« PreviousContinue »
In turn receive to silent rest,
The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all their wonted state,
And stand before the gate ;
And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,
Shine gaily o'er their heads :
BY THE REV. CHARLES HOYLE.
Sweet paradise beneath the mountains rude,
DAVID'S LAMENT OVER HIS CHILD.
BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.
Farewell! sweet pledge of guilty love,
And speed thy flight to realms of bliss,An angel, formed for worlds above,
Thou couldst not bear the storms of this!
I bend me to my Father's will ;
To hold thee here a captive still!
I, who the nuptial couch defiled, And bade a guiltless husband bleed,
Must suffer in my guiltless child. Now know I why my love hath twined
A bond so close around my heart,'T was, that by suffering I might find
The strength of that I tore apart.
I did but watch thine
To mourn it withering in decay.
Within my breast,—I prayed for thee;
And even my prayers were agony ! Yet well it were that thou shouldst die,
All young and beauteous as thou wert; That stroke dissolved the only tie
That bound to guilt's brief joys my heart. For, by the anguish thou hast felt,
And by the pangs I felt and feel, The' obdurate soul was taught to melt,
Which lawless love had seemed to steel.
The prophet's voice pronounced thy doom,
'T was mine to own the sentence just;
To watch thee sinking to the tomb,
Yet, bend submissive in the dust.
Within a father's breast, to know
Which laid his spotless offspring low!
I sinned, and thou hast suffered. Thou!
Have not I suffered? When the dew
Was not mine cold with anguish too?
Was not a flame within my breast,
Had seemed a respite and a rest?
But now 'tis past :-I may not mourn,
For thou, beloved babe, art free;
Though thou canst ne'er return to me.
My sorrows healed, my sins forgiven,
My welcome, at the gates of Heaven!
TO T. MOORE, ESQ. ON THE BIRTH OF
HIS THIRD DAUGHTER.
BY THOMAS ATKINSON, ESQ.
I'm sorry, dear Moore, there is a damp on your joy,
Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,
For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.
By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
Your wife shall be circled at home with the Graces !
BY THE REV. T. DALE.
The cold hand of death presses harshly upon me,
The last fearful conflict draws rapidly nigh ;
I wish not to live, while I tremble to die.
I write to upbraid thee in bitterness wild ;
Thy latent remorse for my innocent child.
I once had a father, whose fond heart delighted
To cherish, indulgent, the child of his love ;Ah! how was that partial indulgence requited!
How weak did the thought of that tenderness prove!
His heart may relent, ere my rest shall arrive;
Where God stoops to pardon, there man must forgive.
I once had a mother-I mean not to wound thee,
Though conscience must startle appalled at her name; Thou know'st with what virtue her confidence crowned thee,
How she sank in despair at the breath of my shame.
Her bosom was still firm and tender to me;
Spoke peace to her daughter, and pardon to thee!
And soon shall I follow, where anguish and weeping
To silence are hushed in the rest of the tomb; But the babe at my bosom unconsciously sleeping
He shared not my guilt-must he share in my doom?
I charge thee in death, by each once-cherished token
Of love,-—by the young days when innocence smiled ; By the woes thou hast wrought, — by the hearts thou hast
By the God who shall judge thee-watch over my child ! Literary Souvenir.
THE BRIDAL DIRGE.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
The bride is dead! The bride is dead!
Cold and frail, and fair she lieth :
And the breeze above her sigheth,
Once,— but what can that avail,
Once, she wore within her bosom,
her cheek a blossom,
Mourn! the sweetest bride is dead,
And her knight is sick with sorrow,
He may kiss his love to-morrow.
“ Fled away !- Fled away!"