Its piteous pageants bring not back, Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Even I am weary in yon skies Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death- To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, The spirit shall return to him No! it shall live again, and shine Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God! THE BROKEN HEART. Campbell. Ah! little I thought, when with thrilling delight, I watched the fond gaze of thine eye; That so soon thou would'st fade like a dream from our sight, Heart-broken, to linger and die. 'Twas mournful to sit by thy pillow and mark The paleness that dwelt on thy cheek; 2 Thy cold marble brow with its ringlets so dark, 'Twas awful to list to thy musical voice, Like a lute heard by night from the wave; And think that the tones which made others rejoice, So soon should be quenched in the grave. I saw thee, sweet girl! worn down to a shade, How changed from what thou wert before; All the magical glow of thy features decayed, Like a rainbow when tempests are o'er. 'Tis past !-thou art laid in the cold silent tomb, All lonely I stray in the dim twilight gloom In the Sabbath of peace, 'mid the joys of that shore, But woe unto him who could bask in the glow, Could add balm to thy blisses, partake of thy woe, Who could twine round the thoughts, of thy bosom so kind, And then from thy presence could fly, Who could turn to another, with mutable mind, And leave thee heart-broken to die! Moore. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace! Moore. FROM THE MINSTREL. Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, If but a momentary shower descend? Or shall frail man heaven's dread decrees gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end? One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; |