But, rose, thy mission to the heart,
In things that alter, hath no part.
The mossgrown ruins round are spread,
Scarce rescued from earth's trodden mass,
And time-scathed trees, whose branches dead
Lie cumbering o'er the matted grass:
These tell the tale of life's brief day,
Hope, toil, enjoyment, death, decay!
The common record this of man,
We read, regret, and pass it by,
And rear the towers that deck our span,
Above the grave where nations lie;
And heroes, who like meteors shone,
Are, like that meteor's flashings, gone.
But, radiant rose, thy beauty breaks
Like eve's first star upon the sight;
A holier hue the vision takes,
The ruins shine with heaven's clear light;
His name, who placed thy root in earth,
Doth consecrate thy place of birth.
Yet 'tis not here his wreath we twine,
Nor here that Freedom's chief we praise, The stars at rising softer shine,
Than when o'er night's dark vault they blaze; Not here, with Washington's great name, Blend his achievements or his fame.
But brighter, holier is the ray
Which rests on this devoted ground;
Here pass'd his childhood's happy day,
Here glory's bud meet culture found:
Maternal smiles, and tears, and prayer,
These were its light, its dew, its air.
Bright rose! for this thy flower hath sprung,
The mother's steadfast love to show;
Thy odour on the gale is flung,
As pours that love its lavish flow:
The mother's lot with hope to cheer,
Type of her heart, thou bloomest here.
LIGHT as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The bluebird's notes, upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch elm's tassels shiver,
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, [ing.
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leap-
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That gayly deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each falling leaf,
Lovely as Beauty's cheek, as woman's love too
brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind she pours her parting lay, [away.
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes
Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were; Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be, Towards thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee-to thee-though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore
I still can, childlike, come as when in prayer
I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee,
And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity.
TIME! thou destroy'st the relics of the past,
And hidest all the footprints of thy march
On shatter'd column and on crumbled arch,
By moss and ivy growing green and fast.
Hurl'd into fragments by the tempest-blast,
The Rhodian monster lies: the obelisk,
That with sharp line divided the broad disc
Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast:
And where these stood, no remnant-trophy stands,
And even the art is lost by which they rose :
Thus, with the monuments of other lands,
The place that knew them now no longer knows. Yet triumph not, oh Time; strong towers decay, But a great name shall never pass away!
To see a fellow of a summer's morning,
With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye
And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by,
About to give the feather'd bipeds warning,
That probably they may be shot hereafter,
Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter;
For, though I am no lover of the sport
Of harmless murder, yet it is to me
Almost the funniest thing on earth to see
A corpulent person, breathing with a snort,
Go on a shooting frolic all alone;
For well I know that when he's out of town,
He and his dog and gun will all lie down,
And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.
THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS
IN NEW-YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE FOURTH OF
JULY, 1839.
Oн, sight sublime! oh, sight of fear!
The shadowing of infinity!
Numbers! whose murmur rises here
Like whisperings of the mighty sea.
Ye bring strange vision to my gaze;
Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims;
The sea of glass, the throne of days,
Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns.
Ye rend the air with grateful songs
For freedom by old warriors won:
Oh, for the battle which your throngs
May wage and win through David's Son!
Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms
Before me like a world of flowers;
High expectation! that assumes
The hue of life's serenest hours,
Are ye decaying? Must these forms,
So agile, fair, and brightly gay,
Hidden in dust, be given to worms
And everlasting night the prey?
Are ye immortal? Will this mass
Of life, be life, undying still,
When all these sentient thousands pass
To where corruption works its will?
Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell,
Be in each teacher's heart to-day!.
So shall Eternity be well
With these, when Time has fled away.
COME thou with me! If thou hast worn away
All this most glorious summer in the crowd,
Amid the dust of cities, and the din,
While birds were carolling on every spray;
If, from gray dawn to solemn night's approach,
Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts,
Toiling and panting for a little gold;
Drudging amid the very lees of life
For this accursed slave that makes men slaves;
Come thou with me into the pleasant fields,
Let Nature breathe on us and make us free!
For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high,
With the great Spirit of the Universe;
It shall pervade thy soul; it shall renew
The fancies of thy boyhood: thou shalt know
Tears, most unwonted tears dimming thine eyes;
Thou shalt forget, under the old brown oak,
That the good south-wind and the liberal west
Have other tidings than the songs of birds,
Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers.
Look out on Nature's face, and what hath she
In common with thy feelings? That brown hill,
Upon whose sides, from the gray mountain ash,
We gather'd crimson berries, look'd as brown
When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago;
This pleasant stream, with the well-shaded verge,
On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs
So often play'd, caressing and caress'd;
Its verdant banks are green as then they were,
So went its bubbling murmur down the tide.
Yes, and the very trees, those ancient oaks,
The crimson-crested maple, feathery elm,
And fair, smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold,
Look like familiar faces of old friends.
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