WHEN gentle pity moves the breast, And claims for others' woes the sigh, Or mild commiseration leads
To kinder deeds of charity,
Or the quick, feeling heart laments
The woes of those it holds most dear,
How graceful on the cheek is seen,
The pure and sympathetic tear.
Or when the page of life is dark,
And fled is every earthly trust,
When no kind comforter is near,
And the sad soul is in the dust,
Or when the bursting heart laments
O'er lost affection's silent bier;
At once to mark and sooth the grief
There flows the sorrow-starting tear.
There is indeed a grief that scorns
The channel of a watery eye,
But then it breaks the thread of life,
Or heats the brain to agony.
And Oh! preserve the friends I love,
From feeling such a pang severe,
And give them in their hour of woe
The secret solace of a tear.
Among the boasted joys of youth,
Fair friendship's form has met my view, And fondly I retun'd her smile,
And still believ'd her promise true : Yet I have felt, but ask me not,
What thus has chang'd my prospect drear, And what has taught me so to prize The treasure of a silent tear.
LIFE is like a painted dream,
Like the rapid summer stream,
Like the flashing meteor's ray,
Like the shortest winter's day,
Like the fitful breeze that sighs,
Like the wavering flame that dies,
Darting-dazzling on the eye,
Fading in Eternity.
REFLECTIONS ON THE MORNING OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR INDEPENDENCE, JULY 4, 1814.
HENCE-ye rude sounds, that wake me from my sleep,
And fright away my dreams, peaceful and pure.
I shudder at the cannon's deafning roar,
The martial echo, and the shout of joy
Where joy is not. For say-can joy be there
Where honour and the blissful time of peace
Are parted names? And you, ye peaceful bells,
That call the meek soul to the house of prayer,
Why with your hallow'd voices will ye swell
This morning tumult? Oh, that ye would leave
Me to my slumbers; better 'twere to dream
Of weariness and woe, to scale the cliff
Snow crown'd and dizzy, see the foe approach,
And when you spring to motion find the limbs
Stiff and the tongue enchain'd; or dare the flood
Upon some broken bridge-Ah! better far
To suffer for an hour, and rise in peace,
Than to muse waking on disastrous war
And glory lost. To wake, alas, and think
That honour once was ours, and find it not,
Is but to wake to pain To see the wounds
Our bleeding country bears, and then to find
No balm in Gilead-no physician there,
Is more than torture. Hence! away, ye sounds
Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh,
Your melody discordant; for the heart
Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much,
Look to the heights of Queenston; see the plains
Where bleach the bones of valour; hear the voice
Of treachery false-hearted; hear the tones
Of jarring counsels; hear the widow's wail!
Look where the troubled skies are red, with light
Of flaming villages and meteors wild
Glare o'er the darken'd concave !
That from their cold and humid beds arise?
The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled,
When war was righteous, and they slept in peace.
Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits,
And hollow voices on the midnight blast
Tell of disgrace and death. But do you say
These are the visions of a fearful mind?
And you are still for war? Then sound the charge,
Urge on the combat-bid the battle rage-
The victim bleed-the lonely orphan mourn.
If deeds like these delight you, take your fill,
And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain.
Since war you love, then arm you for the fight,
Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw
A stronger fence around the endanger'd home
Of those you love. And since for war you call,
Prepare for war; and train your infant sons
To deeds of daring; let no voice of peace
Or mercy reach them, lest it enervate
Souls given to war; but let the tale of blood
Sooth them to slumber, and the trumpet's clang
Break up their cradle dream. Since war you will,
Then arm you for the deeds and woes of war;
Stand firm and stedfast; for your Country looks
That those who urge her on so mad a course,
Should not desert her in her day of need.
But let the Christian place a stronger trust
In Him the God of Might, who sits serene
Ruling the tumults of this jarring world,
And marking for himself the righteous soul,
Who, whether prison'd in a cell of pain,
Or driven to fields of blood, or tost on waves
Dark and tempestuous, at length shall rise
With rapture to that calm and pure abode,
Where war, and woe, and error cannot come.
|