Who that hath stood, where summer brightly

lay

On some broad city, by a spreading bay,
And from a rural height the scene surveyed,
While on the distant strand the billows played,
But felt the vital spirit of the scene,

What time the south wind strayed through foliage green,

And freshened from the dancing waves, went on,
By the gay groves, and fields, and gardens won?
Oh, who that listens to the inspiring sound
Which the wide Ocean wakes against his bound,
While, like some fading hope, the distant sail
Flits o'er the dim blue waters, in the gale;
When the tired sea-bird dips his wings in foam,
And hies him to his beetling eyry home;
When sun-gilt ships are parting from the strand,
And glittering steamers by the breeze are
fanned;

When the wide city's domes and piles aspire, And rivers broad seemed touched with golden fire

Save where some gliding boat their lustre breaks,

And volumed smoke its murky tower forsakes,
And surging in dark masses, soars to lie,
And stain the glory of the uplifted sky;

Oh, who at such a scene unmoved hath stood, And gazed on town, and plain, and field, and flood,

Nor felt that life's keen spirit lingered there, Through earth, and ocean, and the genial air?

'Change is the life of Nature;' and the hour When storm and blight reveal lone autumn's power;

When damask leaves to swollen streams are

cast,

Borne on the funeral anthems of the blast;
When smit with pestilence the woodlands seem,
Yet gorgeous as a Persian poet's dream;
That hour the seeds of life within it bears,
Though fraught with perished blooms and sob-
bing airs;

Though solemn companies of clouds may rest
Along the uncheered and melancholy west;
Though there no more the enthusiast may be-
hold

Effulgent troops, arrayed in purple and gold; Or mark the quivering lines of light aspire, Where crimson shapes are bathed in living fire

Though Nature's withered breast no more be fair,

Nor happy voices fluctuate in the air;

Yet is there life in Autumn's sad domains Life, strong and quenchless, through his kingdom reigns.

To kindred dust the leaves and flowers return, Yet briefly sleep in winter's icy urn;

Though o'er their graves, in blended wreaths, repose

Dim wastes of dreary and untrodden snows,
Though the aspiring hills, rise cold and pale
To breast the murmurs of the northern gale,

Yet, when the jocund spring again comes on, Their trance is broken, and their slumber done; Awakening Nature reässerts her reign,

And her kind bosom throbs with life again!

'Tis thus with man. He cometh, like the flower,

To feel the changes of each earthly hour;
To enjoy the sunshine, or endure the shade,
By hopes deluded, or by reason swayed;
Yet haply, if to Virtue's path he turn,

And feel her hallowed fires within him burn,
He passeth calmly from that sunny morn,
Where all the buds of youth are 'newly born,'
Through varying intervals of onward years,
Until the eve of his decline appears:

And while the shadows round his path descend, As down the vale of age his footsteps tend, Peace o'er his bosom sheds her soft control, And throngs of gentlest memories charm the soul;

Then, weaned from earth, he turns his steadfast

eye

Beyond the grave, whose verge he falters nigh, Surveys the brightening regions of the blest, And, like a wearied pilgrim, sinks to rest.

The just man dies not, though within the tomb

His wasting form be laid, mid tears and gloom: Though many a heart beats sadly when repose His silvery locks in earth, like buried snows;

Yet love, and hope, and faith, with heavenward

trust,

Tell that his spirit sinks not in the dust:

Above, entranced and glorious, it hath soared,
Where all its primal freshness is restored;
And from all sin released, and doubt, and pain,
Renews the morning of its youth again.

Yes! while the mourner stands beside the bier, O'er a lost friend to shed the frequent tearTo pour the tender and regretful sigh,

And feel the heart-pulse fill the languid eyeEven at that hour the thoughtful wo is vain, Since change, not death, invokes affection's pain. Naught but a tranquil slumberer resteth there, Whose spirit's plumes have swept the upper air,

And caught the radiance borne from heaven along,

Fraught with rich incense and immortal song; And passed the glittering gates which angels

keep:

Oh, wherefore for the just should mourners weep?

And why should grief be moved for those who die,

When life is opening to the youthful eye; When freshening love springs buoyant in the breast,

And hope's gay wings are fluttering undepressed:

While like the morning dews that gem
the rose,
In the pure soul the dreams of joy repose;
When on the land and wave a light is thrown,
Which to the morn of life alone is known;
When every scene brings gladness to the view,
And every rapture of the heart is new;
Oh, who shall mourn that then the silver cord
Is loosed, and to its home the soul restored?
Oh, who should weep that thus, at such an hour,
Celestial light should burst upon the flower-
The human flower, that but began to glow
And brighten in this changeful world below;
Then, still unstained, was borne, to bloom on high,
And drink the lustre of a fadeless sky?

No! let the mother, when her infant's breath Faints on her bosom, in the trance of death; Then let her yearning heart obey the call Of that high GoD who loves and cares for all; Resign the untainted blossom to that shore Where sicknesses and blight have power no

more;

Where poisonous mildew comes not from the air, To check the undying blooms and verdure there; But where the gifts of life profuse are shed, And funeral wailings rise not o'er the dead: Where cherub-throngs in joy triumphant move, And Faith lies slumbering on the breast of Love.

Change wears the name of death, the heart to bow,

And bid its rising shadows cloud the brow;