Points to the master's eyes, where'er they roam, His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. ON WOΜΑΝ. IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paus'd, while beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, In self-adoring pride securely mail'd;But, triumph not, ye peace-enamor'd few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmov'd, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, O! what were man?- a world without a sun! Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bow'r! In vain the viewless seraph ling'ring there, At starry midnight charm'd the silent air; In vain the wild-bird carol'd on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray,The world was sad!-the garden was a wild! And man, the hermit, sigh'd-till Woman smil'd. THE SCEPTIC. OH! lives there, Heav'n! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame? Is this your triumph-this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing, By shore and sea-each mute and living thing? Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driv'n, And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n? Oh! star-ey'd Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit! Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears, Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awak'd, inexorble pow'r! This frail and fev'rish being of an hour, Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind, But leave-oh! leave the light of Hope behind What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel-visits, few, and far between! Her musing mood shall every pang appease, Eternal hope! when yonder spheres sublime * THE ROSE OF THE WILDERNESS. Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd, Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight the brands Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;- Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Ev'n I am weary in yon skies The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,- Receive my parting ghost! |