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And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye:
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
THE scene was more beautiful far, to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it:
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it.
The murmur arose, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,
From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.
I sigh'd as I look'd from the hill's gentle slope;
And hush'd was the billows' commotion;
And I thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope,
The star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the soul's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;
The din of the city disturb'd it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.
I found that lily's bloom
When the day was dark and chill:
It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.
I sat by the lily's bell,
And watch'd it many a day:
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell,
And the flower had flown away.
I look'd where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?—
Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose !
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain :
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
THAT setting sun-that setting sun!
What scenes, since first its race begun,
Of varied hue, its eye hath seen,
Which are as they had never been.
That setting sun! full many a gaze
Hath dwelt upon its fading rays,
With sweet, according thought sublime,
In every age, and every clime!
'T is sweet to mark thee, sinking slow
The ocean's fabled caves below,
And when the obscuring night is done,
To see thee rise, sweet setting sun.
So when my pulses cease to play,
Serenely close my evening ray,
To rise again, death's slumber done,
Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun.
O THOU whose lips can well repeat
The Savior's prayer, nor deem'st deceit
The while is lurking in thy heart,
Pause, ere their memory shall depart.