My sprightly neighbour, gone before When from thy cheerful eyes a ray VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And Time, with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. And Error, gilding worse designs, Like speckled snake that strays and shines Betrays his path by crooked lines. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book! 153 KIRKE WHITE THE HERB ROSEMARY. SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead ; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here! What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun, a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most belov'd on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. Then, since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With cautious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run; I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done! |