O'ER the lofty swelling mountain,-
O'er the dancing summer fountain,-
By the towering forest waving,-
By the brook, the willows laving,
Wafting odorous airs along,
We pour the mellow-breathing song.
Little wanton, winged rovers,
Oft we tend the walks of lovers;
Witness smiles with passion glowing,
Souls with tenderness o'erflowing,
Vows, that, fainting on the tongue,
Mingle with our breezy song!
Oft we fan the flame that rushes
O'er the maiden's cheek, in blushes :
Softly to her swain revealing
All the luxury of feeling,
In her bosom-though so strong
Gentle as our airy song!
Oft we, in our sportive duty,
Kiss the dimpling cheek of beauty,-
And on soft ethereal winglets
Wanton in her sunny ringlets,-
Breathing, as we dance along,
Liquid notes of rapturous song!
When Care's ever-rising bubble
Clouds the wanderer's soul with trouble, We-sweet Pleasure's viewless minions
Fan his brow with balmy pinions,
Chasing sorrow's shades along,
With our spirit-soothing song.
While the sweets of eve diffusing,
Oft we meet the poet musing,
Mark his eye, sublimely glancing,
With erratic thought entrancing!
Catching inspiration strong,
From our soul-enchanting song.
Oft we waft the pious whispers
Of the saint's low-breathing vespers—
Sighs of love, and tears of sorrow,—
For our sweetest strains we borrow ;-
Bearing on our wings along,
All the extasy of song,
New Monthly Magazine.
ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS.
COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
I mark its quick destruction through my tears.
Cold was the hand that at one cast destroyed
Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
Depicted was; even where, with skill employed,
Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.
Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
A present grief 'twere folly to retain ;
Years to encrease the change would only serve;
And every change would add severer pain.
A moment to ponder, a season to grieve,
The light of the moon, or the shadows of eve!
Then soothing reflections
Arise on the mind;
And sweet recollections
Of friends who were kind;
Of love that was tender,
And yet could decay;
Of visions whose splendour
Time withered away;
In all that for brightness or beauty may seem
The painting of fancy-the work of a dream!
The soft cloud of whiteness,
The stars beaming through,
The pure moon of brightness,
The deep sky of blue;—
The rush of the river,
Through vales that are still,
The breezes that ever
Sigh lone o'er the hill,
Are sounds that can soften, and sights that impart A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the heart.
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE DESERT.
CALL it not Loneliness, to dwell
In woodland shade, or hermit dell,-
To pierce the forest's twilight maze,
Or from the Alpine summit gaze;
For Nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:
A bird's light wing may break the air,
A fairy stream may murmur there,
A bee the mountain-rose may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak,
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with its cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice, though not of man, is near.
But he, whose weary step has traced
Mysterious Afric's awful waste,
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath viewed,
Can tell thee what is Solitude!
It is, to traverse lifeless plains
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands, and dazzling sky,
Seem boundless, as Infinity!
It is, to sink with speechless dread
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread;
Severed from earthly being's trace,
Alone amidst unmeasured space.
"Tis noon,—and fearfully profound
Silence is on the desert 'round.
Supreme she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of Death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare;
No insect 'bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sun-born-race,
Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair;
The serpent shuns the noontide glare;
But slowly winds the patient train
Of camels, o'er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
Faint not, oh Pilgrims! though on high
As a volcano flame the sky!
Shrink not, though, as a furnace glow,
The dark red seas of sand, below!
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown;
Mark, where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide
Reflects the date-tree on its side;
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade await you there.
Oh! glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not tracked the burning zone!
-Forward they press-they gaze dismayed-
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours, that elude
The eye, the lip, their brightness wooed.*
What meteor comes!-A purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays!
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere ;-
Haste, haste! avert the impending doom,
Fall prostrate!-'tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces-till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath past,
The mirage, or nitrous saud assuming the appearance of water.
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