And all was so still, and so fragrant around, That the fragrance did seem from the stillness to creep; It seem'd as if Nature repos'd on the ground, And the odour that rose was the breath of her sleep. The nightingale singing within her green cell, Made the woods sweetly mourn with the strains of her ditty; O, her notes sobb'd so true, 'twas like Grief when she tells All the woes of her heart to the listening of Pity. Nought was heard, when she paus'd, but the sound of the rill, With its little lone music so silvery and meek, And the sweet lisping fall 'mid the landscape so still, Seem'd as first infant essays of Silence to speak. The moon, slowly rising behind the tall trees, pine 'Twas the calm lamp of silence-the leaves felt no breeze; And the world at that moment seem'd form'd but to shine. All sooth'd and subdued in the midst of the scene, God of Nature! I cried, here Religion may kneel This temple thou fillest!-majestic, sereneOn this turf let me worship!-the Godhead I feel. THIS IS NOT LOVE. ANONYMOUS. You ask me why unseen I stray, Why far my wandering path extends, From mirth, and books, and home, and friends; Far from the vulgar ken I fly, To muse on Her averted eye; I turn from friends, to think how she One sign of Love. ; It is not love to chill and glow "Tis Love to loosen Rapture's rein, Still fail, and still the course pursue, Mine is not Love: this breast hath bled As weeds o'ershade the desert stone. VERSES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE. ANONYMOUS. I LOVE to linger near the leafless wood, And heaving wild yon mountain's robe of snow. From the drear scene recedes the evening star, And hides her fair head in the concave high, As if she fear'd, 'mid crashing Nature's war, The threaten'd ruin of her shaking sky. To yonder tower that frowns upon the steep, Oft does the trav'ller view the charmed beam While the lone owl awakes his saddening scream From the dark foliage of the haunted yew. And on the brow of yonder cliff sublime, For oft, when darkness shrouds the light of heaven, And slumbers the pale moon on midnight's breast, On these wild rocks the tide-worn barks are driven, And mangled forms sweep o'er the watery waste. Angels of peace! at this tremendous hour, When louder still the swelling waters rave, From worlds more blest, one ray celestial pour, To guide the sailor o'er th' unfathom'd wave. Disarm the pallid spectre-train of Death, That ride the dark wings of the howling storm, And bind the wild winds, whose blood-freezing breath Blasts faded Nature's cold convulsing form. THE NOVEMBER GARDEN. ANONYMOUS. IN Spring I visited this spot; A thousand herbs and flowers were blooming, And eglantine o'erhung this grot, Mild April's balmy breeze perfuming: The primrose open'd to the sun; To smile beneath the yellow lilies. I came in Summer;-shrub and flower, Absorb'd in silent meditation, The bee was gathering liquid sweet Again I come to view the scene, Whose summer hues I well remember:'Tis stripp'd of pride, 'tis shorn of green, Beneath the rude sway of November! The melody of song is mute, Except the red-breast's lonely singing; The trees have shed their leaves and fruit, And weeds in every walk are springing. The morn is cold; the sky is pale; The winds no more are silence keeping; Like childhood at a mournful tale, O'er vanish'd bloom the clouds are weeping. I look upon the lonely sky It wanes, as when a daughter's duty, Stay'd by a haughty father's eye, Opposes love, and withers beauty. All, all is chang'd, as the simoom Had pass'd with withering magic over! No trace of beauty or of bloom Can sense perceive, or eye discover; |