My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.
THE path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reached that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briars in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end.
But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his love designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go spend them in the vale of tears."
Oh balmy gales of soul reviving air,
Oh salutary streams that murmur there,
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love!
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate sin;
But ills of every shape and every name
Transformed to blessings miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
DOMESTIC happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise, that hast survived the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup; Thou art the nurse of virtue, in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is adored,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle frail support;
For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys, that her stormy raptures never yield.
THE lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream ;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrecoverable both when past,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart :
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound,
How laughs the land with various plenty crowned!
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.
The English Peasant.
The condition of the West Indian slave is much better and happier than that of the English peasantry.
THE land for me! the land for me!
Where every living soul is free!
Where winter may come, where storms may rave, But the tyrant dare not bring his slave.
I should hate to dwell in a summer land Where flowers spring up on every hand; Where the breeze is glad, the heavens are fair, But the taint of blood is everywhere.
I saw a peasant sit at his door,
When his weekly toil in the fields was o'er;
He sate on the bench his grandsires made,
He sate in his father's walnut shade.
"Twas the golden hour of an April morn;
Lightly the lark sprung from the corn;
The blossoming trees shone purely white,
Quivered the young leaves in the light.
The sabbath bells, with a holy glee,
Were ringing o'er woodland, heath, and lee:
Twas a season whose living influence ran
Through air, through earth, and the heart of man.
No feeble joy was that peasant's lot
As his children gambolled before his cot,
And archly mimicked the toils and cares
Which coming life shall make truly theirs.
But their mother, with breakfast call, anon
Came forth, and their merry masque was gone;—
'Twas a beautiful sight, as, meekly still,
They sate in their joy on the cottage sill.
The sire looked on them,―he looked to the skies:-
I saw how his heart spake in his eyes;
Lightly he rose, and lightly he trod,
To pour out his soul in the house of God.
And is that the man, thou vaunting knave!
Thou hast dared to compare with the weeping slave?
Away! find one slave in the world to cope
With him, in his heart, his home and hope!
He is not in the East, in his gorgeous halls,
Where the servile crowd before him falls,
Till the bow-string comes, in an hour of wrath,
And he vanishes from the tyrant's path,
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