Yes!-I now fulfil the fiction
Of the swan that sings in death:-
Earth, receive my benediction!
Air, inhale my parting breath!
Hills and valleys, forest alleys,
Prompters of my muse's sallies;
Fields of green, and skies of blue,
Take, oh take my last adieu!
Yet, perhaps, when all is ended,
And the grave dissolves my frame,
The elements from which 'twas blended
May their several parts reclaim;
Waters flowing, breezes blowing,
Earth, and all upon it growing,
Still may have my altered essence
Ever floating in their presence.
While my disembodied spirit
May to fields Elysian soar,
And some lowest seat inherit
Near the mighty bards of yore;
Never, never to disssever,
But to dwell in bliss for ever,
Tuning an enthusiast lyre
To that high and laureled quire.
IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.
I MOURN not those who have already left
Life the sweet light of life-and life's pure breath :— But, oh, I mourn their state, of Hope bereft, Who, living, pine in hourly dread of death, And dying live;-and supplicate the gift
Of added years to deck their wintry wreath Of hoary honours ;-and when years are given,
Then pray for more-to make their peace with heaven!
'Tis her first grief!-The bird is dead. How many a mournful word was said! How many a tear was o'er it shed!
The anguish of the shock is past,
But Memory's thoughts those eyes o'ercast; As, like the violet gemmed with dew, Glitters through tears their lovely blue.
"Tis her first grief!-Motionless there
Is stretched the fondling of her care;
No longer may she hear his voice,
No longer in his sports rejoice;
And scarcely dare she lift her eyes,
To where her lifeless treasure lies.
But yesterday who could foresee
That such a change as this might be,
That she should call and he not hear,—
That bird who knew and loved her dear;
Who, when her finger touched his cage,
'Gainst it a mimic war would wage;
Who pecked the sweetmeat from her hand,
And on her ringlets took his stand !
As all these recollections rise,
Again does sorrow drown the eyes,
The little bosom swell with sighs
'Another bird!-No, never, never!
Empty shall be that cage for ever.'
"Tis her first grief!—And it will fade
Or ere the next sun sinks in shade.
Ah! happy age, when smile and tear
Alternate in the eyes appear;
When sleep can every care remove,
And morn's light wake to hope and love.
But Childhood flies like spring-time's hour,
And deepening shadows o'er youth lour!
Even thou, fair girl, must one day know
Of life the painfulness and woe,
The sadness that sleep cannot cure,
Griefs that through nights and days endure;
Those natural pangs to mortals given,
To wean us from this earth, and lead our thoughts to heaven. Literary Gazette.
WRITTEN IN THE WOODS OF BOLTON ABBEY.
THERE is no lovelier 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 great all charming wand,'
Almost I expect to see a lightsome band
Come stealing through the hazel boughs, and cross
My path-or half asleep upon the moss,
Some Satyr with stretched arm, and clenched hand.
It is a place of beauty!-Here, half hid
By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run
The river waters as to meet the sun;
And in the distance, boiling in its might,
The fatal fall is seen the thundering Strid ;—
And over all the morning blue and bright.
London Magazine.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,-
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some;
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead,
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by;
Saying, we're twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day!
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
In piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain, anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
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