« AnteriorContinuar »
O my God!
By W. Mason On The Death Of His Wife, In Bristol
TAKE, holy Earth! all that my soul holds dear:
Take that best gift which heav'n so lately gave:— To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care
Her faded form: she bowed to taste the wave And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line?
Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm? Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine:
Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free;
As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, tho* 'tis an awful thing to die,
(Twas e'en with thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids " the pure in heart behold their God."
SKETCH OF HOLLAND.
Rev. J. Mitford.
THE sun is up; and slowly on the tide,
How gay, how fair the painted barges glide,
While o'er yon level length of mead, is seen
Bright as an emerald, in its robe of green.
The mill-sail ceaseless turns—the laden wain
Creaks as it wears along the rushy plain,
And many a thought to calm enjoyment dear,
And many a scene of patient toil is here—
Along each broomy mead, each willowy shore,
The little hamlet opes its willing-door:
And here content with ever watchful breast.
Dove-like sits brooding o'er its sheltered nest.
And nursed by her, here patriot valour calls
From Delf's high spires, and Haarlem's mould'ring walls,
And Leyden's streets yet nobler scenes afford,
The scholar's counsel edged the soldier's sword,
While he, the baffled tyrant shrunk to see
In famines ghastly eye, the gleam of liberty.
Then why should he, the pensive traveller grieve
The village spire seen frequent o'er the trees,
Here late with him I roamed, who many a day
* The carillons in the Churches in Holland very often play Swiss tunes.
TO THE SABBATH.
AH! quiet day, I oft recal the time,
In due sort for thy coming: the first chime
Of blithsome bells, that usher'd in the morn,
To gaze! I little dreamt, that man was born
For ought but wholesome toil and holiest praise
But I am changed now! nor could I raise
But that thou seemest soothingly to say,
HOW sweet and solemn at the close of day,
After a long and lonely pilgrimage
Among the mountains, where our spirits held
With wildering fancy and her kindred powers
High converse, to descend as from the clouds
Into a quiet valley, fill'il with trees
By Nature planted, crowding round the brink
Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung
A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof
Of many a moss-grown cottage!
In that hour Of pensive happiness, the wandering man Looks for some spot of still profounder rest, Where nought may break the solemn images Sent by the setting sun into his soul. Up to yon simple edifice he walks, That seems beneath its sable grove of pines More silent than the home where living thing Abides, yea, even than desolated tower Wrapt in its ivy-shroud.
I know it well,— The village-tfhapel: many a year ago, That little dome to God was dedicate; And ever*since, hath undisturbed peace Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall, Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers,