BY DAVID S. BOGART.-1791.
ALMIGHTY King, who reign'st above,
Thou art the source of purest love;
The splendid heavens thy glories show,
Thy wisdom shines in all below;
Seraphs before thee humbly fall,
Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all;
And, wrapt in high transporting joy,
Thy attributes their thoughts employ.
Shall mortals, then, refuse to join
In works so heavenly and divine,
Mortals who live and move in thee,
And thy continual goodness see;
Thou God of Grace, make it my choice
In praising thee, to lend my voice;
Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm,
And make my troubled soul all calm;
Teach me the duty of my life,
Preserve me from unhappy strife,
Conduct me safe through all my days,
And keep me in thy peaceful ways.
When time is done, and death draws nigh,
Then leave me not alone to sigh;
Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart,
And, sure of heaven, let me depart.
OH, who would flee the melody
Of woodland, grove, and stream—
The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky
By morning's virgin beam;
To wander 'mid the busy throng
That threads each city's street,
Where cank'ring care and folly's glare
In unblest union meet?
Emilia o'er the fleeting hours
Thy smile once bathed in light,
Fond memory hovers pensively,
And joins them in their flight;
And lovelier far than sunset's glow,
By rainbow beauties spann'd,
Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole
When first I press'd thy hand.
The south wind, on its joyous way,
Came fraught with balmier breath,
And frolic life, in thousand forms,
Laugh'd at the conqueror Death!
Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves,
Re-tuned the shepherd's song;
And bird and bee, in reckless glee,
Pour'd melody along.
The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade
Upon the streamlet's breast,
The red bird, on the chesnut bough,
Re-builds its fairy nest;
But through the thicket's leafy screen
Fancy alone can trace
The sparkling eye-the vermeil dye
That mantled o'er thy face.
Though since that hour, upon my path
Are graven hopes and fears,
And transient smiles, like April beams,
Have gilded sorrow's tears;
From those flushed hopes and feverish joys,
My soul with rapture flies
To the sweet grove, where faith and love Beamed from Emilia's eyes!
Then woo me not to sculptured halls,
Where pride and beauty throng;
Far lovelier is my mountain-home,
The wild-wood paths among;
And though the hopes by boyhood nursed
Have vanish'd like the dew,
In Memory's light they bless my sight
With charms for ever new.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
WHILE you, my friend, with tearful eye,
These soft elegiac lines read o'er,
And while you heave the tender sigh
For lov'd Amanda now no more.
This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn,
Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds,
This lesson from Amanda learn,-
That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.
That he alike his ruthless reign
Does o'er each age, each sex, extend,
That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain,
Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.
But in the height of Beauty's bloom,
Each dear connexion of the heart,
He points them to the gloomy tomb,
He bids them--and they must depart.
THE Spring's scented buds all around me are swellingThere are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale; The desolate reign of old winter is broken
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm, and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.
The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers-
He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.
The young bird is out on his delicate pinion —
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure-
The woodlands are singing-the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom !
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more; The song in the wild-wood-the sheen of the blossomThe fresh-welling fountain, — their magic is o'er! When I list to the streams- when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.
From the wide-spreading earth-from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream:
The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth -
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;-
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
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