Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires: Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep, And all is hushed,—all, save the voice of Love, Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast Of soft Favonius, which at intervals 10 Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but Lulling the slaves of interest to repose With that mild, pitying gaze! Oh, I would look In thy dear beam till every bond of sense LOVE'S ROSE. I. HOPES, that swell in youthful breasts, Youth says, The purple flowers are mine, II. Dear the boon to Fancy given, Retracted whilst it's granted: Sweet the rose which lives in heaven, Although on earth 'tis planted, Where its honours blow, While by earth's slaves the leaves are riven Which die the while they glow. III. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can blast the flower, But perfidy can rend the shrine In which its vermeil splendours shine. TO MARY, WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION. J. MAIDEN, quench the glare of sorrow From the wreck of destiny; As that which mocks concealing, And sheds its loveliest light on you. II. Yet is the tie departed Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss? In a world so cold as this? Yet, though, fainting fair one, Sorrow's self thy cup has given; Dream thou'lt meet thy dear one, Never more to part, in heaven. III. Existence would I barter For a dream so dear as thine, And smile to die a martyr On affection's bloodless shrine. Nor would I change for pleasure MOTHER AND SON. I. SHE was an agèd woman; and the years Which she had numbered on her toilsome way Had bowed her natural powers to decay. She was an agèd woman; yet the ray Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, Pressed into light by silent misery, She was a cripple, and incapable II. One only son's love had supported her. Would many wish, and surely fewer dare. the child Then did she feel keen sorrow's keenest sting; And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring. III. For seven years did this poor woman live Thou mightst have seen her in the forest Picking the scattered remnants of its wood. If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve. The gleanings of precarious charity The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt Within her ghastly hollowness of eye: Each arrow of the season's change she felt. Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run, One only hope: it was-once more to see her son. IV. It was an eve of June, when every star Spoke peace from heaven to those on earth that live. She rested on the moor. "Twas such an eve When first her soul began indeed to grieve: Then he was here; now he is very far. The sweetness of the balmy evening A sorrow o'er her agèd soul did fling, This agèd sufferer for many a year Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed A sigh-and, turning round, clasped William to her breast! V. And, though his form was wasted by the woe Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak, Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded. cheek Of slavery's violence and scorn did speak, Yet did the aged woman's bosom glow. The vital fire seemed reillumed within By this sweet unexpected welcoming. Oh consummation of the fondest hope That ever soared on fancy's wildest wing! Oh tenderness that found'st so sweet a scope! Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway, When thou canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they! VI. Her son, compelled, the country's foes had fought, Had bled in battle; and the stern control Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul Utterly poisoned life's unmingled bowl, And unsubduable evils on him brought. He was the shadow of the lusty child |