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And though we've broken all Heaven's laws,
If we in pure repentance bow Before the Throne,-He'll plead our cause,
He knows our nature's weakness now. Then, sinner, to that Saviour turn;
Our watchful Guardian never sleeps : The contrite heart he will not spurn,
And when the lost one dies, He weeps.
The Flower of Memory.
How sweetly blue this little flower,
Emblem of all to Friendship dear! How modest in a bloom-girt bower! Yet still it deigns to breathe its power
Even in this breast;- yes, fondly here It blows through many a weary hour.
May memory never leave a blot
Upon thy bosom in its bloom,
Or ere with thee it find a tomb,
Were mine a home in some fairy isle,
Give me the love-look of her sunbright eye,
Prose and Poesy.
Ut pictura poesis sit.-Horace.
What is a Poem ?« Language too sublime
For rampant prose, and measured out in feet, Where wit and beauty beat an equal time,
In soft ideas, intonations sweet. What is a Rhyme? This hath been often asked.
A sentiment made up of jingling ends, With which the French gallants were often tasked,
To show their genius to their ladies' friends.
Psha! this is th' acceptation of a fool!
No sane man, that had seen the world, would say That words were verse, when meted by a rule,
Though such is quite “the order of the day.” Such were my musings, when I dreamed a dream: An old man stood beside me,
-on his head White hairs were shining with a silver gleam,
Who thus, in tones of music, calmly said !
Thro' many years to pass a toilsome round
Of weary travel in a foreign land-
Who meets thro' all his way no outstretch'd hand; With sorrow arm-in-arm to tread that path,
'Mid countless trials, misery, and strife,
Nor feel appeased stern fate's impending wrath,
Oh, is not this the Prose of human life?
And when, in dull monotony, a round
Of haps, without a pain, a woe, a care, Encircle him by business closely bound,
No early pang thus whitening his dark hair, Or when in solitude, 'neath storm and shine, There wends his way, with feelings calm and
terse, The mild recluse, whose visions are divine,
What is that but society's Blank Verse ?
But in a springtide of requited love,
Mid wealth, and honour, and renown, to live One's life's best days—without a foe to move
In all the joys a peaceful mind can give :This is the brightest gift of Heaven to man,
The choicest scene that he on earth can view, 'Tis music, measured by life's fairest span,
With all its green unclouded beauties too.
Grief, then, and its attendant ills, are all
The essays, tales, and histories of PROSE; While life, without its joys doth dimly fall,
And o'er the page its Blank Verse darkly throws. But mutual love and friendship,-bliss supreme !
Deckt out in flowers of sweetest melody, Is here and there an “oasis," -a theme
Fit only to be called Life's PoESY.
To Mr. Guy Leslie,
Farewell !—'tis often pray'd ;- that word, Alas, is easy
said ; It comes without the heart's accord,
When feeling too is dead.
Was to another given,
Is such in sight of Heaven.
For we, when merry boys, have strayed
Together o'er the hills,
To bathe in chrystal rills';
Knelt the same couch beside Then circled in each other's arms,
Have slumbered side by side.
Manhood has come with all its cares,
And brought its lot to each ; Mine is amid a city's snares,
And thine—thou ne'er may'st reach. Hope we the best ;-on foreign soil
Thy portion's in the woods, А weary life of ceaseless toil,
'Mongst savages and floods.