So we, when drooping age shall come,
And point us to the welcome tomb,
Shall pause, as memory's fading rays
Illume the scenes of former days,
And trace each line of beauty there,
In distance shrouded soft and fair.
Within these circling wreaths of green,
Which sweetly hang in nature's sheen,
Where beauty's lily hands entwine
A dearer wreath than laurelled vine,
Full many a heart is beating high,
To meet the look of some bright eye,
Whose thrilling look defies control, -
Fair Friendship's very life and soul.
These scenes the heart can ne'er forget,
No! treasured in its chambers yet,
They'll live, when youth and manhood's day
Have sunk in weary age away!
As traveller, wandering in some foreign clime, 'Mid crumbling piles that mark the track of time, Or gazing on some ruined edifice,
Which basked in olden time in smiles of peace,
Views but its grandeur, all its beauty gone,—
And stands o'erawed before the sculptured stone,
The memory of departed joys still lives,
Mellowed by thoughts which retrospection gives;
Its brighter hues have faded long away,
But left the softer tinge of youthful day.
Yet there are joys awaiting us above,
The happy fruits of that devoted love,
Which bloomed awhile below! There Friendship lives,
Blest with each balmy breath that Heaven gives,
A goodly plant, that droops in mortal climes,
To bloom the fairer yet in happier times!
A PARAPHRASE OF HABAKKUK 111. 17, 18. *
ALTHOUGH the fig-tree shall not bloom,
Nor give to Heaven its sweet perfume ;
Although the vine no fruit shall bear,
Nor purple grape hang clustering there;
Although the tender flock must go,
And grazing herds all perish too;
Yet I will glory in the LORD,
Who does these kindly gifts afford,
And humbly kiss thy chastening rod,
My gracious Master and my GOD!
* Written, probably, at sixteen.
MAN WAS NOT MADE TO MOURN.
"Man was made to mourn."-H. K, WHite.
OH! tell me why man 's made to mourn,
As on the stream of life he 's borne ;
Why years unnumbered still pass on,
Leaving no wreck of what has gone!
The flower may fade, its leaves may fall,
Reviving Nature quickens all;
man was made to mourn !
Should trembling kings bow to his will,
Or India's wealth his coffers fill,
Death's cruel hand the gift will grasp,
Him earth will to her bosom clasp ;
The poor, the rich, there soon must lie,
Where ne'er is heard or groan or sigh,
For "man was made to mourn.
Affection's ties his soul may bind,
Love's dearest hopes his heart may find,
Nothing is certain, nothing sure,
Nothing can here be called secure ;
The withered cheek, the sunken eye,
Remind us that we all must die,
Since "man was made to mourn ""
When, in some distant barbarous land,
Beyond the reach of Christian hand,
He soars on fancy's airy wing,
Above the power of bolt or ring,
Reality soon heaves in sight,
Its ghastly horrors come to light;
Sure"
man was made to mourn !
But there's a strait and narrow way,
That leads to Heaven's eternal day!
Then floods may beat, the earth may quake,
Creation to its centre shake;
Still we've a hope that 's always proved
Eternal, lasting, and unmoved!
Is man, then, "made to mourn "?
PROUD Hudson! on thy deep, thy shadowed stream,
Ten thousand beauties in their stillness lie,
Ten thousand glories on thy waters gleam,
Ten thousand scenes encircle thee, that vie
With aught that earth can boast ;- and it is thy Prerogative, and thine alone, to lave
The goodliest land beneath this western sky,To send in grandeur on thy proudly crested wave, Bearing the wealth and power of those whom earth calls brave !
Fair Hudson! 't is for this we love thy name, 'Tis this that makes thy children love thee more! Till now, thou still hast been the unchanging same! Those woods of green, that gently sloping shore, The mists, that climb thy mountain banks, and soar To heaven that gave them, the light barks that go On with their errands, where, in time before, Untrodden cliffs and forests listened to the flow Of rippling waters from their rocky beds below!
These are the same, and these are all thine own, The beauteous same they were in days gone by!
Thy cliff-built banks are changed, — but thou alone
Bearest no change upon thy joyous face!
But thou art young,- - and fancy's eye can trace
* Written near West Point, probably at the age of sixteen.
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