Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heavens' remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair.
Those native fires, that warmed the mind, Now languid grown, too dimly glow; Joy has to grief the heart resigned, And love, itself, is changed to wo.
The joys of wine are all you boast,— These, for a moment, damp your pain; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost- And darkness clouds the soul again.
Then seek no more for bliss below, Where real bliss can ne'er be found; Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow And fairer flowers bedeck the ground;
Where plants of life the plains invest, And green eternal crowns the year: The little god, that warms the breast, Is weary of his mansion here.
Like Phosphor, sent before the day, His height meridian to regain,
The dawn arrives-he must not stay To shiver on a frozen plain.
Life's journey past, for fate prepare,— "Tis but the freedom of the mind; Jove made us mortal-his we are,
To Jove, be all our cares resigned.
"There may be a cloud without a rainbow, but there cannot be a rainbow without a cloud."
But for the golden light and rainbow hue
That, sweeping Heaven with their triumphal arc,
That God indeed is good! enough to know Without the gloomy clouds he could reveal No beauteous bow.
BY JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.
THE breeze of night has sunk to rest, Upon the river's tranquil breast; And every bird has sought her nest, Where silent is her minstrelsy; The queen of heaven is sailing high, A pale bark on the azure sky, Where not a breath is heard to sigh- So deep the soft tranquillity.
Forgotten now the heat of day That on the burning waters lay, The noon of night her mantle gray Spreads, for the sun's high blazonry;
But glittering in that gentle night There gleams a line of silvery light,
As tremulous on the shores of white It hovers sweet and playfully.
peace the distant shallop rides; Not as when dashing o'er her sides The roaring bay's unruly tides
Were beating round her gloriously; But every sail is furl'd and still: Silent the seaman's whistle shrill, While dreamy slumbers seem to thrill
With parted hours of ecstasy.
Stars of the many-spangled heaven!
Faintly this night your beams are given, Though proudly where your hosts are driven Ye rear your dazzling galaxy;
Since far and wide a softer hue Is spread across the plains of blue, Where in bright chorus, ever true, For ever swells your harmony.
O for some sadly dying note Upon this silent hour to float,
Where from the bustling world remote The lyre might wake its melody;
One feeble strain is all can swell From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell
That slumbers not its minstrelsy.
THERE IS AN HOUR of deep repose
That yet upon my heart shall close, When all that nature dreads and knows Shall burst upon me wondrously; O may I then awake for ever
My heart to rapture's high endeavour, And as from earth's vain scene I sever, Be lost in Immortality!
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