If heaven and earth with beauty fraught, Lead to His throne thy raptured thought; If there thou lovest His love to read; Then, wand'rer, thou art blest indeed!
THE LOST STAR.
A LIGHT is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful--and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night?-
No; few will miss its lovely face,
And none think heaven less bright!
What wert thou star of?-vanish'd one,
What mystery was thine?
Thy beauty from the east is gone:
What was thy sway and sign?
Wert thou the star of opening youth ?—
And is it then for thee,
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, So early cease to be?
Of hope-and was it to express
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,
In sign how it will fade?
How was thy dying? like the song,
In music to the last,
An echo flung the winds among,
And then forever past?
HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
Or didst thou sink as stars whose light
The fair moon renders vain?
The rest shone forth the next dark night,
Thou didst not shine again.
Didst thou fade gradual from the time
The first great curse was hurl'd,
Till lost in sorrow and in crime,
Star of our early world?
Forgotten and departed star!
A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,
Who then remembers thine?
Save when some mournful bard like me
Dreams over beauty gone,
And in the fate that waited thee,
Reads what will be his own.
HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
O WANDERER! Would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies :
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone,
Here nature's voice is heard alone :
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around,
Reverberate each awful sound
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.
But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Sooth'd by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint, low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?
Oh! pause awhile-the world disown,
And dwell with nature's self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul's departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o'er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal,
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.
My lonely chamber next the sea
Is full of many flowers set free
By summer's earliest duty;
Dear friends upon the garden-walk
Might stop amid their fondest talk,
To pull the least in beauty.
A thousand flowers-each seeming one
That learnt, by gazing on the sun,
To counterfeit his shining-
Within whose leaves the holy dew
That falls from heaven, hath won anew
A glory. . . in declining.
Red roses used to praises long,
Contented with the poet's song,
The nightingale's being over:
And lilies white, prepared to touch
The whitest thought, nor soil it much,
Of dreamer turned to lover.
Deep violets you liken to
The kindest eyes that look on you,
Without a thought disloyal:
And cactuses, a queen might don,
If weary of her golden crown,
And still appear as royal!
Panises for ladies all! I wis
That none who wear such brooches, miss
A jewel in the mirror :
And tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each
Its beauty's secret nearer.
Love's language may be talked with these!
To work out choicest sentences
No blossoms can be meeter,
And, such being used in Eastern bowers,
Young maids may wonder if the flowers
Or meanings be the sweeter.
And such being strewn before a bride,
Her little foot may turn aside,
Their longer bloom decreeing!
Unless some voices whispered sound
Should make her gaze upon the ground
Too earnestly-for seeing.
And such being scattered on a grave,
Whoever mourneth there may have
A type that seemeth worthy
Of a fair body hid below,
Which bloomed on earth a time ago,
Then perished as the earthy.
And such being wreathed for worldly feast,
Across the brimming cup some guest
Their rainbow colors viewing,
May feel them,-with a silent start,-
The covenant, his childish heart
With nature, made,-renewing.
No flowers our gardened England hath,
To match with these, in bloom and breath,
Which from the world are hiding
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