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HIS FATHER's songs.
But a spell
These filial echoes of the father's shell !
CONSOLATIONS OF EXILE.
[OR AN EXILE'S ADDRESS TO HIS
O’er the vast realm of tempest-troubled Ocean
O'er the parched lands that vainly thirst for showersThrough the long night-or when nor sound nor motion
Stirs in the noon of day the sultry bowers-
My weary spirit panteth on the way;
That mock the fleshly vision brightly play.
Nor Fate's destructive hand, if life remain; O'er hill, and vale, and plain, and sea, and river,
The wanderer draws the inseparable chain !
Fair children ! still, like phantoms of delight,
Ye haunt my soul on this strange distant shore, As the same stars shine through the tropic night
That charmed me at my own sweet cottage door. Though I have left ye long, I love not less ;
Though ye are far away, I watch ye still ; Though I can ne'er embrace ye, I may bless,
And e'en though absent, guard ye from each ill !
A silent converse o'er the waters wide,
And fill the space that yearning hearts divide.
And not alone the written symbols show
Your spirits' sacred stores of love and truth, Art's glorious magic bids the canvass glow
With all your grace and loveliness and youth ; The fairy forms that in my native land
Oft filled my fond heart with a parent's pride,
And smilingly, in these strange halls, reside ;
around me gleam, Each scene and object breathes an air of home,
And time and distance vanish like a dream !
Oh! when sweet Memory's radiant calm comes o'er
The weary soul, as moonlight glimmerings fall O’er the hushed ocean, forms beloved of yore
And joys long fed, her whispers soft recall; At such an hour I live and smile again,
As light of heart as in that golden time When, as a child, I trod the vernal plain,
Nor knew the shadow of a care or crime.
Nor freezing apathy, nor fierce desire,
Or seared my breast with wild ambition's fire,
From many a fruit and flower the hand of Time
Hath brushed the bloom and beauty ; yet mine eye, Though Life's sweet summer waneth, and my prime
Of health and hope is past, can oft espy Amid the fading wilderness around
Such lingering hues as Eden's holy bowers
In earth's first radiance wore, and only found
Where not a cloud of sullen sadness lours.
May pass unmirrored o'er the darkened mind,
Or Beauty's witcheries flashed upon the blind.
Though this frail form hath felt the shafts of pain,
Though my soul sickens for her native sky,
Their early freshness, and soon check the sigh
And mar a happier mood. Oh! then how sweet,
And here your pictured lineaments to greet !
To British ground, and musical as rills,
Or climb with joyous shouts the sunny hills !
WRITTEN ON THE RUINS OF RAJHMAHAL.
Hail, stranger, hail ! whose eye shall here survey
EVENING, ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGES. I WANDERED thoughtfully by Gunga's shore, While the broad sun upon the slumbering wave Its last faint flush of golden radiance gave, And tinged with tenderest hues some ruins hoar. Methinks this earth had never known before A calm so deep—'twas silent as the grave. The smallest bird its light wing could not lave In the smooth flood, nor from the green-wood soar, If but the tiniest branch its pinions stirred Or shook the dew-drops from the leaves, unheard. Like pictured shadows 'gainst the western beam The dark boats slept, while each lone helmsman stood Still as a statue !--the strange quietude Enthralled my soul like some mysterious dream !
SONNET_GRIEF. IMPASSIONED grief is dumb—no sign or sound Can form its faithful language. Sorrow's dart In fevered breasts awakes an inward smart That friendship may not share. Oh! curse profound, To bear each maddening passion darkly bound Within that fearful cell, the shrouded heart! The quivering lip, the quick convulsive start, But feebly tell the strife. The crowd around When sinks the strong man ’neath the sullen stream Thus see but bubbles rise,—these ill reveal The struggler's pangs! When mourners pant and teem With secret thought, and voiceless anguish feel, The world's calm brow~the charms of nature seem To mock the smothered soul's unheard appeal!