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But now methinks thy fervent love
Is changed to scorn severe;
Seem discord to thine ear.
When last thy gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,
prove a word so true!
Even loftier hopes than ours;
That ne'er can grow to flowers !
This is the loveliest scene in all the land ;
Around me far a green enchantment lies,
Fed by the weeping of these April skies, And touched by Fancy's fine, “all-charming wand.” Almost I expect to see a lightsome band
Come stealing through the hazel boughs, that cross
My path, or half asleep on bank of moss, Some Satyr, with stretched arm and clenched hand.
It is a place all beauty. There, half hid By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run The river waters swift to meet the sun;
And in the distance, in its boiling might, The fatal fall is seen, the thundering Strid;
And over all, the morning blue and bright!
TO THE MEMORY OF HOWARD,
BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.
Why, when the souls we loved are fled,
Plant we their turf with flowers,
In sunshine and in showers ?
In winter's blighting hours,
It is that we would thence create
Bright memory of the past;
Eternally to last.
The sweetnesses they cast;
Such, and so fair, in day's decline
The hues which Nature gives;
Her fair creation lives :
Dim radiance still survives;
Else, why when rifled stands the tower,
The column overthrown,
Crumbles the storying stone;
Why does she give her ivy-vine
If not to grant alone,
Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Of beauty in repose :
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres
Which hearse the thousand bones
Thy diadems and thrones !
And still Pelides owns,
They were the mighty of the world,
The demigods of earth;
And gave the battle birth;
The impress of their worth :
But thou, mild benefactor -- thou,
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven;
To tell that thou hast striven,
They live not in the sepulchre
In which thy dust is hid, Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple pyramid, Than Egypt's mightiest could commandA duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did Mourned that the cold turf should confine .A spirit kind and pure as thine !
They are existent in the clime
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
And seals his doom with blood;
The pestilent abode,
Thine was an empire o'er distress,
Thy triumphs of the mind!
The friend of human kind!
In glory shall be shrined !
I know not if there be a sense
More sweet, than to impart
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
Might grace an angel's heart;
Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,
Amid the general doom,
Where breathes the lone simoom;
Another — all is gloom;
But deadlier than the simoom burns
The fire of Pestilence;
The passing of events :
On people and on prince!
And to the beautiful and young
Thy latest cares were given;
The messages of heaven!
Like lily-flowers at even: