THE FORCE OF NATURE. 'Twas on a cliff whose rocky base Baffled the briny wave: Whose cultur'd heights their verdant store, A mother led by rustic cares, With what delight the mother glow'd How oft would pause amid her toil, Yet soon by other cares estrang'd, Cropp'd was each flower that caught his eye, 'Twas now the mother from her toil, She saw him on the cliff's rude brink He turn'd and to his mother smil❜d, Sunk was her voice, 'twas vain to fly; O, Nature, it was thine alone To prompt the means to save! She tore the 'kerchief from her breast, And left her bosom bare: He saw-delighted, left the brink, And sought to banquet there. WHERE AS DEWY TWILIGHT LINGERS WHERE as dewy twilight lingers, While the rapid swallows flying, Where soft gales from beds of flowers ERE AROUND THE HUGE OAK. ERE around the huge oak, that o'ershadows yon mill, Ere the church was a ruin that nods on the hill, Could I trace back the time, of a far distant date, And the farm I now hold on your honor's estate, He, dying, bequeath'd to his son a good name, For my child I've preserv'd it, unblemish'd with shame, And it still from a spot shall go free. wwwww.www. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty like the night And on that cheek and o'er that brow A mind at peace with all below, IT IS NOT THE TEAR. It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him; That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's fled, Or how deep in our heart we deplore him; 'Tis the tear through many a long day wept, Through a life by his loss all shaded, 'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept, When all other griefs are faded. and his memory's light, Oh! thus shall we mourn, While it shines thro' our hearts,will improve them; For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright, When we think how he liv'd but to love them. And as buried saints the grave perfume, Where fadeless they've long been lying; So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom, From the image he left there in dying. AH! WHY DID I GATHER. AH! why did I gather this delicate flower, "Tis thus that chill rancor too often o'erpowers When eagerly pressing enjoyment too near, How oft thus we mourn with a penitent tear, AWAKE THE HARP'S SLUMBER. AWAKE the harp's slumber to pleasure's soft lay, NATIVE LAND. THEY bore him from his barren shore, From leafless wastes and icefields hoar, They ask'd him but to leave his tribe, 'They showed him sunny islands spread! Where orange groves hung overhead, What car'd he for their trees and flowers? "Twas not his native land! On through the waters flew the bark, He would have been more glad to mark And many a blithe and joyous sound Came from the crowded strand; But coldly glanc'd his eye around,- Strangers were kind to him, and tried,' But all their efforts he defied His bosom knew no rest. He saw a mother fondly kiss The infant in her hand, And anguish wrung his heart, for his Was in his native land. |