A weeping babe to light she came,
And changed for smiles a mother's throes;
In childhood from devouring flame,
Rescued, to second life she rose;
A father's arm had pluck'd her thence;
That arm again was her defence,
When buried in the strangling wave,
He snatch'd her from an ocean grave.
Twice born for heaven as thrice for earth,
When God's eternal Spirit moved
On her young heart, a nobler birth
Than nature can confer, she proved :
-The dew-drop in the breeze of morn,
Trembling and sparkling on the thorn,
Falls to the ground, escapes the eye,
Yet mounts on sunbeams to the sky.
Thus in the dew of youth she shone,
Thus in the morn of beauty fell;
Even while we gazed, the form was gone,
Her life became invisible;
Her last best birth, with her last breath,
Came in the dark disguise of death;
Grief fill'd her parents' home of love,
But joy her Father's house above.
HERS was a soul of fire that burn'd
Too soon for us, its earthly tent,
But not too soon for her return'd
To Him from whom it first was sent : Grave! keep the ashes, till, redeem'd from thee, This mortal puts on immortality.
Hers was a frame so frail, so fine,
The soul was seen through every part,
A light that could not choose but shine
In eye and utterance, hand and heart;
That soul rests now, till God, in his great day,
Remoulds his image from this perish'd clay.
Body and soul, eternally,
No more conflicting nor estranged,
One saint made perfect then shall be,
From glory into glory changed;
This was her hope in life, in death;—may I
Live like the righteous, like the righteous die.
IN MEMORY OF E. G.
SOFT be the turf on thy dear breast,
And heavenly calm thy lone retreat;
How long'd the wearied frame for rest;
That rest is come, and oh how sweet!
There's nothing terrible in death;
"Tis but to cast our robes away,
And sleep at night, without a breath
To break repose till dawn of day.
'Tis not a night without a morn,
Though glooms impregnable surround;
Nor lies the buried corse forlorn,
A hopeless prisoner in the ground.
The darkest clouds give lightnings birth,
The pearl is form'd in ocean's bed;
The gem, unperishing in earth,
Springs from its grave as from the dead.
So shall the relics of the just;
In weakness sown, but raised in power,
The precious seed shall leave the dust,
A glorious and immortal flower.
But art thou dead?-must we deplore
Joys gone for ever from our lot?
And shall we see thy face no more,
Where all reminds us-thou art not?
No,-live while those who love thee live,
The sainted sister of our heart;
And thought to thee a form shall give
Of all thou wast, and all thou art :-
Of all thou wast, when from thine eyes
The latest beams of kindness shone ;
Of all thou art, when faith descries
Thy spirit bow'd before the throne.
"A FEMALE WHOM SICKNESS HAD RECONCILED TO THE NOTES OF
Who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his Poems, in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.
My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
Consoled me with her latest breath.
What is the Poet's highest aim,
His richest heritage of fame?
-To track the warrior's fiery road,
With havoc, spoil, destruction strew'd,
While nations bleed along the plains,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains?
-With fawning hand to woo the lyre,
Profanely steal celestial fire,
And bid an idol's altar blaze
With incense of unhallow'd praise?
-With syren strains, Circean art,
To win the ear, beguile the heart,
Wake the wild passions into rage,
And please and prostitute the age?
NO!-to the generous bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song:
-To hail Religion from above,
Descending in the form of Love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life:
-To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through Sorrow's agonizing breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind:
-To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her noble suffering when she fell,*
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widow'd on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Even on the car of Victory.
These are the Bard's sublimest views,
The angel-visions of the Muse,
That o'er his morning slumbers shine;
These are his themes, and these were mine.
But pale Despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While youth and folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to Man,
"Piu val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire."
Breathed a dark spirit through my lyre,
Dimm'd the noon-radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.
Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flow'd not from my heart in vain;
The lay of freedom, fervour, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.
My Song of Sorrow reach'd HER ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
She bless'd me with her latest breath.
A secret hand to me convey'd
The thoughts of that inspiring Maid;
They came like voices on the wind,
Heard in the stillness of the mind,
When round the Poet's twilight walk
Aerial beings seem to talk:
Not the twin-stars of Leda shine
With vernal influence more benign,
Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale,
Sings the lone-warbling nightingale,
Than through my shades her lustre broke,
Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.
My fancy form'd her young and fair,
Pure as her sister-lilies were,
Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face,
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves;
Heaven in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in her mien.
Such was the picture fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true;
The Muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shown her likeness to my heart,
|