BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
O WILD, but lovely is the savage scene,
Where oft the maddening storm with giant arm
Bows the high wood, and shakes the solid base
Of rocks, whose summit proud its wrath defies!
And now the winds, ceasing their bootless diu,
Murmur, but faintly murmur, as they fall,
While smooth and clear the streamlet winds below-
Thrice happy they! to whom the heavenly Muse
Has given majestic Nature's scenes to trace,
To mark her forms sublime, and gaze her wild
Mysterious visions, that with impulse strange,
Like the Great Spirit brooding o'er the deep,
Still prompt the enthusiast's sleepless energies,
And thrill th' impassion'd soul to ecstacy.
YE troubled visions of uneasy sleep,
How oft ye flit before my aching eyes!
When in the midnight watch 'I wake to weep,'
In all your magic hues ye seem to rise,
And to my view the fading vestige bring,
Of tender joys, in Love's delicious day,
When flushed with youth, he wav'd his purple wing."
Ah Fancy, paint no more that angel smile,
That look seraphic, and that face so fair,
Which did my youthful heart of peace beguile,
For why should Love inhabit with Despair?"
Oh lovely Syren! take those lips away,'
Nor with your balmy breath awake the fire,
Nor light within unsatisfied desire!
FOOL that I was! what did I not resign
For thee, the weakest of a fickle race?
If but awhile unseen thy witching face,
How did I then in bitterness repine,
Deeming all excellence obscured with thine?
Lost on my soul the world's attractive grace,
How have I vainly roam'd, in hope to chace,
From my sad heart, thy image still divine?
Ah! not by me unmerited the fate,
Which now in tearful silence I deplore;
Me, long self-blinded, who perceive too late,
What to behold my pride disdain'd before.
And yet, in spite of this her chilling hate,-
It cannot be !-methinks, I love her more.
I DID not praise thy cheeks of vermeil hue,
Which in complection emulate the rose;
I did not say those eyes of heavenly blue,
Were softer than the sky in summer seen;
Nor that each curling lock that waving flows
O'er thy fair brow commandingly serene,
Was polish'd as the raven's sable plume,
When rising high he shows his glossy wing; Or that thy breath was like the breeze of spring, When Zephyr bids the various garlands bloom; Thy native virtues, not thy heavenly charms, Enslaved my heart to wonder and adore; And shall another clasp thee in his arms! And I enjoy thy angel smiles no more!
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
My mind is pure and high! and I disdain
Whate'er might injure Honour, holiest name,
And worse than death lothe the hag Infamy:
Ne'er shall the sons of Pleasure, or the train
Whom Fashion calls her own, but rightlier named
The votaries of Folly, e'er seduce
My soul from truth and rectitude. Firm fix'd,
Secure as on a rock, ne'er will I swerve
(For so by God's help am I purposed)
Into the devious path where sinners stray;
But keep that narrow track that, soon or late,
Brings the tired pilgrim to his heavenly home,
And ends his labours. There the Just shall live,
And glorious crowns enwreath their temples round
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