A SPIRITS VOICE
It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;
From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes,
And through the heavens her early pathway takes;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the noon! the sun looks laughing down
On hamlet still, on busy shore, and town,
On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the sunset! daylights crimson veil
Floats oer the mountain tops, while twilight pale
Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the night! oer the moons livid brow,
Like shadowy locks, the clouds their darkness throw,
All evil spirits wake to wander now;
Why art thou sleeping?
TO THE DEAD
On the lone waters shore
Wander I yet;
Brooding those moments oer
I should forget.
Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,
While despairs whispers urge
To stay and die.
When the nights solemn watch
Falls on the seas,
Tis thy voice that I catch
In the low breeze;
When the moon sheds her light
On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,
Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,
When wilt thou come,
To marshal me the way
To my long home?
SONG
I sing the yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse,
Springs early violet, that sweetly opes
Its fragrant leaves to the young mornings kiss,
Type of our youths fond dreams, and cherished hopes,
Will soon be this:
A sere and yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse.
The summers rose, in whose rich hues we read
Pleasures gay bloom, and loves enchanting bliss,
And glorys laurel, waving oer the dead,
Will soon be this:
A sere and yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse.
TO THOMAS MOORE, Esq
Heres a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblets brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever fond womans eyes eclipse
The midnight moons soft ray;
Whenever around dear womans lips,
The smiles of affection play:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblets brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the warriors sword is bound
With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriots brow is crowned
With the halo of liberty:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblets brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblets brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
In thy strains is dearer still.
A WISH
Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, oerarched with oak and beech;
Where the suns yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
THE MINSTRELS GRAVE
Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summers sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
And the burthen it sings to me, nought but farewell!
Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs oer my pillow,
From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one farewell.
TO
When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beautys pride wert blooming,
And my young heart knew hope without a fear.
When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more.
ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,
Brought from Switzerland
Flower of the mountain! by the wanderers hand
Robbed of thy beautys short-lived sunny day;
Didst thou but blow to gem the strangers way,
And bloom, to wither in the strangers land?
Hueless and scentless as thou art,
How much that stirs the memory,
How much, much more, that thrills the heart,
Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee!
Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade,
There lives more fragrance, and more freshness now;
Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade,
Are half so dear to memorys eye as thou.
The dew that on the mountain lies,
The breeze that oer the mountain sighs,
Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish;
But thounot een those sunny eyes
As bright, as blue, as thine own skies,
Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.
SONNET
Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
All the fond visions Hopes bright finger traces,
All the fond visions Times dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
Withered and blighted, long before the night:
Strewing the paths they should have made more bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
We deemed theyd bloom as fresh and fair for ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
Trust not too fondly!for tis but a dream!