I stole her hand,-it shrunk,—but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye,
"Twas kind, but beautifully shy.

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face;

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

Yet, in the glory of my pride,

I stood, and all his wrath defied;

I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph;-and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;

I shunn'd her-for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and nild
The sea of youth and pleasure smiled.

"Twas on a merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the spring,

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.

I saw the village steeple rise,-
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,—
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.
I reach'd the hamlet:-all was gay;

I love a rustic holiday.

I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside;
It pass'd-my Hannah was the bride.

-There is a grief that cannot feel;

It leaves a wound that will not heal;

-My heart grew cold,-it felt not then: When shall it cease to feel again?

THE OCEAN.

WRITTEN AT SCARBOROUGH, IN THE SUMMER OF 1805.

ALL hail to the ruins,* the rocks and the shores!
Thou wide-rolling ocean, all hail!
Now brilliant with sunbeams, and dimpled with care,
Now dark with the fresh blowing gale,
While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud shadows sail,
And the silver-wing'd sea-fowl on high,
Like meteors bespangle the sky,

Or dive in the gulf, or triumphantly ride,
Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide.

From the tumult and smoke of the city set free,
With eager and awful delight;

From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee;
I gaze, and am changed at the sight;

For mine eye is illumined, my genius takes flight,
My soul, like the sun, with a glance
Embraces the boundless expanse,

And moves on thy waters, wherever they roll, From the day-darting zone to the night-shadow'd pole.

My spirit descends where the day-spring is born, Where the billows are rubies on fire,

And the breezes that rock the light cradle of morn
Are sweet as the phoenix's pyre:

O regions of beauty, of love, and desire!
O gardens of Eden! in vain

Placed far on the fathomless main,

Where nature with innocence dwelt in her youth,
When pure was her heart, and unbroken her truth.

But now the fair rivers of Paradise wind
Through countries and kingdoms o'erthrown;
Where the giant of tyranny crushes mankind,
Where he reigns,-and will soon reign alone;
For wide and more wide, o'er the sunbeaming zone
He stretches his hundred-fold arms,
Despoiling, destroying its charms;

Beneath his broad footstep the Ganges is dry,

And the mountains recoil from the flash of his eye.

Thus the pestilent Upas, the demon of trees,

Its boughs o'er the wilderness spreads,

And with livid contagion polluting the breeze,
Its mildewing influence sheds :

The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds,
Are slain by its venomous breath,

That darkens the noonday with death,

And pale ghosts of travellers wander around,
While their mouldering skeletons whiten the
ground.

Ah! why hath JEHOVAH, in forming the world,
With the waters divided the land,

His ramparts of rocks round the continent hurl'd,
And cradled the deep in his hand,

If man may transgress his eternal command,

* Scarborough Castle.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man ;-and WHO WAS HE?
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone:-

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast:
His bliss and wo,-a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;

Had friends, his friends are now no more;
And foes, his foes are dead.

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair-but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encounter'd all that troubles thee;
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,-There lived a MAN!

The weeping minstrel sings,

And, while her numbers flow, My spirit trembles with the strings, Responsive to the notes of wo.

Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, And wake his wild harp's clearest tones, The chords, impatient to complain,

Are dumb, or only utter moans.

And yet, to soothe the mind

With luxury of grief, The soul to suffering all resign'd

In sorrow's music feels relief.

Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre

The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play;

Till all the air around

Mysterious murmurs fill,

A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,--yet mournful still.

O! snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O strike it with sublime command,
And be the poet's life thy song.

Of vanish'd troubles sing,

Of fears for ever fled,

Of flowers that hear the voice of spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead:
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase ;
And weary life's triumphant close

In some calm sunset hour of peace;

Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of youth,
Unchanging as Jehovah's love,

And everlasting as his truth:

Sing, heavenly Hope!--and dart thine hand
O'er my frail harp, untuned so long;
That harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.

Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.

THE HARP OF SORROW.

I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command;--
They warble only to her song.

Of dear, departed hours,

Too fondly loved to last,

The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,
Snapt in their freshness by the blast:

Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering nature yields her breath,
And endless ages of despair,

Beyond the judgment-day of death:

POPE'S WILLOW.

Verses written for an urn, made out of the trunk of the weeping willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.

ERE Pope resign'd his tuncful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The minstrel hung his harp in death
Upon the drooping willow;

587

THE DIAL.

THIS shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,

Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime-

What is it?-Mortal man!
It is the scythe of time:
-A shadow only to the eye;
Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till nature's race be run,

And time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun

Nor only o'er the dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls.
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys.
And man at every footstep weeps

O'er evanescent joys;

Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn
Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn.
-Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow,
I, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend

His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb, Whose moving shadow shall portend Each frail beholder's doom.

O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though time's triumphant flight be shown, The truest index on its face

Points from the churchyard stone.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A MOTHER'S love,-how sweet the name! What is a mother's love?

-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a mother's love.

To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,

In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a mother's love.

Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,

Feed it from love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;

Then while it slumbers watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;
This is a mother's love.

To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,

Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;

To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks;
This is a mother's love.

And can a mother's love grow cold?

Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief-for joy!
A mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;
-Is this a mother's love?

Ten thousand voices answer, "No!"

Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;
Yet, ah! remember this;

The infant, rear'd alone for earth,
May live, may die,-to curse his birth;
-Is this a mother's love?

A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell;
Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind:
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a mother's love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And pour'd upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word;
This was the lesson to her son,
-Time is eternity begun :

Behold that mother's love.*

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,

Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear of God:

Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,

Taught by that mother's love.

That mother's love!-how sweet the name!
What was that mother's love?

-The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,
That kindles from above

Within a heart of earthly mould,

As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold:
This was that mother's love.

THE GLOW-WORM.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train.

WHEN evening closes nature's eye,

The glow-worm lights her little spark,

To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star

Than all that deck the fields above,

He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.
Unhappy he whose hopeless eye

Turns to the light of love in vain ;
Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely main.

* 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.