bowers, Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers, And shalt strew with bitter weeping The lonely bed where I am sleeping— And sadly mourn for me, love!



THE FOREST RILL.

Young Naiad of the sparry grot, Whose azure eyes before me burn, In what sequestered lonely spot Lies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn? Beneath what mossy bank enshrined, Within what ivy-mantled nook, Sheltered alike from sun and wind, Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?

Deep buried lies thy airy shell Beneath thy waters clear; Far echoing up the woodland dell Thy wind-swept harp I hear. I catch its soft and mellow tones Amid the long grass gliding, Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones, In hoarse, deep accents chiding.

The wandering breeze that stirs the grove, In plaintive moans replying, To every leafy bough above His tender tale is sighing; Ruffled beneath his viewless wing Thy wavelets fret and wimple, Now forth rejoicingly they spring In many a laughing dimple.

To nature's timid lovely queen Thy sylvan haunts are known; She seeks thy rushy margin green To weave her flowery zone; Light waving o'er thy fairy flood In all their vernal pride, She sees her crown of opening buds Reflected in the tide.

On—on!—for ever brightly on! Thy lucid waves are flowing, Thy waters sparkle as they run, Their long, long journey going; Bright flashing in the noon-tide beam O'er stone and pebble breaking, And onward to some mightier stream Their slender tribute taking.

Oh such is life! a slender rill, A stream impelled by Time; To death's dark caverns flowing still, To seek a brighter clime. Though blackened by the stains of earth, And broken be its course, From life's pure fount we trace its birth, Eternity its source!

While floating down the tide of years, The Christian will not mourn her lot; There is a hand will dry her tears, A land where sorrows are forgot. Though in the crowded page of time The record of her name may die, 'Tis traced in annals more sublime, The volume of Eternity!



TO WATER LILIES.

Beautiful flowers! with your petals bright, Ye float on the waves like spirits of light, Wooing the zephyr that ruffles your leaves With a gentle sigh, like a lover that grieves, When his mistress, blushing, turns away From his pleading voice and impassioned lay.

Beautiful flowers! the sun's westward beam, Still lingering, plays on the crystal stream, And ye look like some Naiad's golden shrine, That is lighted up with a flame divine; Or a bark in which love might safely glide, Impelled by the breeze o'er the purple tide.

Beautiful flowers! how I love to gaze On your glorious hues, in the noon-tide blaze, And to see them reflected far below In the azure waves, as they onward flow; When the spirit who moves them sighing turns Where his golden crown on the water burns.

Beautiful flowers! in the rosy west The sun has sunk in his crimson vest, And the pearly tears of the weeping night Have spangled your petals with gems of light, And turned to stars every wandering beam Which the pale moon throws on the silver stream.

Beautiful flowers!—yet a little while, And the sun on your faded buds shall smile; And the balm-laden zephyr that o'er you sighed Shall scatter your leaves o'er the glassy tide, And the spirit that moved the stream shall spread His lucid robe o'er your watery bed.

Beautiful flowers! our youth is as brief As the short-lived date of your golden leaf. The summer will come, and each amber urn, Like a love-lighted torch, on the waves shall burn; But when the first bloom of our life is o'er No after spring can its freshness restore, But faith can twine round the hoary head A garland of beauty when youth is fled!



AUTUMN.

Autumn, thy rushing blast Sweeps in wild eddies by, Whirling the sear leaves past, Beneath my feet, to die. Nature her requiem sings In many a plaintive tone, As to the wind she flings Sad music, all her own.

The murmur of the rill Is hoarse and sullen now, And the voice of joy is still In grove and leafy bough. There's not a single wreath, Of all Spring's thousand flowers, To strew her bier in death, Or deck her faded bowers.

I hear a spirit sigh Where the meeting pines resound, Which tells me all must die, As the leaf dies on the ground. The brightest hopes we cherish, Which own a mortal trust, But bloom awhile to perish And moulder in the dust.

Sweep on, thou rushing wind, Thou art music to mine ear, Awakening in my mind A voice I love to hear. The branches o'er my head Send forth a tender moan; Like the wail above the dead Is that sad and solemn tone.

Though all things perish here, The spirit cannot die, It owns a brighter sphere, A home in yon fair sky. The soul will flee away, And when the silent clod Enfolds my mouldering clay, Shall live again with God;

Where Autumn's chilly blast Shall never strip the bowers, Or icy Winter cast A blight upon the flowers; But Spring, in all her bloom, For ever flourish there, And the children of the tomb Forget this world of care.—

The children who have passed Death's tideless ocean o'er, And Hope's blest anchor cast On that bright eternal shore; Who sought, through Him who bled Their erring race to save, A Sun, whose beams shall shed A light upon the grave!



THE REAPERS' SONG.

The harvest is nodding on valley and plain, To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield; Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain; 'Tis ripe to our hand!—to the field—to the field! If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile, Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile. Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray, We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!

With his garland of poppies red August is here, And the forest is losing its first tender green; Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year, And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene. To the field!—to the field! whilst the Summer is ours We will reap her ripe corn—we will cull her bright flowers. Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray, For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.

Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies, Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry, Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise, With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply: He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd, And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around. Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray, For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!



WINTER.

Majestic King of storms! around Thy wan and hoary brow A spotless diadem is bound Of everlasting snow: Time, which dissolves all earthly things, O'er thee hath vainly waved his wings!

The sun, with his refulgent beams, Thaws not thy icy zone; Lord of ten thousand frozen streams, That sleep around thy throne, Whose crystal barriers may defy The genial warmth of summer's sky.

What human foot shall dare intrude Beyond the howling waste, Or view the untrodden solitude, Where thy dark home is placed; In those far realms of death where light Shrieks from thy glance and all is night?

The earth has felt thine iron tread, The streams have ceased to flow, The leaves beneath thy feet lie dead, And keen the north winds blow: Nature lies in her winding sheet Of dazzling snow, and blinding sleet.

Thy voice has chained the troubled deep; Within thy mighty hand, The restless world of waters sleep On Greenland's barren strand. Thy stormy heralds, loud and shrill, Have bid the foaming waves lie still.

Where lately many a gallant prow Spurned back the whitening spray, An icy desert glitters now, Beneath the moon's wan ray: Full many a fathom deep below The dark imprisoned waters flow.

How gloriously above thee gleam The planetary train, And the pale moon with clearer beam Chequers the frost-bound plain; The sparkling diadem of night Circles thy brow with tenfold light.

I love thee not—yet when I raise To heaven my wondering eyes, I feel transported at the blaze Of beauty in the skies, And laud the power that, e'en to thee, Hath given such pomp and majesty!

I turn and shrink before the blast That sweeps the leafless tree, Careering on the tempest past, Thy snowy wreath I see; But Spring will come in beauty forth And chase thee to the frozen north!



FANCY AND THE POET.

POET.

Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrine I lowly bend one simple wreath to twine; O come from thy ideal world and fling Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string; Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth The wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth—

FANCY.

Happiness, when from earth she fled, I passed on her heaven-ward flight,— "Take this wreath," the spirit said, "And bathe it in floods of light; To the sons of sorrow this token give, And bid them follow my steps and live!"

I took the wreath from her radiant hand, Each flower was a silver star; I turned this dark earth to a fairy land, When I hither drove my car; But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright, And man only saw its reflected light.

Many a lovely dream I've given, And many a song divine, But never—oh never!—that wreath from heaven Shall mortal temples twine. Hope and love in the chaplet glow: 'Tis all too bright for a world of woe!

POET.

Hist—Beautiful spirit! why silent so soon? My soul drinks each word of thy magical tune; My lyre owns thy touch, and its tremulous strings Still vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings! Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part, Thy home, lovely spirit,—and say what thou art.

FANCY.

The gleam of a star which thou canst not see, Or an eye 'neath its sleeping lid, The tune of a far off melody, The voice of a stream that's hid; Such must I still remain to thee, A wonder and a mystery.

I live in the poet's dream, I flash on the painter's eye, I dwell in the moon's pale beam, In the depths of the star-lit sky; I traverse the earth, the air, the main, And bind young hearts in my golden chain.

I float on the crimson cloud, My voice is in every breeze, I speak in the tempest loud, In the sigh of the wind-stirred trees; To the sons of earth, in a magic tone, I tell of a world more bright than their own!



NIGHT'S PHANTASIES.

A FRAGMENT.

I have dreamed sweet dreams of a summer night, When the moon was walking in cloudless light, And my soul to the regions of Fancy sprung, While the spirits of air their soft anthems sung, Strains wafted down from those heavenly spheres Which may not be warbled in waking ears; More sweet than the voice of waters flowing, Than the breeze over beds of violets blowing, When it stirs the pines, and sultry day Fans himself cool with their tremulous play. On the sleeper's ear those rich notes stealing, Speak of purer and holier feeling Than man in his pilgrimage here below, In the bondage of sin, can ever know.

I heard in my slumbers the ceaseless roar Of the sparkling waves, as they met the shore, Till lulled by the surge of the moon-lit deep, By the heaving ocean I sank to sleep. And a magic spell on my spirit was cast, And forms that had perished in ages past, Were by Fancy revealed to my wondering view, As the veil of Oblivion she backward drew, And showed me a glorious vision, dressed In the rosy light of the glowing west. Such colours at parting the day-god throws, To gild his path, as rejoicing he goes, Like a victor red with the spoils of fight, To raise through darkness the banner of light!

Slowly and soothingly stole on my ear Strains such as spirits in ecstasy hear, When they tune their harps at the jasper throne Of eternal light, with its rainbow zone; And the harmony drawn from those living strings Gushes forth from the fountain whence music springs; But those songs divine, of heavenly birth, Are seldom repeated to sons of earth. Such sounds as I heard by that summer sea Were never produced by man's minstrelsy; Which rose and sank by the billowy motion Of the breaking wave and the heaving ocean: Now borne on the night-breeze was wafted high, Through the glowing depths of the star-lit sky; Now mournfully wailing, like plaintive dirge, Rushed to the shore, with the rush of the surge.

And I saw a figure, all radiantly bright, Float over the waves in the pale moonlight; She moved to the notes of a magical song, And the billows scarce murmured that bore her along; The winds became mute—and the snowy wreath, That crested the billows, looked dim beneath Her silvery feet—that as lightly trod The heaving deep, as the emerald sod. A garland of coral her temples bound, And her glittering robes floated lightly round, Veiling her form in a shadowy shroud, Like the mist that hangs on the morning cloud, Ere the sun dispels, with his rising beam, The vapours exhaled from the marshy stream. The breeze wafted back from her forehead fair Her long flowing tresses of shining hair, Which cast on her features a lambent glow, Like a halo encircling her brow of snow; Revealing a face of such faultless mould As that sea-born goddess possessed of old, The morning she rose from the purple tide, The queen of beauty and joy's fair bride— But her cheek was as pale as the ocean spray Ere it catches a flush from the rosy day; And the shade of a deathless grief was there, Which spake more of ages than years of care; As though she had borne, since the world began, Every sorrow and trial that waits upon man.

Such was the shadow that haunted my dream; Such was the figure that rose from the stream; And I felt a strange and electric thrill Of unearthly delight my bosom fill, As she neared the shore, and I heard the strain That charmed into silence the listening main.

Child of the earth! behold in me The desolate spirit of things that were: I keep Oblivion's iron key, Far, far below in the pathless sea, Where never a sound from the upper air Is heard in those realms where, in darkness hurled, Lie the shattered domes of the ancient world!

A thousand ages have slowly rolled O'er temple and tower and fortress strong, By the giant kings possessed of old, That buried beneath the waters cold, Only echo the mermaids' plaintive song, When they weep o'er the form of some child of clay, 'Mid the wreck of a world that has passed away.

The spirits of earth and air have sighed To traverse those halls, in vain; The rolling waters those ruins hide, And buried beneath the oozy tide, They sleep in my icy chain; And if thou canst banish all mortal dread, Thou shalt view that world of the mighty dead.—

Far over the breast of the waters wide That song's plaintive cadence in distance died, And I heard but the tremulous, mournful sweep Of the night-winds ruffling the azure deep!—



SONGS OF THE HOURS.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

Slowly I dawn on the sleepless eye, Like a dreaming thought of eternity; But darkness hangs on my misty vest, Like the shade of care on the sleeper's breast; A light that is felt—but dimly seen, Like hope that hangs life and death between; And the weary watcher will sighing say, "Lord, I thank thee! 'twill soon be day;" The lingering night of pain is past, Morning breaks in the east at last.

Mortal!—thou mayst see in me A type of feeble infancy,— A dim, uncertain, struggling ray, The promise of a future day!

THE MORNING HOUR.

Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise, With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes; Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls, I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls; Brighter diamonds never were seen Encircling the neck of an Indian queen! I traverse the east on my glittering wing, And my smiles awake every living thing; And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray, Follows the night on her weeping way. I raise the veil from the saffron bed, Where the young sun pillows his golden head; He lifts from the ocean his burning eye, And his glory lights up the earth and sky.

Ah, I am like that dewy prime, Ere youth hath shaken hands with time; Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low, And discovered the hidden rocks of woe: When like the rosy beams of morn, Joy and gladness and love were born, Hope divine, of heavenly birth, And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth!

THE NOONTIDE HOUR.

I come like an Eastern monarch dight In my crown of beams, in my robe of light; And nature droops at my ardent gaze, And wraps the woods in a purple haze; From my fiery glance the strong man shrinks, Like a babe on the bosom of earth he sinks; Yet cries, as he turns from the glowing ray, "This is a glorious summer day!"

Such is manhood's fiery dower, Passion's all-consuming power; Glorious, beautiful, and bright, But too dazzling to the sight!

THE EVENING HOUR.

Like the herald hope of a fairer clime, The brightest link in the chain of time, The youngest and loveliest child of day, I mingle and soften each glowing ray; Weaving together a tissue bright Of the beams of day and the gems of night.— I pitch my tent in the glowing west, And receive the sun as he sinks to rest; He flings in my lap his ruby crown, And lays at my feet his glory down; But ere his burning eyelids close, His farewell glance the day-king throws On Nature's face—till the twilight shrouds The monarch's brow in a veil of clouds— Oh then, by the light of mine own fair star, I unyoke the steeds from his beamy car. Away they start from the fiery rein, With flashing hoofs, and flying mane, Like meteors speeding on the wind, They leave a glowing track behind, Till the dark caverns of the night Receive the heaven-born steeds of light!

While Nature broods o'er the soft repose Of the dewy mead, and the half-shut rose, Does not that lovely hour give birth To thoughts more allied to heaven than earth? When things that have been in perspective pass, Like the sun's last rays over memory's glass; When life's cares are forgot, when its joys are our own, And the mild beams of faith round the future are thrown; When all that awakened remorse or regret, Like a stormy morn, has in splendour set; When the sorrows of time and the hopes of heaven Blend in the soul like the hues of even, And the spirit looks back on this troubled scene With a glance as bright as it ne'er had been!

NIGHT.

I come, like Oblivion, to sweep away The scattered beams from the car of day: The gems which the evening has lavishly strown Light up the lamps round my ebon throne. Slowly I float through the realms of space, Casting my mantle o'er Nature's face, Weaving the stars in my raven hair, As I sail through the shadowy fields of air. All the wild fancies that thought can bring Lie hid in the folds of my sable wing: Terror is mine with his phrensied crew, Fear with her cheek of marble hue, And sorrow, that shuns the eye of day, Pours out to me her plaintive lay. I am the type of that awful gloom Which involves the cradle and wraps the tomb; Chilling the soul with its mystical sway; Chasing the day-dreams of beauty away; Till man views the banner by me unfurled, As the awful veil of the unknown world; The emblem of all he fears beneath The solemn garb of the spoiler death!

CHORUS OF HOURS.

Born with the sun, the fair daughters of time, We silently lead to a lovelier clime, Where the day is undimmed by the shadows of night, But eternally beams from the fountain of light; Where the sorrows of time and its cares are unknown To the beautiful forms that encircle the throne Of the mighty Creator! the First and the Last! Who the wonderful frame of the universe cast, And composed every link of the mystical chain Of minutes, and hours, which are numbered in vain By the children of dust, in their frantic career, When their moments are wasted unthinkingly here, Lavished on earth which in mercy were given That men might prepare for the joys of heaven!—



THE LUMINOUS BOW.

THIS REMARKABLE PHENOMENON WAS WITNESSED BY THE AUTHOR ON THE NIGHT OF THE 29th OF SEPTEMBER, 1829.

Vision of beauty! there floats not a cloud O'er the blue vault of heaven thy glory to shroud; The star-gemmed horizon thou spannest sublime, Like the path to a better and lovelier clime.

Thy light, unreflected by planet or star, Still widens and brightens round night's spangled car; In radiance resembling the moon's placid beam, When she smiles through the soft mist that hangs on the stream.

Thou sittest enthroned, like the spirit of night, And the stars through thy zone shed a tremulous light; The moon is still sleeping beneath the wide sea, Whilst wonder is keeping her vigils with me.

The bow of the covenant brightens the storm, When its dark wings are shading the brow of the morn; But thou art uncradled by vapour or cloud, Thy glory's unshaded by night's sable shroud.

Oh whence is thy splendour, fair luminous bow? From light's golden chalice thy radiance must flow; Thou look'st from the throne of thy beauty above On this desolate earth, like the spirit of love!



THE SUGAR BIRD.[C]

Thou splendid child of southern skies! Thy brilliant plumes and graceful form Are not so precious in mine eyes As those gray heralds of the morn, Which in my own beloved land Welcome the azure car of spring, When budding flowers and leaves expand On hawthorn boughs, and sweetly sing.

But thou art suited to the clime, The golden clime, that gave thee birth; Where beauty reigns o'er scenes sublime, And fadeless verdure decks the earth; Where nature faints beneath the blaze Of her own gorgeous crown of light, And exiled eyes, with aching gaze, Sigh for the softer shades of night,

That memory to their dreams may bring Past scenes, to cheer their sleeping eye, The dark green woods where linnets sing, And echo wafts the faint reply. Ah, from those voiceless birds that glow, Like living gems 'mid blossoms rare, The captive turns in sullen woe To climes more dear and scenes less fair!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote C: This elegant bird is a native of Van Dieman's land.]



THE DREAM.

Methought last night I saw thee lowly laid, Thy pallid cheek yet paler, on the bier; And scattered round thee many a lovely braid Of flowers, the brightest of the closing year; Whilst on thy lips the placid smile that played, Proved thy soul's exit to a happier sphere, In silent eloquence reproaching those Who watched in agony thy last repose.

A pensive, wandering, melancholy light The moon's pale radiance on thy features cast, Which, through the awful stillness of the night, Gleamed like some lovely vision of the past, Recalling hopes once beautiful and bright, Now, like that struggling beam, receding fast, Which o'er the scene a softening glory shed, And kissed the brow of the unconscious dead.

Yes—it was thou!—and we were doomed to part, Never in this wide world to meet again. The blow that levelled thee was in my heart, And thrilled my breast with more than mortal pain. Despair forbade the gathering tears to start; But soon the gushing torrents fell like rain O'er thy pale form, as free and unrepressed As the rash shower that rocks the storm to rest.

For all this goodly earth contained for me, Of bright or beautiful, lay withering there: What were its gayest scenes bereft of thee— What were its joys in which thou couldst not share? While memory recalled each spot, where we Had twined together many a garland fair, Of hope's own wreathing, and the summer hours Smiled not on happier, gayer hearts than ours.

Hearts, chilled and silent, as the pensive beam, Whose shadowy glory resting on the pall, Casts on the dead a sad portentous gleam, And serves past hours of rapture to recall, Till the soul roused herself with one wild scream, As shuddering nature felt the powerful call, And I awoke in ecstasy to find 'Twas but a fleeting phantom of the mind!



THE RUIN.

I know a cliff, whose steep and craggy brow O'erlooks the troubled ocean, and spurns back The advancing billow from its rugged base; Yet many a goodly rood of land lies deep Beneath the wild wave buried, which rolls on Its course exulting o'er the prostrate towers Of high cathedral—church—and abbey fair,— Lifting its loud and everlasting voice Over the ruins, which its depths enshroud, As if it called on Time, to render back The things that were, and give to life again All that in dark oblivion sleeps below:— Perched on the summit of that lofty cliff A time-worn edifice o'erlooks the wave, "Which greets the fisher's home-returning bark," And the young seaman checks his blithesome song To hail the lonely ruin from the deep.

Majestic in decay, that roofless pile Survives the wreck of ages, rising still A mournful beacon o'er the sea of time, The lonely record of departed years:— Yes—those who view that ruin feel an awe Sink in the heart, like those who look on death For the first time, and hear within the soul A voice of warning whisper,—"Thus, e'en thus, All human glories perish—rent from time, And swallowed up in that unmeasured void, O'er which oblivion rolls his sable tide."— Such thoughts as these that moss-grown pile calls forth To those who gaze upon its shattered walls, Or, musing, tread its grass-grown aisles, or pause To contemplate the wide and barren heath, Spreading in rude magnificence around, With scarce a tree or shrub to intersect Its gloomy aspect, save the noble ash That fronts the ruins, on whose hoary trunk The hurricanes of years have vainly burst, To mar its beauty;—there sublime it stands, Waving its graceful branches o'er the soil That wraps the mouldering children of the land.

The shadowy splendour of an autumn sky Was radiant with the hues of parting day; The glorious sun seemed loth to leave the west, That glowed like molten gold—a saffron sea Fretted with crimson billows, whose rich tints Gave to the rugged cliff and barren heath A ruddy diadem of living light!

Hark!—'tis the lonely genius of the place Sighs through the wind-stirred branches and bewails Its desolation to the moaning blast, That sweeps the ivy on the dark gray walls!— No—'twas a sound of bitter agony Wrung from the depths of some o'erburdened heart, Which in life's early morning had received A sad inheritance of sighs and tears.

Starting, I turned—and seated on the ground Beside the broken altar I beheld A female figure, whose fantastic dress And hair enwreathed with sprigs of ash and yew Bespoke a mind in ruins. On her brow Despair had stamped his iron seal; her cheek Was pale as moonlight on the misty wave; Her hollow eyes were fixed on vacancy, Or wildly sent their hurried glances round With quick impatient gesture, as in quest Of some loved object, present to her mind, But shut for ever from her longing view.

The sun went down. She slowly left her seat And cast one long sad look upon the wave; Then poured the anguish of her breaking heart In a low plaintive strain of melody, That rose and died away upon the breeze, The mournful requiem of her perished hopes:—

Hark! the restless spirits of ocean sigh; I can hear them speak as the wind sweeps by. See, the ivy has heard their mystic call, And shivering clings to the broken wall, The dark green leaves take a sadder shade, And the flowers turn pale and begin to fade; The landscape grows dim in the deepening gloom, And the dead awake in the silent tomb. I have watched the return of my true-love's bark, From the sun's uprising till midnight dark; I have watched and wept through the weary day, But his ship on the deep is far away; I have gazed for hours on the whitening track Of the pathless waters, and called him back, But my voice returned on the moaning blast, And the vessel I sought still glided past.

We parted on just such a lovely night: The billows were tossing in cloudless light, And the full bright moon on the waters slept; And the stars above us their vigils kept, And the surges whispered a lullaby, As low and as sweet as a lover's sigh— And he promised, as gently he pressed my hand, He would soon return to his native land.

But long months have fled, and this burning brain Is seared with weeping and watching in vain. A dark dark shade on my bosom lies, And nights of sorrow have dimmed these eyes; The roses have fled from my pallid cheek, And the grief that I feel no words can speak; I have made my home with the graves of the dead, And the cold earth pillows my aching head!

He will come!—he will come!—I know it now; The waves are dancing before his prow; He comes to speak peace to my aching heart, To tell me we never again shall part; I can hear his voice in the freshening breeze, As his bark glides o'er the rippling seas, And my heart will break forth into laughter and song, When I lead him back through the gazing throng.

Ah, no—where yon shade on the water lies The slow-rising moon deceives my eyes, And the tide of sorrow within my breast Rolls on like the billows that never rest; I will look no more on the heaving deep, But return to my lowly bed and weep: He will come to my dreams in the darksome night, And his bark will be here with the dawn of light!

When the song ceased, she turned her heavy eyes With such a piteous glance upon my face; It pierced my heart, and fast the gathering tears Blinded my sight. Alas! poor maniac; For thee no hope shall dawn—no tender thought Wake in thy blighted heart a thrill of joy. The immortal mind is levelled with the dust, Ere the tenacious cords of life give way. Hers was a common tale—she early owned The ardent love that youthful spirits feel, And gave her soul in blind idolatry To one dear object; and his ship was lost In sight of port—lost on the very morn That should have smiled upon their bridal rite. She saw the dreadful accident like one Who saw it not; and from that fatal hour All memory of it faded from her mind, And still she watches for the distant sail Of him, who never, never can return!

Poor stricken maid! thy best affections, Thy hopes, thy wishes centred all in earth— Earth has repaid thee with a broken heart! Love to thy God had known no rash excess, For in his service there is joy and peace; A light, which on thy troubled mind had shed Its holy influence, and those tearful eyes Had then been raised in gratitude to heaven, Nor chased delusive phantoms o'er the deep!



WINTER

CALLING UP HIS LEGIONS.

WINTER.

Awake—arise! all my stormy powers, The earth, the fair earth, again is ours! At my stern approach, pale Autumn flings down In the dust her broken and faded crown; At my glance the terrified mourner flies, And the earth is filled with her doleful cries. Awake!—for the season of flowers is o'er,— My white banner unfurl on each northern shore! Ye have slumbered long in my icy chain— Ye are free to travel the land and main. Spirits of frost! quit your mountains of snow— Will ye longer suffer the streams to flow? Up, up, and away from your rocky caves And herald me over the pathless waves!

He ceased, and rose from his craggy throne And girt around him his icy zone; And his meteor-eye grew wildly bright As he threw his glance o'er those realms of night. He sent forth his voice with a mighty sound, And the snows of ages were scattered around; And the hollow murmurs that shook the sky Told to the monarch, his band was nigh.

THE WIND FROST.

I come o'er the hills of the frozen North, To call to the battle thy armies forth: I have swept the shores of the Baltic sea, And the billows have felt my mastery; They resisted my power, but strove in vain— I have curbed their might with my crystal chain. I roused the northwind in his stormy cave, Together we passed over land and wave; I sharpened his breath and gave him power To crush and destroy every herb and flower; He obeyed my voice, and is rending now The sallow leaves from the groaning bough; And he shouts aloud in his wild disdain, As he whirls them down to the frozen plain: Those beautiful leaves to which Spring gave birth Are scattered abroad on the face of the earth. I have visited many a creek and bay, And curdled the streams in my stormy way; I have chilled into hail the genial shower:— All this I have done to increase thy power.

THE RIME FROST.

I stood by the stream in the deep midnight. The moon through the fog shed a misty light; I arrested the vapours that floated by, And wove them in garlands and hung them on high; I bound the trees in a feathery zone, And turned the soft dews of heaven to stone; I spangled with gems every leaf and spray, As onward I passed on my noiseless way; And I came to thee when my work was done, To see how they shone in the morning sun!

THE NORTH WIND.

I have borne the clouds on my restless wings, And my sullen voice through the desert rings; I sent through the forest a rushing blast, And the foliage fled as I onward passed From the desolate regions of woe and death, In adamant bound by my freezing breath: From the crystal mountains where silence reigns, And nature sleeps on the sterile plains, I have brought the snow from thy mighty store To whiten and cover each northern shore.

THE EAST WIND.

I woke like a giant refreshed with sleep, And lifted the waves of the troubled deep; I clouded the heavens with vapours dark, And rolled the tide o'er the foundering bark, Then mocked in hoarse murmurs the hollow cry Of the drowning wretch in his agony: I have leagued with the North to assert thy right On the land and the wave both by day and by night!

THE SNOW.

I heard thy summons and hastened fast, And floated hither before the blast, To wave thy white banner o'er tower and town, O'er the level plain and the mountain brown. I have crowned the woods with a spotless wreath, And loaded the avalanche with death; I have wrapped the earth in a winding sheet, And Nature lies dead beneath my feet.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

All hail, mighty monarch! our tasks are o'er; Thy power is confessed on each northern shore; From the rock's stern brow to the rolling sea The spirits of earth have bowed to thee. In the cradle of Nature the young Spring lies With the slumber of death on her azure eyes; And we wander at will through the wide domain, Which in beauty and verdure shall flourish again, When she bursts from her shroud like a sun-beam forth 'To chase us back to the frozen North!'

With darkness and storms for thy panoply, Stern Winter, what power may contend with thee? Thy sceptre commands both the wind and the tide, And thy empire extends over regions wide; With thy star-gemmed crown and eagle wings, The strongest of nature's potent kings! But thy power for a season alone is lent, Thou art but a ministering spirit sent By the mighty Creator of thine and thee, Who fills with his presence immensity!



THERE'S JOY, &c.

There's joy when the rosy morning floods The purple east with light, When the zephyr sweeps from a thousand buds The pearly tears of night. There's joy when the lark exulting springs To pour his matin lay, From the blossomed thorn when the blackbird sings, And the merry month is May.

There's joy abroad when the wintry snow Melts as it ne'er had been, When cowslips bud and violets blow, And leaves are fresh and green. There's joy in the swallow's airy flight, In the cuckoo's blithesome cry, When the floating clouds reflect the light Of evening's glowing sky.

There's joy in April's balmy showers 'Mid gleam of sunshine shed, When May calls forth a thousand flowers To deck the earth's green bed. There's joy when the harvest moon comes out With all her starry train, When the woods return the reaper's shout And echo shouts again.

There's joy in childhood's merry voice When the laugh rings blithe and clear; And the sounds that bid young hearts rejoice Are music to the ear. There's joy in the dreams of early youth, Ere care has cast a shade O'er scenes which, though drest in the guise of truth, Our reason dooms to fade.

There's joy in the youthful lover's breast When his bride by the altar stands, When his trembling lip to hers is pressed And the priest has joined their hands. There's joy in the smiling mother's heart When she clasps her first-born son, When the holy tears of rapture start To bless the lovely one.

There's joy when the war-worn soldier hears The notes that breathe of peace, That dry the anxious matron's tears, And bid stern slaughter cease. There's joy when he treads the village green And views his father's cot; The horrors of the battle-scene Are in that hour forgot.

There's joy in the shipwrecked seaman's heart, Who has clung all night to the shrouds; When the morning breeze rives the rack apart, And the sun breaks through the clouds. There's joy when he nears his native land, And the tedious voyage is o'er, And he feels the grasp of the kindred hand He thought to enfold no more.

There's joy above, around, beneath, But tis a fleeting ray; The world's stern strife, the hand of death, Bid mortal hopes decay. But there's a better joy than earth, With all her charms, can give, Which marks the Christian's second birth, When man but dies to live!



LOVE.

Oh Love! how fondly, tenderly enshrined In human hearts, how with our being twined! Immortal principle, in mercy given, The brightest mirror of the joys of heaven. Child of Eternity's unclouded clime, Too fair for earth, too infinite for time: A seraph watching o'er Death's sullen shroud, A sunbeam streaming through a stormy cloud; An angel hovering o'er the paths of life, But sought in vain amidst its cares and strife; Claimed by the many—known but to the few Who keep thy great Original in view; Who, void of passion's dross, behold in thee A glorious attribute of Deity!



MORNING HYMN.

O'er Time's mighty billows borne, Angels lead the purple morn; Chasing far the shades of night From the burning throne of light: Where their glorious wings unfold, There the east is streaked with gold; Gilding with celestial dyes The azure curtain of the skies. High in air their matin song Floats the ethereal fields along; Ere creation wakes they sing, Glory to the eternal King! Till silent woods and sleeping plains Echo far, Jehovah reigns!

Rising from the arms of night, Nature hails the birth of light; Smiling sweetly through her tears, High her verdant crown she rears; At her call the sunny hours Wreathe her humid locks with flowers; Bright with many a lucid gem Shines her spotless diadem: Every grove hath found a voice, Countless tribes in Thee rejoice! In melody untaught they sing Glory to the eternal King! Earth and heaven respond their strains, Lord of all, Jehovah reigns!

On man's sin-bound soul and eyes Alone the shade of darkness lies: The last of nature's children he, To laud the eternal Deity! The last his sullen voice to raise, The Lord of life and light to praise— Slumberer, wake!—arise! arise! Join the chorus of the skies!— Dost thou sleep? to whom is given The privilege of sons of heaven? Wake with angel choirs to sing Glory to the Almighty King, Who life within himself retains— Lord of all, Jehovah reigns!

Rising o'er the tide of years, Lo, a morn more blessed appears: When yon burning orb of fire, And moon, and stars, and heavens expire, And all that once had life and breath, Emerging from the arms of death, Shall animate the heaving sod, And countless millions meet their God! Whose hand the links of time shall sever, And man shall wake—to live for ever! When souls redeemed with angels sing, Glory to the eternal king! Vanquished death is led in chains— Lord of life, Jehovah, reigns!



EVENING HYMN.

Sinking now in floods of light, The sun resigns the world to night; When a lingering glance he turns, The glowing west with glory burns, And the blushing heavens awhile Long retain his parting smile. Ere gray evening's sullen eye, Bids those tints of beauty die; Ere her tears have washed away The footsteps of departing day, Nature from her verdant bowers Her last long strain of rapture pours; Shrouded in her misty vest, She sings a drowsy world to rest, And tells to man, in thrilling strains, That the Lord Jehovah reigns!

Lingering twilight dies away, Night resumes her ancient sway, Round her sable tresses twining Countless hosts of stars are shining; Weaving round the brow of night A coronet of living light: O'er the couch of nature bending, Their beauteous glances downward sending, A silent watch of glory keeping, Guard the earth whilst life is sleeping. Strains unheard by mortal ears, Echo through the starry spheres; Other worlds awake to sing, Glory to the eternal King! Till azure fields and liquid plains Echo far, Jehovah reigns!

Creation sleeps—but many a sound Of melody is floating round— Where the moon-lit sea is flinging Its snowy foam and upward springing To meet the shore advancing nigh, Pours, in many a broken sigh, A mournful dirge o'er those who rest Forgotten in its stormy breast. Restless ocean, onward rave; He who trod the boisterous wave, Shall to life those forms restore, Thy tides have rolled for ages o'er; Those sleepers from thy depths shall spring To meet in air their mighty King, Whilst shrinking seas repeat their strains, Lord of all, Jehovah, reigns!

This is night;—her mantle gray She flings across the brow of day To hide from mortal ken awhile The splendour of his kingly smile. But what magic beauties lie In her dark and shadowy eye, When the moon with glory crowned Checkers o'er the distant ground; Bathing now in floods of light, Now retreating from the sight, As the heavy vapoury cloud Flings athwart its sable shroud; Onward as her course is steering, Now through broken cliffs appearing, She shows the brightness of her form And laughs exulting at the storm; Whilst misty hills and moon-lit plains Echo far, Jehovah reigns!

Night,—thy end is hastening fast, Eternal day will dawn at last; The Sun of righteousness shall rise, Triumphant through his native skies; And men redeemed from dust shall spring To hail the advent of their King; Till heaven's wide arch repeats their strains, Christ, our own Immanuel, reigns!

THE END.

BUNGAY: PRINTED BY J. R. AND C. CHILDS.



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Transcriber's Notes

Spelling, hyphenation, punctuation, and indentation inconsistencies have been retained from the original book. Minor changes were made to the Table of Contents to match the poem titles.

The following typos have been corrected:

Page 19: An changed to And: (An Alexander's victories, compared).

Page 30: ceas changed to cease: (Lost in immensity, would ceas to feel!).

Page 125: apostrophe added before Tis: ("Tis Mary Hume!"—his comrade said—).

THE END