THE RESURRECTION. THE setting orb of night her level ray The SAVIOUR of the World walked, and stood Before the sepulchre, and viewed the clouds Grahame. DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Beneath thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation in her cell, Hears, with faint eye, the ling'ring knell That tells her hopes are dead d; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd; To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun, a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discust) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. DISAPPOINTMENT. Oh, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most belov'd on earth, Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. Then since this world is vain And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill, With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come ! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race is run, I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done. Kirke White. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. SWEET-SCENTED flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, And sweet the strain shall be and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. Kirke White. HAIL, Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest! The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest Pale thought no more. O'er Trade's contentious hell But when thou com'st, less silent are the fields, Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed townsman steals; To him the very air a banquet yields. Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels |