Beauty's all entrancing light
Shall be forever quench'd in night—
In slumber mild, but deep!
And there shall rest the child of glory,
Valor's fire, and wisdom hoary;
There the bard's enraptur'd pinion
Stills its plumes forever more,
Doom'd no more to dare dominion
On fond fancy's pictur'd shore.
While sadly scatter'd round, in many a heap,
Proud temples own the awful march of time,
Crumbling in melancholy silence deep,
On every shore, in every age and clime;
In speechless grandeur, their dark ruins lie,
Memorials sad and stern of his dominion high.........
And still doth year succeed to year,
And still Time's murmur moans along the blast-
Do we regard him till o'erpast?
Do we his hasty voice of warning hear ?
We pluck the transient flowers of earth,
Forgetting those of purer birth,
Regardless of the heritage above,
Lost to purity and love!
Oh man! vain man! why wilt thou weave thy doom ? Why wilt thou hurry to the tomb,
And madly rush, and wildly dare
The darkest frowns of death, the terrors of despair?
Then weave the melancholy strain; Another year to join the past has flown; Hark to its sad and passing moan,
Ere yet it joins the past departing train!"
It tells of wildly wasted hours,
Of sorrows pale and wither'd flowers,
Perchance of blasted hopes and broken peace,
Shifting scenes of earthly bliss,
Of disappointment chill, when, heaven forgot,
Earth seem'd a sad and dreary spot,
And the vile heart refused the ray
Of hope and comfort sweet, from heav'n's unfailing day.
Yet in measures soft and sweet,
Hark! the lyre's fond accents greet
Him that comes in new-born bloom,
And spreads fresh morning o'er the gloom,
With swift advancing feet.
Gay hope his hasty step is hailing,
Loud the song of pleasure swelling;
When his lovely form ascending,
Sparkles on the ravish'd gaze,
Youth and beauty gently blending
In a burst of dazzling rays!
Bright opes the morn, and fair the prospect seems,
Hope smiles in triumph, o'er the gilded reign;-
Evening perhaps again may chase her dreams,
And teach fond man that all of earth is vain;
Another year may roll its ebbing tide,
And leave him still the mock of passion and of pride!
Religion, with a steady eye,
Alone can mark the sweeping flood of years;
She wipes away the falling tears,
And fixes every hope upon the sky;
And hails each year that rolls away,
Since nearer to th' eternal day,
She treads the mazes of this mortal life;
There, when years have ceas'd their strife,
To live in long communion with the blest,
In bowers of happiness and rest,
And join the chorus of the song
That heav'n, through all its realms, forever shall prolong,
And oh! throughout the wide spread world, May this new year extend IMMANUEL's reign; On shore and every plain,
In triumph be his banner bright unfurl'd! The dread, disastrous form of war,
Has dimm'd awhile its baleful star,
And peace delightful spreads her sceptre gay,
O'er the ocean's trackless way,
And o'er the barren sand and howling waste,
The servants of the Saviour haste,
To pour the beams of gospel light
O'er horror's darkest den, and superstitions night.
Hail thee, then, thou new-born year,
Bursting in thy young career!
May'st thou bring resplendent flowers,
To bless the tide of fleeting hours,
With heav'n and glory near!
And oh! from earth, if death us sever,
Ere thou wing'st thy flight forever,
May our souls in rapture soaring,
Claim and find a blest abode,
Mid unnumber'd crowds adoring
At the awful throne of GOD:
Oh! be thou glorious in the march of years,
Thy journey strew'd with softest roses sweet;
And mid the music of revolving spheres,
May thy Hosanna heav'n's blue concave meet;
To sing the triumphs of redeeming love,
And mount on wing sublime, to Zion's hill above.
BRISTOL, (R. I.) JAN. 1, 1817.
O curas homnum! O quantum est in rebus inane !
OH! 'twas a parting-serene-sublime and bright,
As when the sun sinks on the tearful sight
In floating clouds of blue and liquid gold!-
She died what recks it now-if told
Her virtues-loveliness and grace?
The bright expressions of the form and face?
The open spirit-and the pride of truth?
The hopes of pleasure and the joys of youth?
She died!-and these are past and gone-
Why weep then-o'er the unforgotton one
Who wakes no more-to grieve her given birth,
And the cold changes of a wayward earth!
The last "good night" fell from her dying tongue-
We gazed-and o'er the feeble sufferer weeping hung-
She pass'd-and yet we gaz'd and wept-
We could not think her dead-but that she slept.
The bloom had faded from her cheek so fair,
And the hot tears she shed had frozen there
The face was yellow-as the autumn leaf-
The dark eye glazed and closed-and closed in grief.
It would have seemed-had not the parting smile
Play'd round the mouth-denying it the while-
Her fingers closely clasp'd-as though in prayer
The mind had been-but not the clasping of despair-
Oh! 'twas a sight-but all have seen the sight,
That sight of sorrow and of strange delight!
Ah! what is life?-embrace a vision cloud-
Light the red torch, and place it on a shroud.
Yes! there was something in that farewell hour
Which shew'd the pride of mind-its hope and power,
'Twas not the dreadful and uncertain chill,
The trembling fear that flutters and is still,
The fear that tells the soul it soon must cease
(A tale of fear and doubt, but none of peace)
To be-and mingle with the wakeless dead,
In the dark slumbers of a darker bed.
Oh no! her's was the hope and beam of heav'n
Redeeming grace and love and sins forgiven:
Of better worlds than this, unchanging, fair,
Where the glad spirit floats on wings of air,
Sweeping the harp of God in softest tone,
In praise of Him who sits upon the throne.
I've seen the dark ship proudly braving,
With high sails set-and streamers waving,
The tempest roar and battle pride:-
I've seen those floating streamers shrinking-
The high sail rent-the proud ship sinking→→
Beneath the ocean tide ;-
And heard the seaman farewell sighing-
His body on the dark sea lying-
His death prayer to the wind!
But sadder sight the eye can know,
Than proud bark lost-and seaman's wo→→→
Or battle fire and tempest cloud-
prey birds shriek and oceans shroud-
The shipwreck of the Mind.
The author of the following beautiful, feeling and pious production, was Mr. FRANCIS COPE, a young gentleman of Philadelphia, who, like our lamented Blakely, has been lately snatched, by the greedy waters from the hopes of his friends, and the pursuit of virtuous fame. He was drowned at sea, in his 20th year. Many fine specimens of early genius are in the possession of his friends-but the following is most remarkable as being the production of a young man, and as breathing not only the fervent spirit of real poetry but of true religion. The loss of such a youth is a national calamity. STAR.
When adverse winds right keenly blow;
When stern affliction's grasp we know;
Her torch when persecution whirls;
When Envy lifts her snaky curls;
Thrice happy he whose soul resign'd,
Unmov'd can see the torrent run;
Can say, his eye to Heaven inclin❜d,
"Thy will be done.”
O life, thy roses thorns unfold;
O death, thy grasp is fearful cold,
With riches come unnumbered cares,
With poverty ten thousand snares.
Then where can happiness be found?
Nor in the cot, nor purple throne,
Herein doth happiness abound,
"Thy will be done."
When blasting winds blow cold and bleak,
With longing eye and sunken cheek,
When haggard famine stalks around;
When war triumphant stains the ground;
When the sad mother beats her breast,
To see her babe's last sigh is drawn;
O what can sooth her soul to rest?
"Thy will be done."
'Tis this can still the adverse gale,
'Tis this can bid wan famine hail,
"Tis this can soften war's alarms,
'Tis this oppression's rage disarms,
This plucks the thistle from our road
When life's deluding joys are gone;
"Tis this will raise the soul to God,
"Thy will be done."
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