O, Holy Spirit! oft when eve
Hath slowly o'er the western sky Her gorgeous pall begun to weave
Of gold and crimson's richest dye, I've thought the gentle gales thy breath, The murmuring of the grove thy voiceAnd heaven above, and earth beneath, In thee seemed to rejoice.
Sweet visions then, that sleep by day,
Thy magic wand hath made mine own,
As brilliant as the clouds that play
Around the sun's descending throne;
And I have striven in many a song
To pay my homage at thy shrine :—
A worthless offering, for a throng
Of joys, by thee made mine.
What though the idle wreath would fade
By weak, though willing fingers twined,
Soon gathered to oblivion's shade;
Not less the task would soothe my mind.
Inspired by thee, I ceased to pine,
Nor thought on aught that crossed my bliss, And borne to other worlds of thine,
Forgot the pangs of this.
But this was all in earlier days,
When boyhood's hopes were wild and high, And eaglet-like, I fixed my gaze
Where glory's sun blazed through the sky;
But fate and circumstance forbade
The noble, though presumptuous flight;
Those hopes are blasted and decayed
By disappointment's blight.
My soul is daring now, as then,
Though fate denies its strong desire-
Still, still, I hear the voice within,
The stirring voice that cries 'aspire!'
It haunts me like the sounds that ring
In dying guilt's distempered ear,
When round his couch, dim,-hovering,-
His crimes, like ghosts, appear.
And, aye, some demon in my sight
Displays what wreaths for others bloom, The fame that gilds their life with light, The halo that surrounds their tomb; 'And gaze, presumptuous fool!' he cries, 'Unhonoured-blest thou ne'er shalt be'But pine for ever, there to rise
'Where springs no flower for thee.'
Oh, Poesy! thou too hast now
Withdrawn thy wonted influence,
When most I need thy tender glow
To renovate my aching sense.
No more thy dreams before me pass
In swift succession, bright and fair;
And when I would unveil thy glass,
Thou show'st me but Despair.
Whenever, now, I seek the bowers,
Where fancy led my steps to thee,
Before my eyes a desert lours,——
The cold reality I see.
My gloomy bosom's joyless cell,
No ray of thine illumines more, Which once could guide my spirit well O'er every ill to soar.
By all the intense love of thee
Which fires my soul, and thrills my frame!
By tears thou giv'st thy words to be,
When struggling feelings have no name !—
Return, return! By thee upborne,
And by a yet unvanquished will,
The malice of my fate I'll scorn,—
In woe triumphant still.
Literary Gazette.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all, by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye;
The few we liked the one we loved!
And the whole heart is memory.
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;
Yet as the shadows round us lour,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a Madam of them all
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern Muse
Expression technical to use)
These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too, thy feats repay:
For then, beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou takest thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides;
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur;
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone, by cottage fire,
Do rustics rude, thy tricks admire ;—
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
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