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112 ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TASSO. And Winter deepens with its stormy din The quiet charm of the bright hearth within.
If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view,
I sought to give thy foreign chords à tongue, Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew,
When on thy cypress bough again thou’rt hung; But sometimes whisper of me to the few
I love, the fond, the faithful and the young, And those who reverence the wrong'd soul that
plann'd Thy world of sound with archangelic hand. Hear how the strings, dear Ida, sound abroad
The grief and glory of that matchless mind ! What ardour glows in each seraphic chord;
How deep a passion Echo leaves behind ! Yet was he wretched whom all tongues applaud,For
peace he panted, for affection pined: Be thou, whilst thy mild eyes with pity swim, More kind to me than AURA was to him;
Else shall I little prize the' indulgent praise
Which some may lavish on a task so long; Else shall I mourn, that e'er my early days
Were given to feeling, solitude, and song; But thee no light capricious fancy sways, To doubt thy truth would be the heavens to
wrong ; Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell ! And thou, Hesperian Harp, farewell, farewell!
BY D. M. MOIR.
'Tis night, and in darkness ;-the visions of youth
Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind ; The hopes that excited have perish'd ;-and truth
Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind, 'Tis midnight;—and wide o'er the regions of riot
Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose ; And man soothed from revel and lull'd
into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven,
Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,
To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest ;
A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals: But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest
The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust;
Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust;
The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,
?Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold : Yes,—the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish
That the heart may be widow'd before it be old ! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,
Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to depart; But oh! Disappointment has poison and power
To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart!.. How oft ’neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice
Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice,
Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed!
114 Let the storms of adversity lour,—tis in vain, Though friends should forsake me and foes should
condemn; These may kindle the breasts of the weak to com
plain They only can teach resignation to mine: For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming,
The spirit beholds a less perishing span; And bright through the tempest the rainbow is
streaming, The sign of forgiveness from Maker to Man?
SEASONS FOR LOVING.
BY W. C. BRYANT.
Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Press the tenderest reasons ?
To the careless wooer;
Would that men's were truer !
Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
Early flowers are springing :
All with blossoms laden,
Woo the timid maiden.
Woo her, when, with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking; When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking ; When, through boughs that knit the bower,
Moonlight gleams are stealing; Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wakes a gentler feeling.
Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain; When the dropping foliage lies,
In the half-choked fountain ;
Youth is passing over,
To secure her lover.
Woo her when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;
Blaze the faggots brightly;
Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.
BY MISS LANDON.
She was one
She leant upon her harp, and thousands look'd