« AnteriorContinuar »
ON A DECEASED CHILD.
And this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears !
And yet too beautiful for tears.
The cheek has lost its rose-like red;
I stand and gaze upon the dead.
But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half-shaded by the silken hair,
When life and health were laughing there,
So wildly upward in the breast,
That need not, cannot be suppressed.
I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim,
Are blended with the funeral hymn;
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,
That melts not when the infant dies.
And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.
Once more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death and sorrow fly, I see thee like a new-born star
Move up thy path-way in the sky: The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thinc; For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfading and divine.
Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed, And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead; Thrice happy—that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its noon-day storms begin.
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past, Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell !
HYMN OF NATURE. God of the earth's extended plains !
The dark green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers
Where man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lours upon the vale below,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air !
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
PEABODY. EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.
It was when from Spain, across the main, the Cid had
come to Rome, He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint
Peter's dome. "Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they?”—“Seven kings
do sit thereon, As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's
The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss
Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant
For his great puissance, the King of France next to the
Pope may sit, The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit.”
“Ha!" quoth the Cid, “now God forbid! it is a shame,
I wiss, To see the Castle planted beneath the Flower-de-lys. No harm I hope, good Father Pope, although I move thy
chair." In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair).
The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that
day; Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly ; Looks sour and bad, I trow he had, as grim as grim might