But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.
Spirit of Love and Sorrow hail!
Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with Evening's dying gale:
Hail with thy sadly pleasing tear!
O at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charming power
Shall call up Fancy to obey:
To paint the wild romantic dream
That meets the Poet's musing eye,
As on the bank of shadowy stream
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.
Lead where the pine woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon with trembling eye
Darts her long beams the leaves between ;
Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
Where far below, in shade profound,
Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound.
Or guide me where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the Ocean's distant sail;
To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves
With measur'd surges loud and deep,'
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of Autumn sweep.
Loud, loud blows the wind on the moor,
And chill is my path thro' the snow.
An outcast, unfriended, and poor,
O'er the face of the wide world I go.
Hush, hush, my sweet babe! for thy cry
Is more than my anguish can bear;
O God! will thy merciful eye
Not look on my frantic despair.
At the door of the rich man I knock'd,
For plenty was written thereon,
But the rich man my poverty mock'd,
And tauntingly bade me be gone.
Cold, cold is thy bosom, O clay!
But colder the hard heart of pride;
No tear for the wretched have they
Who sail on prosperity's tide.
The passenger witness'd my grief,
And he told me he pitied my sigh,
But I spurn'd at his proffer'd relief,
For lew'd was the glance of his eye.
My steps by a banquet-house pass'd,
Where guests enter'd joyous and fee,
I shrank at the winterly blast,
But there was no entrance for me."
Thro' the night, and the storm, and the cold,
Must I and my little one roam :
But e'er many moments are told
Shall we both reach a last quiet home.
Cease, baby, thy screaming so wild,
There! creep to this half-frozen breast-
And now will the mother and child
Lie down on the deep shows to rest.
AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH.
Tremble at death?-for shame! a christian too! Unworthy then of gospel light art thou.
Nobler affiance heathens paid that power
Which guards the mortal as the natal hour, Confess'd his boundless strength and righteous will. Able and prompt to save existence still.
When Socrates, the humble, wise, and good, Basely condemn'd, resign'd his guiltless blood, "O countrymen "" he cried, "my heart is calin ; For death, and all its horrors, here's my balm: "Am I all mortal, I unpain'd shall rest;
"Am I immortal, I shall sure be blest.
"The hour is come-I die :-you live :-'tis well! "Whose lot is happiest, God o'er all can tell.”
Thus dy'd an heathen, as an heathen ought. What! christian thou, and own a meaner thought? A christian thou, to whom the gospel-day Discovers bliss, and animates the way?
Forbid it, honour!-nobly dare be free!
And shew, that death retains no sting for thee!
God of my life! and author of
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue,
That hallow'd name, to harps of seraphs sung:
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more,
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in ev'ry diff'rent sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works, thro' all her parts, proclaim.
1 feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness thro' my soul.
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide;
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And iny hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace;
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dies,
And carth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again,
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