Sympathy with taste is blending,
Truth her tales of love can tell
Whilst devotion's flame ascending,
Lights with joy the hermit's cell ;-
There in adoration bending,
See The Christian Poet dwell!
Poet! in the deep recesses
Where thy spirit finds its home,
Sheltered from the world's distresses,
Which on shadowy pinions roam;
Let the muse with fair caresses,
To that safe pavilion come.
Thou hast bade the immortal spirit Plume for heavenly worlds its wing; Worlds where saints their bliss inherit, Worlds where saints hosannahs sing; Whilst to the Redeemer's merit,
Palms of endless praise they bring.
Welcome to our common being,
Intellect's unfailing flood;
Up to scenes of rapture fleeing,
Spirits seek immortal good:-
Glory then their eyes are seeing
In the Paradise of God!
FAIR chronicler of dames as fair!
Breathing in courts the perfumed air
That wafts around;
Communing with the storied dead,
Who one by one have bowed the head
Low in the ground.
And heads like these have worn a crown,-
The wreath of honor and renown
Their brow has prest;
The sceptre glistening in its pride
Has told their names with power allied,
By Heaven's behest.
The sun that walks his glorious way,
Hath poured upon their little day,
With noon-tide beam;
And fortune's bright and glittering star
Has shone with lustre from afar,
To gild life's stream.
Where is the pride of greatness now?
The pageant—and the regal show—
The pomp of kings?
That shining royalty hath flown-
The banner and the shield are gone
On time's dark wings.
And thou hast learned to ponder well,
Of history, the deeds that swell
Her ample page;
Whilst records of the young, the fair,
By memory's pencil graven there,
Our thoughts engage.
A Queen, the minister of heaven!
A blessing to her people given,-
We greet her name :
A Queen, the minister of fate!
A being fallen and reprobate,-
Is lost to fame.
God by an infinite decree,
Appoints His people's destiny;
Whether the throne
Circled with brilliants, and with beams
That realize our waking dreams,
He make our own;
Or whether in the rustic shade,
His hand our home of rest hath made,—
His sovereign power
Can sanctify and bless our lot,
In regal dome or peasant's cot
Through life's long hour.
"By me kings reign, and princes decree justice."-PROV. viii. 15.
STILL is the midnight hour-and deep and lone
Resound the notes of Time's sepulchral moan;
I see his lustre fade-his eye grow dim,
And sorrowing nature sings his requiem;
I hear the curfew toll his parting day,
His final exit-from earth's dreams away!
Thus have I watched, when life's transpiring breath
Has quivered in the agony of death:
Woe for the hours mispent-the broken law,
The birthright boon that once the patriarch saw;
Time, death, eternity,-their solemn view
Bids thoughtless sinners own that God is true,
It bids them from the sleep of nature rise,
And burst their bonds and mount into the skies.
Silence and darkness, shadowing sisters! stand,
And close the gates of day on either hand :
Thou loved Narcissa! o'er thy youthful brow
What early shadows did life's sunset throw,
Withering the blooms of time-those blossoms fair
That breathe their sweets in earth's infected air;
Like the pale lilies, emblems of decay,
That flourish, fade-and pass from earth away.
Death, the insatiate archer, strings his bow,
And venomed darts to those warm pulses go;
Death the insatiate archer! yet the while,
The christian meets the invader with a smile ;-
Calm is his setting sun, and clear the ray
That opens to his view the realms of day;
Bright are his hopes for heaven, serenely bright
Is Canaan, bursting on the enfranchised sight;
Pleasant the gales of Eden-bowers of bloom
Fairer than Eden's, wave beyond the tomb.
Hail to the mind's instructor, tutor, sage!
He well has learned the unwary to engage-
To fathom with his plummet, depths that lie
Unmeasured by each vulgar scrutiny;
Hail to the christian moralist!—the pen
That circles round the royalty of men ;
The warden on the watch-tower-Hark! he cries,
"The hour is midnight! oh ye fools, be wise!"
We own thy spirit's purpose-'tis a word
Of high commission, spoken by thy Lord :
And let us hear His whisper-for again
With soft appeal, He speaks His truth to men ;-
Thus life and death—and time and sense shall be
The portals of a blest eternity!
"Watchman, what of the night? watchman, what of the night? The watchman said, The morning cometh, and also the night: if ye will enquire, enquire ye return, come."-ISAIAH xxi. 11, 12.
HIGH in genius, bright in thought,
Rich in mental treasure:
Thus her tissued web she wrought-
Hers was golden leisure.
Plumes from fancy's airy wing,
Gems from that pure river
Which uprises from a spring,
Foul or failing, never.
|