Oh, many an eye, in whose soft fringed recess
You might read---what a language would fail to ex
Hath been dimmed by a tear; not for others alone,
But the herald of sorrow too nearly its own :---
And many a bosom, as pure as the snow,
Whose mountain-bed never pollution can know,
Sighs to yield that sweet mansion, which Hope hath
left bare,
To the inroad of Grief, and the chill of Despair, Which should only have felt that wild throb of delight,
(Known to all that have loved, when the loved-one
When she hears her name breathed on the silence of night,
By lips she would listen for ages to hear ;--
Gently murmuring o'er flowers the night-breeze she meets,
That bestows as it passes a million of sweets;
But the sound of that voice, and the glance of that
Bear a charm before which all their sweetness must die--
And she sees not the moon, though its silvery beam Hath arrayed with such splendour the dark-rolling
Though each dew-drop that hangs on the foliage
Glitters bright as the diamond at Golconda found;
Nor hears she the nightingale's melody now,
Though sweetly as everit swells from the bough;
Her lover is there---he for whom her young heart
Hath imbibed an affection which ne'er can depart,
And her ear is all reckless, her bright eye is dim
To the charms of a world, in the presence of him.
Alas, that sweet Woman should ever feel woe,
Save that which arises from joy's overflow!
That her soft cheek should ever be stained with a tear,
Unless fulness of rapture should bid it appear!
Or Pity, who loves in her bosom to dwell,
And inspires that trait which becomes her so well!
Oh, may no sterner grief e'er disturb YOUR repose,
Than such as may give to enjoyment a zest!
As the breeze scatters dew from the cup of a rose,
May the sweet breath of Joy dry the tear as it flows,
And the care which it sprung from expel from your
breast!
A. Z.
FROM" THE PILGRIM'S FATE," A POEM,
By Ingram Cobbin, M. A.
O, HOW enchanting was life's day-break hour,
Soft slumbers brooded o'er my cradled head,
Seeming to mother's eyes like opening flower,
A rose-bud sleeping on a mossy bed.
And when that peeping rose-bud 'gan to spread,
It bloomed more lovely to those partial eyes,
While shining suns their genial influence shed,
Pouring effulgent beams from cloudless skies,
Dear to my heart those hours till recollection dies.
And loftily I roll'd my infant eye,
When nurse bedeck'd me in my scarlet shoes,
And silver clasps, and dress of brilliant dye,
And broad and shining sash of many hues.
And still my pensive mind doth love to muse
On nurseling's duties, when I used to ride
The rocking horse, and with delight reviews
The little cavalier in knight-like pride,
Stretching his folded limbs on wooden heast astride.
And next my thoughts regal the thoughtless boy,
When flattering tongues with gravity admired
The mother's picture and the father's joy,
"Twas all their ears attentive then desired.
Nor more ambition had my bosom fired,
Save when the early efforts of my hand,
In landscape rude, or blotted copy tired
The less admiring eye; thrust forth by fond command,
And I a wonder was, shewn in a wondrous land.
Proud of my lore, to school I daily sped,
With weighty satchel dangling at my heel,
And task more weighty rolling through my head(The pleasing, painful burdens now I feel.)
The few short hours away would lingering steal,
Then ended all the toilings of the day,
When home with joy my careless steps would reel,
And labour yielded to delightful play;
I cared not who was sąd, for I was ever gay.
Now round the humming-top the whip was twirl'd,
Or favorite taw was darted 'thwart the ring,
Or jingling hoop with rapid strokes was whirl'd,
Or kite was mounted by the lengthen'd string,
Or ball ascended as on airy wing,
From trap or wicket, eager in its flight,
Or rope extended for the ambitious spring;-
The darling sports detailed give new delight,
And fancy plays them o'er again to bless my sight.
And well I recollect the objects now,
The haunted mansion which I used to fly,
And castle with its awful hanging brow,
And turrets nodding gravely at the sky,
Whose storm beat heads old Time had dared defy:
How oft I flitted by them, stifling breath,
Dreading where'er their dark chasms open'd by;
For there my coward mind but saw or death,
Or giant forms of ghosts, as still the old wife saith.
For I had yet to know that man set free
From this mortality's cold clogging chain,
The soul embodied, never more can see,
Nor he to earth's base soil return again;
To treat the childish phantom with disdain,
"Nor fear but forms which cast in earthly mould,
Do still the wickedness of flesh retain;
The living ghosts that burn (not the death-cold)
That stalk at noon-day forth, in mischief skill'd and
bold.
O, I could linger on those scenes gone by!
As traveller when he attains the mountains' brow,
Hangs o'er the travelled road with lagging eye,
And with a footstep pausing oft and slow,
Seems to regret his progress homeward,-so
Still would my doating heart old scenes renew,
Which once pass'd o'er, I ne'er again can know,
And scarcely memory doth believe them true;
Flown are they far, and fast as e'er Time's pinions flew.
"It is good for us, &c."- -to" One for Elias."
OH yes, it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build---but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away;
For see they would bind him below,
In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey!
To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets
The charms which she boasted before :
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, and the tints which it
Shall we build to the purple of Pride?
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe and the
shroud.
To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain---
Who hid, in their turns have been hid---
The treasures are squandered again,
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures that mirth can afford?
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah, here is a plentiful board!
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied!
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve: Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear,
Which Compassion herself could relieve; Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear--Peace, peace is the watchword---the only one here! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath the cold dead! and around the dark stone!
These are signs of a sceptre that none may disown!
Then the first Tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise:
The second to Faith which ensures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the
skies?
H. D. HETHERINGTON.
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
WINE, love, and music, that conspire,
At first, to lure the mind of man,
And seem, with mirth, and fond desire,
And moving sounds, to bless the span
Allotted to existence here,
Are emblems of the meteor's glare:
Their charms delude, then disappear.
And true experience may declare:
"Such joys, alas! cannot defy
The sad reflection and the sigh."
When at the festive board I sit,
At which the choicest wines abound,
And every face with smiles is lit,
While repartees go smartly round;
Though there content appears to dwell,
Presiding e'er the social scene,
Yet will my wayward thoughts rebel,
And shades of sorrow intervene;
For 'midst it all, I know not why,
I muse and breathe the frequent sigh.
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