EDINBURGH PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, PAUL'S WORK.

ALP-HORN SONG (from the German of Teck)

109

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE

SAME

118

TO THE SAME, ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER

THE SCEPTIC.

"Leur raison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne présente à leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mystères incompréhensibles, us suivent l'une après l'autre d'incompréhensibles erreurs."

BOSSUET, Oraisons Funébres.

WHEN the young Eagle, with exulting eye,
Has learn'd to dare the splendour of the sky,
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source;
Will his free wing, from that majestic height,
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light,
Which, far below, with evanescent fire,
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire?

No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day!

-And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam

Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam,

VOL. III.

A

Luring the wanderer, from the star of faith,

To the deep valley of the shades of death?
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given,
For the high birthright of its hope in Heaven?
If lost the gem which empires could not buy,
What yet remains?—a dark eternity!

Is earth still Eden ?-might a Seraph guest,
Still 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest?
Is all so cloudless and so calm below,

We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,
Rejects the promise of a brighter state,
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace,
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base?

Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! 'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice!

But life hath sterner tasks; e'en youth's brief hours

Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;

The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling-Man!