Her accents might beguile

Despair; her look, her smile,

On all around delicious influence sheds.

By her belov'd, new-born

Am I to bliss; the morn

More sweet appears, more blue th' expanse above; More mild the passing gale,

More verdant seems the vale;

And all is gladness, harmony, and love.

Now, to my unfilm'd sight,

O Sun, thy golden light,

From which I wont with loathing to retire,
Once more I feel is dear,

Once more my breast can cheer,

And ardent hopes and thoughts sublime inspire.

O Moon, more fair meseems
Thou art, than when thy beams

Saw me retreat, in solitude to pine;
And ye, aye-burning stars,

That guide your emerald cars

'Mid boundless space, with nobler lustre shine.

Now, joyous as I rove,

Each cool and whisp❜ring grove, Not less to Bliss than to pale Passion dear, Shall bid its feather'd throng

Awake a sprightlier song,

And pour delight upon my tranced ear.

Nor thou, my Lyre, that oft,

In numbers sweetly-soft,

Hast plain'd the story of thy master's woes,

Now, while his heart beats high
With ecstasy, shall lie

Unstrung, and sunk in indolent repose:

Now, from thy vocal wires,

While Love, while Beauty fires,
And rosy-pinion'd Pleasure hovers round,
No strains of mournful fall
My rapid hand shall call,

But bid thy boldest harmonies resound.

Yes, glowing be the song!

Such raptures well belong

To him who sings the blest Ianthe's praise.

And lo! more mildly bright

Than Vesper's beamy light,

She comes, the queen, the glory of my lays!

She comes! ye Zephyrs bland,
Your purple plumes expand;

Ye blooming flow'rs, your balmy breath diffuse; Ye birds, with warbled air,

Salute the peerless fair,

Sacred to Love, to Beauty, and the Muse.

MELANCHOLY.

MOIR.

THE Sun of the morning
Unclouded and bright,
The landscape adorning
With lustre and light,
To glory and gladness

New bliss may impart ;
But, oh! give to sadness
And softness of heart,

A moment to ponder, a season to grieve
The light of the moon, or the shadows of eve !

Then soothing reflections
Arise in the mind,
And sweet recollections

Of friends who were kind;
Of love that was tender,
And yet could decay;
Of visions whose splendor
Time wither'd away;

Of all that for brightness and beauty may seem
The painting of fancy-the work of a dream!

The soft cloud of whiteness,

The stars beaming through,
The pure moon of brightness,
The sky of deep blue;
The rush of the river

Through vales that are still,
The breezes that ever

Sigh lone o'er the hill

Are sounds that can soften, and sighs that impart A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the heart!

THE EVENING SUN.

FEIST.

'Tis the last sweet smile of the evening sun:
How bright! how sublime its beaming!
What golden tides of splendor steep
The rosy clouds as they softly sleep

Beneath its holy gleaming!

'Tis the light of innocent thoughts, whose ray An infant's slumber blesses;

When, weary of paying smile for smile,
Its blue eyes close, and it dreams the while
Of the breast it fondly presses.

The breezy spirits of air float past

With calm and noiseless motion;

Not a zephyr is dimpling the glassy lakeEv'n the aspen hath still'd its tremulous shake, At Nature's high devotion.

As I loiter along my homeward path,
What feelings of deep regret

That last sweet smile of the evening sun
A wakes in my heart-for it speaks of one
Whose sun in the grave hath set!

His farewell look, with Christian hope,
Shone as purely, calmly bright!

Alas! when it vanish'd, the night came down,
And my poor lorn heart no more might own
A Father's guiding light!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

ANONYMOUS.

SOON shall I lay my head
Where weary pilgrims sleep,
And slumber in that silent bed
Where woe forgets to weep.

From hearts with anguish torn
There pain shall flee away;
N

For death is but the cloudy morn
Of an effulgent day.

When slumb'ring in the tomb,
In dreamless, deep repose,

The wild flowers o'er my grave that bloom,
Shall vernal sweets disclose.

The sun's first morning beam
Upon my sod will rest;
And ere he set, his latest gleam
Will linger o'er my breast.

Perchance, at close of eve,

Some friend may hover near, And shed upon my peaceful grave One bright unbidden tear.

Adieu, my humble lyre!

Thy strains no more can please; No more can quench affliction's fire, Or give my bosom ease.

My soul shall soon be free,

And, loos'd from mortal chains,

Shall launch on that unbounded sea,

Where peace for ever reigns.

There is a glorious rest

For weeping mortals given;

And when they sink on earth's cold breast,

They find that rest in heaven!