Points to the master's eyes, where'er they roam, His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. ON WOMAN. IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paus'd, while beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, In self-adoring pride securely mail'd;But, triumph not, ye peace-enamor'd few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmov'd, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, O! what were man?-a world without a sun! Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bow'r! In vain the viewless seraph ling'ring there, At starry midnight charm'd the silent air; In vain the wild-bird carol'd on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;→→ Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray,The world was sad!the garden was a wild! And man, the hermit, sigh'd-till Woman smil❜d. THE SCEPTIC. OH! lives there, Heav'n! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin'd, Who, mould'ring earthward, reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss?- Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n? To waft us home the message of despair? Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awak'd, inexorble pow'r! This frail and fev'rish being of an hour, Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind, But leave-oh! leave the light of Hope behind Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm-when pleasures lose the power to please! Eternal hope! when yonder spheres sublime When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; THE ROSE OF THE WILDERNESS. AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, For the night-weed and thorn over shadowed the place Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall; But patience shall never depart! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The skeletons of nations were Some had expired in fight-the brands In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, Yet mourn not I thy parted sway, And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, Ev'n I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death- The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! |