"To friendship didst thou trust thy fame,
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast, to aim
A surer blow?
"Live!-and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told:
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross
For friendship's gold.
66 Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.
"Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,
And did the fair one faithless prove?
Hath she betrayed thee with her smile,
And sold thy love?
"Live!-'T was a false bewildering fire:
Too often Love's insidious dart
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,
But kills the heart!
"Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening Beauty's eye!
To ask, and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply!
"A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove;
Thy youth, thine age shall yet be blest
In woman's love.
"Whate'er thy lot,-whoe'er thou be,-
Confess thy folly,-kiss the rod,
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of GOD.
"A bruiséd reed He will not break; Afflictions all His children feel;
He wounds them for His mercy's sake,
"Humbled beneath His mighty hand, Prostrate, His providence adore:
'Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more.
"Now, traveller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.
"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,
"The soul, of origin divine,
GOD'S glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day!
"The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die!"
"Ah! who would love the lyre !"-W. B. STEVENS.
WHERE the roving rill meandered
Down the green retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn Alcæus wandered,
Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fixed on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung;
While at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars around his head,
Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed:
"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart!
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must ever, ever part:
For in vain thy poet sings,
Woos in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
“That which Alexander sighed for,
That which Cæsar's soul possessed,
That which heroes, kings, have died for-
Glory!-animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes:
'To arms!' they call to arms I fly,
Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die!
"Soft!-the blood of murdered legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment_rise !—
Oh, then, innocently brave,
I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.
"Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore,
Where from fountains ever flowing,
Indian realms their treasures pour ;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,
O'er thee, my dear paternal soil!
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.
"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscovered as their spring,
I will scatter o'er the land Blessings with a secret hand ;For such angelic tasks designed,
I give the Lyre and sorrow to the wind."
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sighed to every passing breeze,
Sighed and told the simple story
Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blushed adieu, and rambled down the dale.
Lightly touched by fairy fingers,
Hark! the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond Alcæus listens, lingers,-
Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate and his pulses beat.
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstacies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor Alcæus grasps the Lyre!
Lo his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chord so quick, so loud,
'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud!
"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part!-
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
"What though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallowed Lyre is mine?
Heaven-that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed,-
Heaven gave this Lyre!—and thus decreed,
'Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed!""
AH! why, unfeeling Winter! why
Still flags thy torpid wing?
Fly, melancholy season, fly,
And yield the year to Spring.
Spring, the young harbinger of love,
An exile in disgrace,—
Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove,
Nor finds a resting-place.
When on the mountain's azure peak
Alights her fairy form,
Cold blow the winds, and dark and bleak
Around her rolls the storm.
If to the valley she repair
For shelter and defence,
Thy wrath pursues the mourner there,
And drives her, weeping, thence.
She seeks the brook ;-the faithless brook,
Of her unmindful grown,
Feels the chill magic of thy look,
And lingers into stone.
She woes her embryo-flowers in vain
To rear their infant heads ;—
Deaf to her voice, her flowers remain
Enchanted in their beds.
In vain she bids the trees expand
Their green luxuriant charms;—
Bare in the wilderness they stand,
And stretch their withering arms.
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