The eye no flow'ry vestige sees Of all the beauty that has been. With low'ring clouds the skies are spread; Rude Winter comes with mantle hoar, At times a bright, tho' powerless ray Through the dull clouds may intervene But soon, alas! it dies away, And leaves no trace of what has been. 'Tis thus life's fleeting splendour fades, Prosperity's gay summer sun His smile may throw the gloom between ; But soon, his race of glory run, We weep for bliss that once has been! Yet there's a steadfast hope for those That grieve-a hope which well may wean Their care-worn hearts from mortal woes, From bitter thoughts of what has been. That hope is Heav'n, which still supplies That oft have wept o'er what has been. ODE WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO THE LOGAN. 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! Ascending in the rear, Behold congenial Autumn comes, What time thy holy whispers breathe, O let me wander through the sounding woods! Ah! well-known streams! ah! wonted groves, O sacred scene of youthful loves, While sad I ponder on the past, The joys that must no longer last, The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier, The dying music of the grove, And the last elegies of love, Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear! Alas! the hospitable hall, Where youth and friendship play'd, Wide to the winds a ruin'd wall Projects a death-like shade! The charm is vanish'd from the vales; No more Arcadian mountains bloom, Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume, The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! Companions of the youthful scene, I stretch my arms :-ye vanish into air! My steps, when innocent and young, I mourn'd the linnet-lover's fate, Alas! Misfortune's cloud unkind The wrath of Nature smites our bowers, Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, And desolate before his time, In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! Relentless Power! whose fated stroke The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost! And everlasting longings for the lost? Yet not unwelcome waves the wood, Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed; They sadly sigh that Winter's near; The warning voice I hear behind, And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. Nor will I court Lethean streams, While nightly o'er the hallow'd hill And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn! WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. HON. W. R. SPENCER. WHEN the black-letter'd list to the Gods was presented, (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind Goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings, Wife, Children, and Friends. In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, For Justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For Earth becomes Heav'n with Wife, Children, and Friends. The Soldier whose deeds live immortal in story, Though valour still glows in life's waning embers, The death-wounded tar who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blest was his home with Wife, Children, and Friends. Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends, |