Should the loose strings of my rude harp be stirr'd By inspiration's breath, but one brief strain Should reassert thy rights, and celebrate thy reign. Vain were the hope to rival bards, whose lyres, On such a theme, have left me nought to sing; And one more plant my humbler Muse inspires, Round which my parting thoughts would fondly cling; Which, consecrate to Salem's peaceful King, Though fair as any gracing beauty's bower, Is link'd to Sorrow like a holy thing, And takes its name from suffering's fiercest hour ;— Be this thy noblest fame, imperial Passion-flower! Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name, Or Fancy's dreams, or Superstition's art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim, With thoughts and feelings it may well impart :— Not that I would forego the surer chart Of REVELATION for a mere conceit; Yet with indulgence may the Christian's heart And chiefly what recalls his love's most glorious feat. Be this the closing tribute of my strain! Be this, fair flower! of charms your last and best! That when THE SON OF GOD for man was slain, Circled by you, he sank awhile to rest,— Not the grave's captive, but the garden's guest, So pure and lovely was his transient tomb! And he, whose brow the wreath of thorns had prest, Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom, But won the thornless crown of amaranthine bloom. TEN YEARS AGO. TEN years ago, ten years ago, Had seared not then its pathway green. Time hath not blanched a single hair Though sometimes stain'd by secret tears; I, too, am changed-I scarce know why, Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form I linger still In the first summer months of life, But look not thus-I would not give The wreck of hopes that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive When all around me seem'd so fair. We've wander'd on in sunny weather, When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom, Has fortune frown'd? Her frowns were vain, In concert still our fate we 'll brave, Have we not knelt beside his bed, And watch'd our first-born blossom die ? Hoped, till the shades of hope had fled, Then wept, till sorrow's fount was dry? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour, To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, Our bud had left its earthly bower, Yes, it is sweet, when heaven is bright, ADAM AND EVE'S ALTERNATE HYMN. ADAM. THE all-quickening light is rolling there, A song whose chorus soars to Him Come, let us join that choral song; Come, let our voices blend with theirs ; We'll pour the incense of our prayers. I'll lead the grateful hymn, my love! EVE. Yes! let us sing of God-the spring, Lift, lift, my love! thy thoughts on high; And hill, and wood, and valley bright ADAM. O Father! we approach thy throne, Of the bright sun; we see thee shine, We see thee endless Fount of days: And language, not involved, nor dark. |