Awed and awaked, we hold our breath,
And nurse a dread like that of death!
This not the hour in which the art
Of Song glides dream-like to the heart.
This not the hour when Satire's sage,
And tranquil scorn arrests the age;
Men pluck no flowers on Danger's brink,
Nor-ripe for action-pause to think.
Ev'n now a shame that in this rhyme
My soul hath dallied with the time,
Steals o'er me:-and methinks I greet,
Not mourn-the silence it will meet.
Yet in a calm, nor boding day,
Thou first wast breathed to life, my lay!
And Beauty smiled upon thy birth,
And Learning's lips foretold thee---worth;
And all that seemed thy course to' oppose
Thy failings and thy father's foes.
But brave thy doom as I have braved,
When prudence failed, but daring saved;
Thou canst but bear what I have borne,
Till Time hath conquered even Scorn;
The foeman's hate, the friend's neglect,
And Hope, the bankrupt's, galleys wreck'd
But still the heart" bears up and steers
Right onward," thro' life's solemn sea;-
Perchance, my lay, the future years
Thy recompense and mine be.