No living lustre glistens o'er thy bloom,
Thy sprigs no verdant leaves adorn,
Thy bosom breathes no exquisite perfume;
But pale thy countenance as snow,
While, unconceal'd below,
All naked glares the threatening thorn.
Around thy bell, o'er mildew'd leaves,
His ample web a spider weaves;
A wily ruffian, gaunt and grim,
His labyrinthine toils he spreads
Pensile and light;—their glossy threads
Bestrew'd with many a wing and limb;
Even in thy chalice he prepares
His deadly poison and delusive snares.
While I pause, a vagrant fly
Giddily comes buzzing by;
Round and round, on viewless wings,
Lo! the insect wheels and sings:
Closely couch'd, the fiend discovers,
Sets him with his sevenfold eyes,
And, while o'er the verge he hovers,
Seems to fascinate his prize,
As the snake's magnetic glare
Charms the flitting tribes of air,
Till the dire enchantment draws
Destined victims to his jaws.
Now midst kindred corses mangled,
On his feet alights the fly;
Ah! he feels himself entangled,
Hark! he pours a piteous cry.
Swift as Death's own arrows dart,
On his prey the spider springs,
Wounds his side,-with dexterous art
Winds the web about his wings;
Quick as he came, recoiling then,
The villain vanishes into his den.
The desperate fly perceives too late
The hastening crisis of his fate;
Disaster crowds upon disaster,
And every struggle to get free
Snaps the hopes of liberty,
And draws the knots of bondage faster.
Again the spider glides along the line;
Hold, murderer! hold;-the game is mine.
-Captive! unwarn'd by danger, go,
Frolic awhile in light and air;
Thy fate 'tis easy to foreshow,
Preserved—to perish in a safer snare!
Spider! thy worthless life I spare ;
Advice on thee 'twere vain to spend,
Thy wicked ways thou wilt not mend,-
Then haste thee, spoiler, mend thy net;
Wiser than I
Must be yon fly,
If he escapes thy trammels yet;
Most eagerly the trap is sought
In which a fool has once been caught.
And thou, poor Rose ! whose livid leaves expand,
Cold to the sun, untempting to the hand,
Bloom unadmired,―uninjured die;
Thine aspect, squalid and forlorn,
Insures thy peaceful, dull decay;
Hadst thou with blushes hid thy thorn,
Grown "sweet to sense and lovely to the eye,"
I might have pluck'd thy flower,
"Then cast it like a loathsome weed away."
WHO is He, so swiftly flying,
His career no eye can see?
Who are They, so early dying,
From their birth they cease to be?
Time-behold his pictured face!
Moments :-can you count their race?
Though, with aspect deep-dissembling,
Here he feigns unconscious sleep,
Round and round this circle trembling,
Day and night his symbols creep,
While unseen, through earth and sky,
His unwearying pinions fly.
Hark! what petty pulses, beating,
Spring new moments into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,
Sends its moment back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncall'd, or flits in vain.
In the highest realms of glory,
Spirits trace, before the throne,
On eternal scrolls, the story
Of each little moment flown; Every deed, and word, and thought, Through the whole creation wrought.
Were the volume of a minute
Thus to mortal sight unroll'd,
More of sin and sorrow in it,
More of man, might we behold, Than on History's broadest page, In the relics of an age.
Who could bear the revelation?
Who abide the sudden test?
-With instinctive consternation,
Hands would cover every breast,
Loudest tongues at once be hush'd
Pride in all its writhings crush'd.
Who, with leer malign exploring,
On his neighbour's shame durst look?
Would not each, intensely poring
On that record in the book,
Which his inmost soul reveal'd,
Wish its leaves for ever seal'd?
Seal'd they are for
Till,—the earth's last circuit run,
Empire changed through all its stages,
Risen and set the latest sun,—
On the sea and on the land
Shall a midnight angel stand:
Stand; and, while th' abysses tremble,
Swear that Time shall be no more:
Quick and Dead shall then assemble,
Men and Demons range before
That tremendous judgment-seat,
Where both worlds at issue meet.
Time himself, with all his legions,
Days, Months, Years, since Nature's birth,
Shall revive, and from all regions,
Singling out the sons of earth,
With their glory or disgrace,
Charge their spenders face to face.
Every moment of my being
Then shall pass before mine eyes:
-God, all-searching! God, all-seeing!
Oh! appease them, ere they rise:
Warn'd I fly, I fly to thee;
God, be merciful to me!
A MOTHER'S Love,-how sweet the name!
What is a Mother's love?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a Mother's Love.
To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;
This is a Mother's Love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;
To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from Love's own fountain there,
And lull it there to rest;
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;
This is a Mother's Love.
To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks ;
This is a Mother's Love.
And can a Mother's Love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief-for joy?
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