He will fold her, unresisting, to his lone and gloomy breast,
And curtains, dark as Midian's land, draw round her place of rest;
And torn from thy caressing arms, fond lover! she will be
Within a narrow mansion, enclosed away from thee.
Death is that rival, lover! and soon or late will rend
From thy embrace his victim, thy fond one, and thy friend!
And when he knocketh at thy door, thou canst not say him nay —
He will rob thee of thy treasure, and bear it hence
Then love, with fear and trembling, the idol of thy soul
For life's bright cord is feeble, and frail its golden bowl:
And let the cloudless eye of faith the hour of rapture see,
When "raised in incorruption" ye both at last may be !
SOLEMN, yet beautiful to view
Month of my heart! thou dawnest here,
With sad and faded leaves to strew
The Summer's melancholy bier.
The moaning of thy winds I hear,
As the red sunset dies afar,
And bars of purple clouds appear,
Obscuring every western star.
Thou solemn month! I hear thy voice;
It tells my soul of other days,
When but to live was to rejoice,
When earth was lovely to my gaze!
Oh, visions bright-oh, blessed hours,
Where are their living raptures now?
I ask my spirit's wearied powers
I ask my pale and fevered brow!
I look to Nature, and behold
My life's dim emblems, rustling round, In hues of crimson and of gold
The year's dead honors on the ground:
And sighing with the winds, I feel,
While their low pinions murmur by,
How much their sweeping tones reveal
Of life and human destiny.
When Spring's delightsome moments shone,
They came in zephyrs from the West;
They bore the wood-lark's melting tone,
They stirred the blue lake's glassy breast;
Though Summer. fainting in the heat,
They lingered in the forest shade;
But changed and strengthened now, they beat
In storm, o'er mountain, glen, and glade.
How like those transports of the breast
When life is fresh and joy is new;
Soft as the halcyon's downy nest,
And transient all as they are true!
They stir the leaves in that bright wreath,
Which Hope about her forehead twines,
Till Grief's hot sighs around it breathe,
Then Pleasure's lip its smile resigns.
Alas, for Time, and Death, and care,
What gloom about our way they fling!
Like clouds in Autumn's gusty air,
The burial pageant of the Spring.
The dreams that each successive year
Seemed bathed in hues of brighter pride,
At last like withered leaves appear,
And sleep in darkness side by side.
WHEN the worn heart its early dream
In darkness and in vain pursues,
How shall the visionary gleam
Of joy o'er life its charm diffuse?
How shall the glowing thought aspire,
The cheek with passion's flush be warm,
Or the dim eyes resume their fire,
Their sunshine, victory of the storm?
Ah, who can tell? Not thou, whose words
Are lightest, liveliest of the throng;
Whose carol, like the summer bird's,
Pours out the winning soul of song;
Not thou, whose calm and shining brow,
The sadness of thy strain belies;
Whose spirits, like thy music, flow,
Won from the founts of Paradise!
FOR THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE AMERICAN SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION.
We have met in peace together,
In this house of GOD again;
Constant friends have led us hither,
Here to chant the solemn strain:
Here to breathe our adoration,
While the balmy breeze of spring,
Like the Spirit of Salvation,
Comes with gladness on its wing!
And, while nature glows with beauty,
While the fields are rich in flowers,
Shall our hearts neglect their duty,
Shall our souls abuse their powers?
Shall not all our hopes ascending,
Point us to a home above,
Where, in glory never ending,
HE who made us smiles in love?
There no autumn-tempests gather:
There no friends lament the dead;
|