THE HAVEN. WHEN the dangerous rocks are pass'd,When the threatening tempests cease,— O! how sweet to rest at last In a silent port of peace! Though that port may be unknown, Life! thou art the storm-the rock; Yes, I see from yonder tomb GRAVE OF A CHRISTIAN. THERE is a spot-a lovely spot, The hazel forms a green bower there; Morn decks the spot with many a gem, When first that beam of morning breaks, The free birds love to seek the shade, And here the villager will stray, On lovely lips his name is found, The holy cautions that he gave, The prayers he breathed,—the tears he wept,Yet linger here, though in his grave Through many a year the saint has slept. And oft the villager has said,— "O, I remember, when a child, He placed his hand upon my head, And bless'd me then, and sweetly smiled. ""T was he that led me to my God, GRAVE OF THE RIGHTEOUS! surely there O may I sleep in couch as fair, And with a hope as bright as his! THE HERMIT. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man: 'Ah, why thus abandon'd to darkness and wo, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away Full quickly they pass-but they never return. 'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when, majestic on high, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again : But man's faded glory no change shall renew! Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain! ""T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn: Kind nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!" 'T was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me and sorrow behind: "O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 66 Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." And darkness and doubt are now flying away,— The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. |