Now sinks behind yon towering steep,
Now skirts the margin of the deep,
And now, before the western gate,
Stands one broad blaze of living light.
Touched by some all powerful hand
Slowly the golden gates expand!
While echoing from the inmost hall,
Where duly ranged in order stand,
Rank above rank the minstrel band:
A thousand pealing voices raise
The song of welcome, joy, and praise,
To him whose greatness fears no fall,
Who by his own exhaustless might
Upholds the planets in their flight;
Yet looks with equal eye on all,
Scattering with impartial hand
Blessings o'er many a smiling land.
Nor ceased th' harmonious strain, until
Sleep closed the monarch's eyes, and all was still,
While round his royal couch of state
The courtier stars in silence wait.
Meek twilight, in her robe of grey,
To the lone mountain bent her way
But musing onwards kept her eye
Still fixed upon the western sky,
And as she viewed the changing scene,
Oft on her slender staff would lean,
With many a lengthened pause and lingering
On lake, and forest, hamlet, hut, and tower,
Evening descends, like dew upon the flower;
Last rose majestic night, and over all
Flung the dim foldings of her shadowy pall.
BIRD of the land! what dost thou here?
Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound,
With nought but frowning skies above,
And wild unfathomed seas around.
Amid the shrouds, with panting breast
And drooping head, I see thee stand,
While, pleased, the hardy sailor climbs,
To clasp thee in his roughened hand.
Say, didst thou follow, league on league,
O'er pointed mast thine only guide,
When but a fleeting speck it seemed
On the broad bosom of the tide?
Amid Newfoundland's misty bank
Hadst thou a nest of nurslings fair?
Or com'st thou from New England's vales?
Speak, speak! what tidings dost thou bear?
What news from native land and home,
Light carrier o'er the threat'ning tide?
Hast thou no folded scroll of love
Press'd closely to thy panting side.
A bird of genius art thou? say!
With impulse high, thy spirit stirr'd,
Some region unexplored to gain,
And soar above the common herd?
Burns in thy breast some kindling spark, Like that which fired the glowing mind Of the adventurous Genoese,
An undiscovered world to find?
Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate,
With wasted strength the goal to spy,
Cling feebly to the flapping sail,
And at a stranger's feet to die!
For thee the widow'd mate shall gaze
From leafy chamber curtain'd fair,
And wailing lays at evening's close
Lament thy loss in deep despair.
Even thus o'er life's unresting tide,
Chill'd by the billow's beating spray,
Some adventitious prize to gain,
Ambition's votaries urge their way!
Some eyry on the Alpine cliff,
Some proud Mont Blanc they fain would
Snatch wreaths of laurel steep'd in gore,
Or win from Fame a strain sublime.
They lose of home the heart-felt joys,
The charm of seasons as they roll,
And stake, amid their blinding course,
The priceless birthright of the soul.
Years fleet, and still they struggle on,
Their dim eye rolls with fading fire,
Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,
And in the victory expire.
THE joys of youth-how soon, alas,
Their pleasant reign is o'er,
With childhood's happy days they pass,
Like them-return no more;
The frolic and the little jest,
The laughter, loud and gay,
The thrilling hearts, the hopes that bless'd, All-all are pass'd away.
Estranged from all we loved, we live
Through after years of pain,
Oh! what is there we would not give
For childhood's hours again?
The friends of youth-that careless band
Whose hearts seemed light and free,
Where are they now? alone I stand
Where they were wont to be:
And others now look coldly on,
To fill the vacant scene,
But all the kindred hearts are gone,
They lived-loved-and have been.
I hear a stranger's voice repeat
Some well-remembered strain,
And, then-oh! would I then could meet The friends of youth again.
The love of youth-when friends are gone,
And joys have passed away, Like some deep stream, still wanders on, Illumed by virtue's ray;
No passing grief, no transient care,
Can check its firm career;
In youth the hearts that faithful were
Are still in age sincere.
'Tis love alone, when all we see
Breathes misery and pain,
That brings, though but in memory,
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