Oh, my soul thrill'd with ardour, I felt sweet delight,
And the wish rush'd o'er every thought,
That his genius would visit my slumbers at night,
And come with his eloquence fraught;
And bring me his glance-still resistless!-and pour
O'er my dull orbs of vision his power;
And come that such numberless crowds might adore,
As acknowledged his worth in life's hour.
Ah, cease, ye vain wishes!-aspirings are vain!
Imitators, hear !—Garrick's no more!
"His like," Shakspeare tells us, "we'll ne'er see again !" Go, Nature! thy mirror deplore!
THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ?
-Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.
-Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more !-What wealth untold Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.
-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again!
Yet more, the depths have more!-Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
-Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay!
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
-Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave-
Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown;
-Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee,
-Restore the dead, thou Sea!
LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.
ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life embue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death?
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent?
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?
Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy!
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim?
Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again, as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of paradise,
And years, so fate hath ordered, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY, MAY 14.
THOUGH Genius in his day of pride
Move gaily with the favouring tide,
Yet wreck and death are near;
Or if his bark outlive the gale,
With anchor lost and shiver'd sail,
He finds a haven-here.
Here, may the eye of Anguish turn,
Where Mercy's beacons brightly burn,
Through Sorrow's stormy night;
While billows that ingulph the soul
Flash the pure radiance as they roll,
And sparkle in the light.
Here, gush the living springs that flow
In streams of peace to hearts of woe,
With silent, healing power;
Heaven's blessing aids your generous zeal,
Nor fails the cruise, nor wastes the meal,
In Famine's evil hour.
Blest is this Temple, pure these rites
And He, whom Mercy more delights
Than sacrifice, will see,
Well pleased, the noble and the good
Leagued in this holy brotherhood,
The Priests of Charity!
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
NIGHT is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose;
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is and truth that seems
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were Angels in their birth,
But perish'd young, like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours mis-spent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray :
Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away, So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death ;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease;
Think of Heaven's bliss and give the sign
To parting friends :-such death be mine.
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