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THE BREEZE FROM LAND.
" As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow Sabean odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league, Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles.
Joy is upon the lonely seas,
When Indian forests pour Forth to the billow and the breeze
Their fragrance from the shore; Joy, when the soft air's glowing sigh Bears on the breath of Araby.
Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep
And where the myrrh-trees weep!
The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs, Upspringing, ʼmidst the waves to greet
The fair earth's messengers, That woo him, from the mournful main, Back to her glorious bowers again.
They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade, And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
Of golden-fruited shade ; Across his lone ship's wake they bring A vision and a glow of spring!
And oh! ye masters of the lay!
Come not e'en thus your songs, That meet us on life's weary way
Amidst her toiling throngs? Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear A current of celestial air !
Their power is from the brighter clime
That in our birth hath part, Their tones are of the world which time
Sears not within the heart; They tell us of the living light In its green places ever bright.
They call us with a voice divine
Our vows of youth at many a shrine
Whence far and soon we rove: -Welcome, high thought and holy strain, That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!*
* Written immediately after reading the “Remarks on the Character and Writings of Milton," in the Christian Examiner. TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27 AUGUST, 1825.
Thou wak’st from happy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy! Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.
Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye ;Long be it thus-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.
Yet ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings, Now in thy morn forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs !
So in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,
TO A YOUNGER CHILD
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 17 SEPTEMBER, 1825.
WHERE sucks the bee now ?-Summer is flying,
For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled