But for thy pride and seeming calm-
Thy vainly borne disguise-
No rest shall ever soothe thy soul,
No friendship glad thine eyes.
But lonelier than thy lonely heart
Thy very home shall be,
Nor gentle smile, nor household voice,
Shall e'er seem sweet to thee;
And on from youth to womanhood
Thy weary days shall haste,
Thy happiest feelings turn'd to gall—
Thy life itself a waste!
WHEN Evening o'er the western hill
Her robe of purple and gold has flung;
When every zephyr is hush'd and still,
And every bird has its vesper sung,
I'll seek once more the lonely bower,
Where late I heard that melting strain;
And haply, at the same sweet hour,
The tuneful Spirit may sing again.
And if perchance, in gazing round
Among the leaves, a young face I view,
Oh! how my bosom with joy will bound
To find that Spirit has beauty too!
And sure as ever gentle heart
Had bliss in soothing a lover's pain,
Ere morning bids us kiss and part,
I'll make her promise to sing again.
No circling hills may sweeping form
A boundary for thee;
Nor woods, defying time and storm,
Thy ramparts proudly be;
Nor winding waters amply stream,
Fair as the wrapt enthusiast's dream,
Steal through thy sun-bright vales.
The crowded mart, the noisy street,
The busy hum of men-
A scene where things familiar meet,
Unknown of poet's pen;
These may be thine-unhallow'd, rude,
And thine a 66 peopled solitude,"
Ungenial and unloved.
And yet no sun-bright valley fair,
No mountain-screen'd domain,
No glen, or grove, or waters clear,
Can bind in strong link'd chain,
The heart as thou, amid the din,
The chaos from without, within,
And lost to Nature's charms.
'Tis thine to whisper to the heart,
Of childhood's happy dawn,
Of joys that with our youth depart,
Of Love's bewitching morn;
And thine to speak of playmates fled,
Of friends removed, estranged, or dead—
A wild and spectral train.
And thine to 'wake the voice of Love,
Long silent in the tomb;
Of parent love!-pure as above,
The love in worlds to come!
And thou, the scene of births and death, Of burial, and of bridal, hast
A voice, none else may claim.
Oh! many are the storms that roll
Their waters o'er the mind-
Many the waves that threat the soul
By this world's griefs refined,
To bury in their depths profound,
Association's hallow'd mound,
Thoughts, recollections fond;
Yet, in the might of love sublime,
One spot undimm'd appears-
One consecrated spot-no time
From Memory's tablet tears;
My father's house! shrine of the best,
And holiest earthly love, confess'd,
Affection's dearest home.
Guilt may have sear'd, ill fortune worn,
The sympathies away;
Yet will remembrance fondly turn,
And own the boundless sway
Of parent love!—the while will be
The heart's unsullied sanctuary,
A father's house confess'd.
Fairer, a thousand times more fair,
May show full many a scene,
Than that which gave us birth; but there,
Oh, there's one spot green!
The Oasis of the desert waste,
With more than scenic beauty graced,
Impervious to decay.
THOU graceful tree,
With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.
Like one who patient grieves,
When winds are o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping;
While tear-like fall thy leaves.
When summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining;
Yet with thy slight boughs declining,
Still thou seek'st the earth.
Thy leaves are ever green:
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging;
Thou art still as thou hast been.
It is not just to thee,
For painter or bard to borrow
Thy emblem as that of Sorrow;
Thou art more like Piety.
Thou wert made to wave,
Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee, Lowly when Summer suns restore thee,
Upon the martyr's grave.
Like that martyr thou hast given
A lesson of faith and meekness,
Of patient strength in thy weakness,
And trust in Heaven!
O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song;
These tones like a summoning spell awaken
The shades of feelings that slumber'd long: There's a hawthorn tree near a low-roof'd dwelling, A meadow green and a river clear,
A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling,
And a form unforgotten, they all are here.
They are here, with dark recollections laden,
From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea;
They speak of the time when I left that maiden
By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree.
We parted in wrath ;-to her low-roof'd dwelling
She turn'd with a step which betray'd her pain;
She knew not the love that was fast dispelling
The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.
We met no more;—and her faith was plighted
To one who could not her value know;
The curse which still clings to affections blighted
Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe.
And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken-
The shades of feelings which slumber'd long;
Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song.
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