Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath daybeam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that-
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid-the shrine profaned-
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests-there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again!
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh, 'twas a sight-that Heaven-that child
A scene which might have well beguiled
E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh
"For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched man,
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child!
When young, and haply pure as thou,
I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now"-
He hung his head-each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guileless joy that guilt can know.
"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon
Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land,' of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skies!-
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
The precious tears of repentance fall?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!"
And now-behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeams shine upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven
The triumph of a soul forgiven.
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear, that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek:
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash, or meteor's beam-
But well the enraptured Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!
"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-
The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won!"
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;3
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
1 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.
2 "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow; and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of 1807.
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill—
Oh, no!-it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
I SAW THY FORM.
I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, vail'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!
If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.
Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying— "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."
Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings usEarth has no sorrow that God cannot heal?"
THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.'
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!
LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.
Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in their furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light-
Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there!
Till David touch'd his sacred lyre,
In silence lay the unbreathing wire-
But when he swept its chords along,
Even angels stoop'd to hear that song.
So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord,
Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord-
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!
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