My best affection's ruin'd, dead,
No earthly power can now restore;
I bid thee one long, last farewell—
'Tis wisest, best to meet no more!
Enslaved, enchain'd, ice-bound thou art, O river!
Beneath thy crystal armour thou dost flow,
Trickling, rippling, rushing on forever,
At midnight hour as in the noon-day glow.
Thy restless spirit's rapid course is check'd
By cold impediment, and wintry blast;
Thy grassy margin with wild flowers is deck'd
When winter and its icicles are past;
But now thy raiment is so purely white,
We scarcely think of flowers or rosy fruit:
Our homes, our hearths with happiness are bright;
Tho' birds are hush'd, we scarcely know they're
There is a music sweeter than the birds-
The melody of kind and loving words.
WHITHER?
Whither art thou going
Through the wide deep sea?
Softest winds are blowing,
Every wave seems free:
Keep, thou gentle ocean,
Guard thy human freight,
Courage and devotion
Hang upon thy state.
Whither art thou going
Dread, yet glorious train?
Power and might thou'rt showing,
Fear seems worse than vain :
'Long the line thou'rt dashing,
Eagle-like, express,
Building up, yet crashing
In thy hot excess.
Whither are ye going,
Stream and rivulet?
On, and onward flowing
When the sun hath set :
O'er ye night's dark curtain,
Silence round about;
Still your footing's certain,
Tho' no star peeps out.
Whither are ye going,
Busy things of air?
Where sweet fruits are growing,
Go, go reap your share,
In climes bright and
Where there's genial breath :
Lands of oil and honey:
Here is certain death!
Whither art thou going,
Fancy, poesy's child?
Where young love is glowing,
Uncontroll'd and wild;
Or to scenes of pleasure,
Lighted hall or bower,
To dance a giddy measure,
There to try thy power.
Whither art thou going,
Busy, rapid thought?
Where research is showing
Many a myst'ry caught:
Worshippers of nature
Patiently unfold
Leaves of that fair creature
Wrought in iron, gold.
Whither art thou going,
Spirit of this life?
Where there is no knowing
Earthly storm and strife:
The enshrouded story
Clouded to our eyes,
Opens all its glory
Godlike, clear, and wise!
Nature's many lyres have tuneful notes,
I, adoring, kneel unto her feet;
Upon the air her charmèd music floats,
I listen to her songs and hymns all sweet.
I hear soft music in the silvery showers,
Falling on the opening leaves of spring;
A thousand fairies seen to haunt her bowers,
A rapturous chorus do those fairies sing.
Air minstrels, at the birth of early morn,
In love with nature and their happy mates,
Trill in fond excess a hymn new born,
A tuneful shower of love at heaven's gates. The sudden tumult of the waves and winds Makes crashing discords in the world of notes; The keen detective ear some music finds In the soft clashing of the golden oats.
And there is music in the falling rain;
Delicious music in the passing breeze; Wild, glorious music in the stormy main A solemn music in the calm deep seas.
And there is music in the human voice;
Harmonious numbers have a stirring charm;
A rapturous melody-when hearts rejoice,-
A wild sad cadence in the soul's alarm.
Our best affections have a gentle song :
Romance and love have their soft serenade;
A dismal dirge is mutter'd over wrong;
When mercy, in a robe of white array'd,
Opes to the sinner's gaze a world all bright,
Our earthly shadows gently disappear;
When such immerge from darkness into light
A song
of praise mounts up, all soft, all clear.
Oh! there is music in the laughing mirth Of happy infancy, and happy youth; Triumphant melody in solid worth,
A hymn of glory in mere simple truth.
The source of sorrow, often clouded, dim,
Without a murmur, oft without a word,
Sings resignation, its undying hymn,
The dumb petition of the soul is heard.
THE BELOVED.
Sweet as music is thy voice,
Welcome to mine ear as dear;
Love has lit up all my soul
With light intense and clear.
Radiant as an angel thou,
Tinging earth with hues of heaven;
Take with love my ardent vow,
And let me hope thine own is given.
Silvery streams reflect thy form,
Bright streams by rain-drops fed;
The very sunshine hath bestow'd
Its lustre on thy fair
Nature seems to breathe thy name,
The vital air doth seem to speak;
It fans thy fair young brow, and leaves
The blush of health on either cheek.
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