'Tis sweet, poor Boy! and yet 'tis pain, Though life and hope are fled, e'en now To cling with rapture, long and vain, Upon thy moistened cheek and brow; Until we fancy that a gleam Again hath lit that glazing eye, And call upon thy lips, and dream We hear those lifeless lips reply. Yet, while the words are on my tongue, I shrink from that to which I clung, And, while thy cold remains we lay I turn me from the frame's decay, To muse on that which knoweth none. Unhurt, undying, undecayed, Thy soul exists beyond the tomb! And, while I wander down the glade, Whose beauties now are wrapt in gloom, Thy spirit comes at evening's hour, And thus it says, or seems to say: "Lament not, though the cherished flower Hath bloomed and faded in a day; "And let not them that gave me birth, "The rays of Heaven around me shine,- Why should a moment's pang be theirs?" (1821.) SONNET. Ir when with thee I feel and speak What not with others I have felt and spoken, It is not for the beauty of thy cheek, Nor for thy forehead fair, Nor for the dark locks quietly sleeping there, Nor for thy words of kindness, Friendship's token; But rather, that I trace Passion and purity in that meaning face; A breathing part of that celestial Whole, (CAMBRIDGE, December, 1821.) AUSTRALASIA.* THE sun is high in heaven; a favouring breeze Fills the white sail, and sweeps the rippling seas, And the tall vessel walks her destined way, Of his babes' prattle, and their mother's smile, His is the roving step and humour dry, His the light laugh, and his the jocund eye; And his the feeling, which, in guilt or grief, Makes the sin venial, and the sorrow brief. But there are hearts, that merry deck below, Of darker error, and of deeper woe,— Children of wrath and wretchedness, who grieve Not for the country, but the crimes they leave,— *This poem obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, July, 1823. |