Star of the mild and placid seas,
Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portugueze,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own:
When gathering clouds obscure their light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,
The Star of Ocean glitters bright.
Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name essay,
In vain a mortal harp aspires
To mingle in the mighty lay!
Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires,
When storms and tempests pass away,
To join the bright immortal quires.
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE KING.
Oh! what a dazzling vision by the veil
That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains thronged, with palms, to hail
The crowning isle, th' anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
Met to rejoice,-rich pageants glittered by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reached not thee,―amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.
Yet there was mercy still-if joy no more
Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er
The silent limits of its solitude!
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high;
Alike unheard, the sullen dirge that broke
On the glad strain with dread solemnity!
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom,
A like unfelt the storm, that swept it to the tomb.
And she, who tried, through all the stormy past,
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,
Watched o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustained, inspired, by strong affection's power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore,
If thy closed eye, and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought,
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrilled Thine inmost heart, when Death that anxious bosom stilled.
Thy loved ones fell around thee-manhood's prime,
Youth, with its glory, in its fulness, Age,
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage; The land wore ashes for its perished flowers,
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou,' meanwhile, Did'st walk unconscious through thy royal towers, The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrior, on his battle plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.
And who can tell what visions might be thine ?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure,
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once familiar sound,
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrilled to hear,
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.
Nor might the phantoms, to thy spirit known,
Be dark or wild creations of remorse;
Unstained by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o'er the future's course;
For thee no cloud, from memory's drear abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;
And closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to "Despair and die!"
No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue's ruined home is redolent of peace.
They might be with thee still-the loved, the tried,
The fair, the lost-they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill;
Long after earth received them, and the note
Of the last requiem o'er their dust was poured,
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float,
Those forms, from us withdrawn-to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light revealed,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was sealed.
THESE azure days are waning fast,
And soon the rough autumnal blast,
Will come and strip the forest bower
Of summer's last, last lingering flower ;
And wintry-snows will then be seen
Where smile yon hills of vivid green;
O'er the heath, and o'er the plain
Will howl the storm, will drive the rain.-
And thus does Time with rapid stride,
O'ertake our youth's meridian tide.
O glances of proud Beauty's eye,
How soon your liquid lustres die!
graces of the virgin brow!
O love-born smiles! where are you now?
One moment since that cheek how red!
And now the blush of conquest fled :
Those locks that did so richly flow,-
Ah! turned, turned all to snow!
"Relentless Time!" the poets sing,
"To wither youth's voluptuous spring,
"And from that maiden's cheek remove,
"The rose that woke the sigh of love!"
While thus they of his thefts complain,
My lyre shall wake another strain :
To me he is no dreaded foe,
I gaze on him, and feel not woe.
To his power I patient bend,
And own him for my kindest friend.
Take the gifts that youth bestows!
Take, O Time! her flaunting rose.
These I owe thee-these and more,
For all thy precious-precious lore:
'Twas thou that taught'st me not to weep,
When, starting, as from troubled sleep,
I found the dream of hope untrue,
And bade its witcheries adieu.-
Thou hast told me not to deem
That Friendship's smiles are what they seem;
Hast proved how oft with gems divine
My fancy decked a worthless shrine :
Hast shewn my sad and weary breast,
This world was not its home of rest.-
O truths that sages vainly preach!
O lore, that none but Time can teach!
'Tis thou that art the safest test
Of what is wisest, truest, best;
'Tis thou that lull'st the deadly throe
That throbs when disappointment's blow
Had fallen on the shrinking heart,
And bade both hope and peace depart.
Oh, friend sincere! oh kindliest aid!
When all my brighter visions fade;
When vanished is that sweet romance,
Which held up friendship to my glance,
As the pilot that would guide
My bark o'er life's careering tide;
When I have seen, and wept to see,
Affection had no boon for me;
To thee I trust my load of grief,
And find for all a sure relief
The wounds of fate I cease to feel.
What art the wounds THOU cans't not heal?
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