ON THE DEATH OF MISS SOUTHEY.
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceivers trust,
A whirlwind from the desert comes-and all is in the dust!'
'Tis ever thus—'t is ever thus, that when the poor heart clings
With all its finest tendrils-with all its flexile rings,-
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast,
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.
'Tis ever thus 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss— With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this ;One moment round about us, their 'Angel lightnings** play, Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past away!
'T is ever thus 't is ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth-
Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth;
The golden shell is broken-the silver chord is mute—
The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute.
'Tis ever thus 't is ever thus, with all that 's best below— The dearest-noblest-loveliest-are always first to go;
The bird that sings the sweetest!—the pine that crowns the rock; The glory of the garden!—' the flower of the flock!'
'Tis ever thus 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair— Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt, more earthly natures bear; A little while they dwell with us-blest ministers of love— Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.
* Il lampeggiar del angelico rico.
THE God hath triumphed-what a sacrifice
To Love, the conqueror!-through the silent ways
Of the Eternal city, with dim eyes,
The citizens move mournfully, and raise
Looks of awed horror on each other's face;
And, as they pass, uplift their hands in grief,
For some inexpiable thing, the trace
Whereof left death-and words are few and brief;
And then they hasten, as they fain would shun
The view of some deep deed of evil, done
Against the heavens.-Hark! on the moaning air,
Floats a low murmur-now the listener's ear
Hath caught the sound, and now, in trembling fear,
He flies it, like the whisperings of Despair.—
And still it travels on, with solemn tread-
It comes, it comes, the sacrificial train,
Bearing Love's hallowed victim, not with strain
Of sweet-tongued instruments, and incense shed
From burning censers, but with eyes that rain
Showers of sad silent tears.-Lo! at the head,
Distinguished by the hoary crown which decks
His reverend brow, walks the great Pontifex;
Then follow the dark priests, a solemn throng,
With heads earth-bent and bare; and tremblingly,
Covered from every eye, they bear along
The sacrifice to Love's divinity.—
Last of the train, grief struck, and desolate,
Are seen the forms of those, whom the sweet ties
Of nature's love, and lovely sympathies,
Bind to the victim—yet no bursting sigh
Mars the dread pomp of sacrificial state.
Oh young and lovely! beautiful and warm, In life's fresh summer-shaped in the bright mould Of that divinity whose votary
Thou didst become, relinquishing the cold
Unlovely rites of Vesta's cell (which form
The heart to hardness), in the extremity
Of this thy mortal suffering, dost thou not,
Thy dreams of Love's delirium now forgot,
Dost thou not rue thy hallowed, broken vow?
And can the thought of him whose heart is thine,
Sweeten the pang of death, which even now
Creeps to thy soul? And wilt thou not repine,
And in thy heart's despair couple his name
With words of fear and anguish, when the thought
Of the unearthly ruin he hath wrought-
A living tomb, and yet a death of shame,
Famine and cold despair-comes over thee,
To crush thy spirit's strength? Will words of love,
Whose echoes now have ceased their melody,
Will they repay thee for thy muttered prayer,
And dark oracular sounds, which slowly move
From him who speaks thy sentence of despair?
Yes! passionate victim of the' all moving Power,—
Within the deep recesses of thy tomb
Love's torch shall light the dim and ghastly gloom;
And he sweet memories to thy soul shall bring,
Of long-lost hopes, and many a blissful hour
Of rapture—whence this mortal suffering!—
The sun hath fled, and it is night, deep night,
And silence o'er the earth's wide bounds is spread,
And darkness, awful as the deed of dread
Which the day saw, hath hid from human sight
The tomb which holds the living.-Hark! a low
Deep murmur rises mournfully below
Upon the night-wind!-Now the shade hath past
From the fair features of the moon, and lo!
She sheds her beams upon a figure, cast
In prostrate agony on the new-turned sod,
And he is muttering broken prayers to God,
For death to her, whose love had been his life.
For death, to close her spirit's lingering strife :-
And then deep madness o'er the mourner came-
With maniac force, he sought from out its bed
To tear the rock which closed the tomb, and claim
His victim-with that wrench his spirit fled.
My sweet little cherub, how calm thou 'rt reposing;
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven—
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying-
A spark of the other, thou art mounting and flying.
Farewell my sweet baby, too early we sever;
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never.
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe, in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.
Literary Souvenir.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
SPRING flowers, spring birds, spring breezes
Are felt, and heard, and seen;
Light trembling transport seizes
My heart, with sighs between;
These old enchantments fill the mind
With scenes and seasons left behind ;—
Childhood, its smiles and tears,—
Youth, with its flush of years,
Its morning clouds and dewy prime,
More exquisitely tinged by time!
Fancies again are springing,
Like May-flowers in the vales;
While hopes long lost, are singing,
From thorns, like nightingales;
And kindly spirits stir my blood,
Like vernal airs that curl the flood:
There falls to manhood's lot,
A joy which youth has not,
A dream more beautiful than truth,
Returning spring,-renewing youth!
Thus sweetly to surrender
The present for the past,
In sprightly mood yet tender,
Life's burthen down to cast,-
This is to taste, from stage to stage,
Youth, or the lees refined of age;
Like wine well kept and long,
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong;-
A richer, purer, mellower draught
With every annual cup is quaffed.
Literary Souvenir.
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