Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd, I look'd on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast. Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl-drops of dew. But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host, As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed! Where now were the thunders of victory's boast· The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed? Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone, Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died! Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot; A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot! A PENITENT'S RETURN. Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace, The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile, And wins him o'er to virtue. Wilson. My father's house once more, Is it the brooding night, Is it the shivery creeping on the air, All solemnized it seems, And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, And this high elm, where last I stood and linger'd-where my sisters made How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those grey locks are gone! My soul grows faint with fear; Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod. Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn gladd'ning light! No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from nature's melodies estranged, Therefore, the calm abode, By the dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade; The night-flowers round that door, Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more Το pass, and rest thee there. And must I turn away?— Hark, hark!-it is my mother's voice I hear— Sadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clear— Doth she not seem to pray? My name! I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love-the deep, the mild— A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Coleridge. GREEN spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Fai in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers; Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert's heat, Through heaven's transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose? Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like trustful sleep once more? And might we, in the shade With angel voices high communion hold? Give back the music gone, Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old? Oh! no-thy sunny hours Might come with blossom showers, All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill; But we should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? What could thy flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free? No!-past each living stream, Still would some fever dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee! Should we not shrink with fear, If angel steps were near, The still and searching look, Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Of what man's exiled heart Hath lost-the dower of inborn Paradise! 1 |