MERCIFUL Spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander thro' this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin !-Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o'er me from my birth,
And who still walk'st unwearied by my side,
How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold. Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gaz'd and sighed,
And follow'd still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And tho' all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.
Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.
Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest.
How oft will fancy's wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen,
But ah! not e'en unfetter'd fancy's wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more.
WHENE'ER I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twin'd,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.
HAIL to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing:
Hail to thee! maiden with the bright blue eyes!
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;
Hail to thee! as thou ridest thro' the skies,
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.
How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs,
The livelong day dost chaunt that wondrous strain,
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee? who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note,
That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again Thro' the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start, And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain.
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