But there was one o'er whose bright face For mid the tempest fierce and wild, Oh! who could look upon that face, For who that glorious brow could see, With hurried fear they press around Vainly they struggled with their fears, "Behold! we sink beneath the wave, Slowly he rose; and mild rebuke Is not your hope of succour just? He turn'd away, and conscious power As o'er the boiling sea he bent, Earth to its centre felt the thrill, As low he murmur'd, "Peace! Be still!" Hark to the burst of meeting waves, While not a breeze is near to break Then on the stricken hearts of all Whose will was nature's law: "What man is this," they cry, "whose word E'en by the raging sea is heard ?" LINES SUGGESTED BY THE MORAVIAN BURIAL-GROUND AT BETHLEHEM. WHEN in the shadow of the tomb This heart shall rest, Oh! lay me where spring flow'rets bloom On earth's bright breast. Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay My lifeless form; Seek not of such mean, worthless prey To cheat the worm. In this sweet city of the dead I fain would sleep, Where flowers may deck my narrow bed, And night dews weep. But raise not the sepulchral stone To mark the spot; Enough, if by thy heart alone "Tis ne'er forgot. HENRY PICKERING. THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN HARK to the sounding gale! how through the soul It vibrates, and in thunder seems to roll Along the mountains! Loud the forest moans, And, naked to the blast, the o'ermastering spirit owns. Rustling, the leaves are rudely hurried by, Or in dark eddies whirl'd; while from on high Unseat the mountain pine, and headlong dash to earth! With crest of foam, the uplifted flood no more But, vex'd to madness, heaves its turbid wave, Threatening to leap the banks it whilom loved lave: And in the angry heavens, where, wheeling low, The clouds, obedient to the stormy power, Amazement seizes all! within the vale Shrinking, the mute herd snuff the shivering gale; The while, with tossing head and streaming mane, The horse affrighted bounds, or wildly skims the plain. Whither, with charms to Fancy yet so dear, Where, too, the groves in greener pomp array'd? The deep and solemn gloom of the inspiring shade? The verdant heaven that once the woods o'erAnd underneath a pensive twilight shed, [spread, Is shrivell'd all: dead the vine-mantled bowers, And wither'd in their bloom the beautiful young flowers! Mute, too, the voice of Joy! no tuneful bird Nor more may ploughboy's laugh the bosom cheer, Nor in the velvet glade Love's whisper charm the ear. But lo, the ruthless storm its force hath spent ; And see! where sinking 'neath yon cloudy tent, The sun withdraws his last cold, feeble ray, Abandoning to Night his short and dubious sway. A heavier gloom pervades the chilly air! Or with keen icy breath they may glass o'er Thus shut the varied scene! and thus, in turn, Sweep'st all earth's glories.. Ah, for one brief hour, Spare the soft virgin's bloom and tender human flower! JAMES G. PERCIVAL. THE PATRIARCHAL AGE. OH! for those early days, when patriarchs dwelt And like the silent scene around them, calm, Years stole along in one unruffled flow; Their hearts aye warbled with devotion's psalm, And as they saw their buds around them blow, Their keenly glistening eye revealed the grateful glow. They sat at evening, when their gather'd flocks Bleated and sported by the palm-crowned well, The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks, And long and wide the deepening shadows fell; They sang their hymn, and in a choral swell They raised their simple voices to the Power Who smiled along the fair sky; they would dwell Fondly and deeply on his praise; that hour Was to them, as to flowers that droop and fade, the shower. He warm'd them in the sunbeams, and they gazed They pour'd their pealing anthem, and when night Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon Roll'd through the blue serenity, in bright But softer radiance, they bless'd the boon That gave those hours the charm without the fire of noon. Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature, Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow: The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's ravening spring. |