MYSTERIOUS keeper of the key
That opes the gates of memory:
Oft in thy wildest, simplest strain,
We live o'er years of bliss again!
The sun-bright hopes of early youth;
Love-in its first deep hour of truth;
And dreams of life's delightful morn—
Are on thy seraph pinions borne.
To the enthusiast's heart thy tone
Breathes of the lost and lovely one;
And calls back moments, brief as dear,
When last 'twas wafted on his ear.
The exile listens to the song
Once heard his native bowers among;
And straightway on his visions rise
Home's sunny slopes, and cloudless skies.
The warrior, from the strife retired,
By Music's stirring strains inspired,
Turns him to deeds of glory done,
To dangers 'scaped, and laurels won.
Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears,
Spell of the dreams of vanish'd years!
Mysterious keeper of the key
That opes the gates of memory!
"Tis thine to bid sad hearts be gay,
Yet chase the smiles of mirth away;
Joy's sparkling eye in tears to steep,
Yet make the mourner cease to weep!
To gloom or sadness thou canst suit
The chords of thy delicious lute:
For every heart thou hast a tone,
Can make its pulses all thine own.
SONNET-DESPONDENCY.
CHARLOTTE SMITH.
SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers;
Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose:
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poësy!
So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,-
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come;
Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb;
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore
Where the pale spectre, Care, pursues no more.
OUR village has a pleasant look-
A happy look as ere was seen:
Right through the valley flows a brook,
Which winds in many a flowery nook,
And freshens all the green.
On either side, so clear and white,
A row of cottages you see;
And jessamine is cluster'd o'er
The humble trellis of each door,
Then left to clamber free,
And shake its blossoms far and wide
O'er all the white-wash'd cottage side.
As dying evening sinks away,
The old church-tower, erect and grey,
Catches far up the parting light,
And half grows holy to the sight.
VALE of the Cross, the shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,
For there are sainted shadows seen
That frequent haunt the dewy green;
In wandering winds the dirge is sung,
The convent bell by spirits rung,
And matin hymns and vesper prayer
Breathe softly on the tranquil air.
Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,
For peace has there her spotless throne,
And pleasure to the world unknown;
The murmur of the distant rills,
The sabbath silence of the hills,
And all the quiet God hath given
Without the golden gates of Heaven.
ON LEAVING SCHOOL.
WORDSWORTH.
DEAR native regions, I foretel
From what I feel at this farewel
That wheresoe'er my steps shall tend,
And wheresoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you:
Thus when the sun, prepar'd for rest,
Hath gain'd the precincts of the west,
Though his departing radiance fail
To illuminate the hollow vale,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.
ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows;
Come, shake your coat, and go with me;
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold;
My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold
And hail the source of cheerful day.
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill;
And, darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my staff, and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voice,
Shall we a cheerful note refuse,
When rising morn proclaims "rejoice?"
Now then we'll start; and thus I'll sing,
Our store, a trivial load to bear;
Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting,
I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The fresh breeze bears its sweets along ;
The lark but chides us while we stay;
Soon shall the vale repeat my song,
Go, brush before, away, away!
THE sky is blue, the sward is green,
The leaf upon the bough is seen;
The wind comes from the balmy west,
The little songster builds its nest;
The bee hums on from flower to flower,
Till twilight's dim and dusky hour;
The joyous year arrives-but when
Shall by-past times come back again?
I think on childhood's glowing years—
How soft, how bright the scene appears!
How calm, how cloudless, pass'd away
The long, long summer holiday!
may not muse-I must not dreamToo beautiful these visions seem For earth and mortal man; but when Shall by-past times come back again ? I think on sunny eves so soft, Too deeply felt, enjoy'd too oft, When through the balmy fields I roved With her, the earliest, dearest loved; Around whose form I yet survey, In thought, the bright celestial ray, To present scenes denied; and when Will by-past times come back again? Alas! the world, at distance seen, Appear'd all blissful and serene, An Eden, form'd to tempt the foot, With crystal streams and golden fruit; That world, when tried and trod, is found A rocky waste, a thorny ground! We then revert to youth; but when Shall by-past times come back again?
THEY sin who tell us love can die;
With life, all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the walls of hell;
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