'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;--When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feelsIt is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,-- Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest.
But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;--As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, That rolled above the olden world--its death-robe and its grave!-- So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own!
TO A LADY. Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.
At night, in visions, when my soul drew near The shadowy confines of the spirit land, Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; And forms of light, too, more divinely fair Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, On wings that made sweet music in the air, Have round me, in those hoursof bliss, been borne, And, filled with joy unutterable, I Have deemed myself a born child of the sky.
And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, When musing by some solitary stream, While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, Have whispered words which I may not repeat,-- But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth To form and voice like thine,-- so fair and sweet! Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight Had borne me to the far shores of delight. Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! They fell upon my heart like summer rain Upon the thirsting fields,--and earlier hours, When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, Came back once more; the present was beguiled Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled.
Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, Which comes upon us when we tread the ways Of sin, may not be suffered to alight On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow.
IMPROMPTU, On The Reception Of A Letter.
I would love to have thee near me, But when I think how drear Is each hope that used to cheer me, I cease to wish thee here.
I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from The storms that burst on me, But the bitter chalice I drink from, I will not pass to thee.
I would share the world with thee, were it With all its pleasures mine, But the sorrows which I inherit, I never will make thine!
