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There is a time, when yet the mind is new, That thoughts half-fledged go forth on feeble wing, And poised in ether, much bewildered, view Through fancy's glass, the gliding forms that spring

From unseen hands, to float awhile in air, Then like the melting mists at early dawn,

Give place to brighter forms of beauty rare, That ages past from mystery have drawn.

Oh, faithful time! what progeny is thine!
The universe appeared at thy decree;

But who made thee, thou Artisan divine?
Self-made, thou art, from all eternity.
Presumptuous thoughts, abortions of the mind,
Of sickly birth, and creatures of a day.
How vain, to scan what God himself designed,
And call his perfect work Time's progeny.
Blind Fate! did'st thou, through ever-during dark,
Grope o'er the elements that formed this world,
And strike from chaos first the electric spark,

That lit up space where mad confusion whirled!
Crude matter sublimed, and rolling nebulæ,

Which time hath since reduced to radiant suns, And from the foam, hath formed a galaxy,

That through high heaven's expanse unbroken runs.


One summer's morn, as I strolled along,
With heart as free as the lark's gay song,
Plucking the wild sweet flowers, that grew
Where the maples their soft, deep shadows threw,
I thought as I kissed from their glossy leaves
The crystal dew, how much there breathes
In nature of true piety,

Of love, and deep humility.

Through every fabric that Nature weaves

From the simple fern, with its drooping leaves,
To the giant oak that defies the blast,
(Yet meekly bends as the gales sweep past,)
From the clinging vine, that darkly crawls
'Mong ruined towers and broken walls,
That sigh as the night winds whisper of old—
Of deeds that the darkness hath not yet told;
Of impious man, who so sadly fell,

And made of this bright fair earth a hell.
No! not of the earth, 'tis the soul within
That makes for itself a world of sin,
The world without is a joyous one,
Busy and bright, 'neath a glorious sun.

From age remote, o'er a boundless waste,
Through the path of time this thread is traced;
Weaving the stars in a robe of light,

To clothe in beauty the silent night;
A chord of love and sympathy,
That vibrates through eternity.
Of such, the angel harps were strung,
When heaven's celestial choirs sung,
All glory, honor, and power be given,
To Him who reigns in earth and heaven.


How rights the ship, when the world goes merrily,
When sweet success crowns every wish;
Bright beams the sun, and the birds sing cheerily,
When showers of plenty fill our dish.

How rights the ship, as her sails catch greedily
Each prosperous wind that kindly blows,
Gaily sings the crew, when she glides on speedily,
O'er life's deep sea so sweet in repose.

Night holds his watch 'neath a cloudless canopy,With hanging lamps o'er the bright sea's crest, Till young morning spreads, like a golden panoply, A flood of day o'er its glassy breast.

Sparkling like dew-drops distilled on sweet violets, Life's sea of light unruffled lies;

Away darts the ship o'er the silvery breast of it, Her white sails spread to the breeze, she flies.

Morning hath op'd those golden eyes of hers,

But scarce one glance o'er the world hath shone, . When far to the west a gathering cloud appears, Gleaning the darkness that night had strown.

How tosses the ship when the world goes crabbedly, When storms of deep affliction rise!

Loud shrieks the blast as the waves roll rapidly,
Till hope amid the tumult dies.


If nature sanctions all the rules

That govern wind and weather,
Then, by her we are all made fools,
And April fools together.

For when Aurora raised the vail
That shades old Sol's complexion,
A cloudless sky his coming hailed,
Nor raised one slight objection.

The birds rejoiced to see the eye
Of morning beam so gladly;
But ere the day had fleeted by,
They, too, were fooled most sadly.

The prince of that mysterious power
That keeps the ocean stewing,
Despatched a sprite at midnight hour,
To set a storm a-brewing.

And sure enough, it came blust'ring on
From snow-crowned Alleghany;
And though the morning brightly dawned,
The day was cold and rainy.

So round the cradle often beams

Bright rays of hope and gladness;
But oh, how changed are childhood's dreams,
When age brings scenes of sadness.

A prosperous sun may set at noon,
And leave the future hazy,
A fickle freak of fortune soon
May drive a mortal crazy.


In Jersey there lived, as I have been told,
When science was yet in its shell,

A worthy old Dutchman, who offered much gold
To any wise man who could tell

How to drive from his cellar a troublesome witch,
Who nightly disturbed his repose,

By leading him forth o'er thorn-hedge and ditch,
By a ring made fast in his nose.

"So droubled am I," said our hero one day,
"Tat I'd giff de pest hoss in me parn,
To any old wizard tat may dravel tis vay,
For to trive tis old hag from me varm.

"My cals tey run vild, my cows tey run try, No putter my voman can make;

My pees leave de hives, my gattles dey dies,
No gomfort at all can I dake.'

One evening when all had retired to bed,
And left the old man in his chair,

He sighed as the darkness grew thicker, and said, "Ich wold garn ins bet ga won ich darf."

But the old mansion shook with a November gale,
Dread spectres were stalking without,

And howl'd through each crevice the horrible tale
That Mynheer was thinking about.

Dense wreaths of tobacco smoke curled round his head While the old kitchen clock, that for years

Had measured each moment of time as it sped

Tick'd louder to banish his fears.

But the darkness grew thicker, the candle burnt blue, A sulphurous smell filled the room,

While the tumult without waxed fiercer, as grew

The clock face more pale in the gloom.

While Van Hochtail thus mused (for that was his name) The clock in the corner tolled one;

The candle went out, when a fit seized his frame
And he thought, sure the devil is come.

The door was thrown open, a figure rushed in,
A bellowing sound-then a crash;

All consciousness fled, while away on the wind
The Dutchman was borne in a flash.

The whole of that night, in the form of a horse,
He scoured the country around,

With a witch on his back, as a matter of course,
And not until morning he found

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