When, as a flower, the proud high heart of man
Is faint beneath the fulness of its joy-
Flowers make me think of thee!
Streams make me think of theeWhether they glide midst mossy banks away, In sweet low murmurings to the distant main, Or with a prattling merriment, dance on In mazy windings o'er the pebbled strand. Heaven bless the stream! They are like sunny days In life's long winter. Not a tone have they That speaks not to the heart, and there awakes An answering echo of remember'd joys! And with remembered joy is ever link'd Thy queenly form, thy light elastic tread, Thy voice, that like the wrinkling crystal, falls In silvery clearness on affections earStreams make me think of thee!
Hills make me think of thee-
The lights and shadows that alternate blend,
Until the eye rests dazzled in the blaze
Of purple splendor, flooding the high peak,
Illumine all my soul, so that it glows
A temple, dearest, not unworthy thee!
Hills are creation's gift to our own land,
The peerless feature of its scenery!
If love of nature and of country be
Man's best prerogative, how can I feel
Their value as I ought, unless there rush
Into my heart thy image blent with theirs!—
HIlls make me think of thee!
Stars make me think of thee-
Beneath the silence of their holy beam
The bosom hath its own thoughts to itself-
Thoughts which through all the day unheeded slept,
Lost midst the cares and false lights of the world;
But in the hush of evening, they return,
Like sabbath music to a sacred shrine;
And in their presence there is deep delight.
Devotion, and revival of old hopes
That long lay crush'd, and recollections bright,
And feelings to be cherish'd, but not told:
Small is that sister band of starry thoughts,
But one in itself a g·laxy-
Stars make me think of thee!
When think I not of thee?
Nor flowers, nor hills, nor streams, nor stars alone,
Recall thee to a heart, in which thou liv'st
As perfume in the flower, light in the stream,
Beauty in bills, and God himself in stars!
I take thee with me wheresoe'er I go,
And in my spirit's wildest flights thy form,
As in a morning dream, shines by my side!
At home, abroad, alone, or in a crowd,
When think I not of thee?
THE PARTING.
(FROM THE ARABIC.)
The boatmen shout,-'tis time to part,
We can no longer stay;
'Twas then Maimana taught my heart
How much a glance can say.
With trembling steps, to me she came,
"Farewell," she would have cried,
But ere her lips the word could frame,
In half-formed sounds it died.
Then, bending down, with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung,
And, as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.
My willing arms embraced the maid,
My heart with raptures beat,
While she but wept the more, and said,
"Would we had never met!"
DEATH OF BEAUTY.
"Now thou art gone! the fairy rose is fled
That erst gay fancy's garden did adorn ;
Thou wert the dew on which their folly fed,
The sun by which they glittered in the morn.
Now thou art gone! their pride is withered,
The dress of common weeds their youth bewray;
Now vanity neglects them in her play.
Thou wert the very index of their praise,
Their borrowed bloom all kindled from thy rays;
Like dancing insects that the sun allures,
They little heeded it was gained from thee:
Vain joys! what are they now? their sins away,
What, but poor shadows that blank night obscures,
As the grave hideth and dishonours thee!"
A SONG, BY JAMES KNOX.
Enter my shallop!
The soft summer breeze,
Laden with perfume,
Is kissing the seas:
Night is descending,
The stars, from on high,
Scatter their loveliness
Over the sky;
Enter my shallop, and o'er the blue tide,
Lit by the moonbeams, we'll merrily glide.
Enter my shallop!
And music's wild note
Softly and sweetly
On ether shall float:
Love is the minstrel
Whose tones shall impart
Feelings of happiness
To thy young heart.
Enter my shallop, and o'er the blue tide,
With moonlight and music, we'll merrily glide.
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