Do I not hear his thunder roll- 'Tis mute as death!—but in my soul What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. On these grey stones unseen may dwell! Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see- Lo! while he pauses, and admires Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, Oh, God of terrors! what are we?— But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, Safe in the hollow of thine hand THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, Thy leaves will come as heretofore; A month at least before thy time Why here in winter? No storm lours But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, Sweet violets in the budding grove And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, To tell me that the worm makes room For as the rainbow of the dawn A sunbeam on the saddened lawn Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Will see no leaf of mine; Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering Where no suns shine. Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath, Even as the blushes of the morn To love my mother, and to die- He lived and loved-will sorrow say—— He smiled, he sighed, he past away: His life was but an April day,- My mother smiles, then turns away, O, love is sorrow! sad it is To be both tried and true; I ever trembled in my bliss: But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade, ; Where Don reflects the skies Then panting woods the breeze will feel, But I through woodbined lanes shall steal Well, lay me by my brother's side, A POET'S EPITAPH. STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The tyrant, and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! Sin met thy brother every where ! And is thy brother blamed? From passion, danger, doubt, and care, He no exemption claim'd. The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He fear'd to scorn or hate; But, honouring in a peasant's form The equal of the great. He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes The poor man's little more; Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes From plunder'd labour's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full well the school-boy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow For dull the eye, the heart is dull That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, |