FOOTPATHS. THE poor man's walk they take away, The solace of his only day, Where now, unseen, the flowers are blowing, And, all unheard, the stream is flowing! In solitude unbroken, Where rill and river glide, The lover's elm, itself a grove, Laments the absent voice of love; How bless'd I oft sat there with Fanny, O dew-dropp'd rose! O woodbine ! They close the bowery way, Where oft my father's father stray'd, And with the leaves and sunbeams play'd, Or, like the river by the wild wood, Ran with that river, in his childhood, The gayest child of May! Where little feet o'er bluebells, Pursued the sun-bless'd bee, No more the child-loved daisy hears The voice of childhood's hopes and fears; VOL. II. H Thrush! never more, by thy lone dwelling, The poor man's path they take away, Where day's eye lingers ere it closes! TO HOFLAND, THE ARTIST. Go, Bard and Painter! to the desert. Limn The mountain's soul, and bid that spirit stay. So shall thy canvas be a glowing hymn To God, in his great works; sung every day By every eye that sees it with the heart, While age-long years grow grey, and rock-built pomps depart. ON A HEARTLESS SLANDERER. "THE unco guid" should pray with tears, EPIGRAM. LIFE is short, and time is swift, A POET. CHILD of the Hopeless! two hearts broke When thou wast orphan'd here: They left a treasure in thy breast, The soul of Pity's tear. And thou must be-not what thou wilt; Say then, what would'st thou be? "A Poet!" Oh, if thou would'st steep Deep thoughts in ecstasy, Nor poet of the rich be thou, Nor poet of the poor; Nor harper of the swarming town, Be the Columbus of a world The Homer of a race of men Who need not sword and spear. Upon a rock thou sett'st thy feet, And bless, O World, a memory Immortal as thy tears!" THE SINLESS CAIN. A BALLAD. WHAT is that flesh-bound spectre, Whose thoughts none understand? The sleeping mastiff heareth The shunn'd of every land. The spirit in his famish'd eyes, Seems bare to sun and sky; And insolence grows mad with pride, When that sad form comes nigh. In every clime and country There lives a man of pain, Whose nerves, like chords of lightning, Bring fire into his brain; To him a whisper is a wound, A look or sneer a blow; More pangs he feels in years or months Than dunce-throng'd ages know. Yet Pity speaks, like Hatred, Of him, where'er he goes; As if his soul were marble, |