FOOTPATHS. THE poor man's walk they take away, Where now, unseen, the flowers are blowing, In solitude unbroken, Where rill and river glide, The lover's elm, itself a grove, How bless'd I oft sat there with Fanny, Were fairies at my side! O dew-dropp'd rose! O woodbine ! They close the bowery way, Where oft my father's father stray'd, And with the leaves and sunbeams play'd, Or, like the river by the wild wood, Ran with that river, in his childhood, The gayest child of May! Where little feet o'er bluebells, Pursued the sun-bless'd bee, No more the child-loved daisy hears The voice of childhood's hopes and fears; VOL. II. H Thrush! never more, by thy lone dwelling, The poor man's path they take away, Where day's eye lingers ere it closes! TO HOFLAND, THE ARTIST. Go, Bard and Painter! to the desert. Limn The mountain's soul, and bid that spirit stay. So shall thy canvas be a glowing hymn To God, in his great works; sung every day By every eye that sees it with the heart, While age-long years grow grey, and rock-built pomps depart. ON A HEARTLESS SLANDERER. "THE unco guid" should pray with tears, EPIGRAM. LIFE is short, and time is swift, А РОЕТ. CHILD of the Hopeless! two hearts broke When thou wast orphan'd here: They left a treasure in thy breast, The soul of Pity's tear. And thou must be-not what thou wilt ;- Nor poet of the rich be thou, Nor poet of the poor; Nor harper of the swarming town, Nor minstrel of the moor; But be the bard of all mankind, The prophet of all time, And tempt the saints in heav'n to steal Earth's truth-created rhyme. Be the Columbus of a world The Homer of a race of men Who need not sword and spear. God in thy heart, and God in them, If thou to men canst show, Thou makest mortals angels here, Their home a heav'n below. Upon a rock thou sett'st thy feet, And callest Death thy slave: "Here lies a man!" Eternity Shall write upon thy grave; "A Bard lies here!-O softly tread, Ye never-wearied years! And bless, O World, a memory Immortal as thy tears!" THE SINLESS CAIN. A BALLAD. WHAT is that flesh-bound spectre, Whose thoughts none understand? The sleeping mastiff heareth The shunn'd of every land. The spirit in his famish'd eyes, Seems bare to sun and sky; And insolence grows mad with pride, When that sad form comes nigh. In every clime and country There lives a man of pain, Whose nerves, like chords of lightning, Bring fire into his brain; To him a whisper is a wound, A look or sneer a blow; More pangs he feels in years or months Than dunce-throng'd ages know. Yet Pity speaks, like Hatred, Of him, where'er he goes; As if his soul were marble, Men polish it with woes. |