Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair,
Swept off, through the fathomless depths of air;
Who marketh their course to the tropicks bright?
Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight?
Who guideth that caravan's trackless way,
By the stars at night, and the cloud by day?
The Indian-fig with its arching screen,
Welcomes them in, to its vistas green,
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree,
Thrill at the burst of their revelry,
And the bulbul starts, 'mid his carol clear,
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear.
O wild-wood wanderers! how far away
From rural homes in our vales ye stray;
But when they are wak'd by the touch of Spring,
We shall see you again with your glancing wing,
Your nests 'mid our household trees to raise,
And stir our hearts in our Maker's praise.
As waves the grass upon the field to-day,
Which soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away,
As smiles the flowret in the morning dew,
Which eve's chill blast upon the winds may strew,
Thus, in brief glory boast the sons of clay,
Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay.
Dust tends to dust,-with ashes, ashes blend,
The senseless turf conceals the buried friend:
A few may sigh, upon the grave's dark brink,
A few salt tears, the broken soil may drink,
A few sad hearts in lonely sorrow bleed,
pay that tribute which they soon must need.
I saw the infant, in its robe of white,
Its doating mother's ever-dear delight,
It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by,
And natures gladness glisten'd in its eye:
Again I came ! An empty crib was there,
A little coffin, and a funeral prayer.
I saw the ruddy boy, of vigour bold,
Who fear'd nor summer's heat, nor winter's cold,
With dexterous heel he skimm'd the frozen pool,
His laugh rang loudest, 'mid his mates at school,
Again I sought him, but his name was found,
On the low stone that marks yon church-yard mound.
Oh! boasted joys of Earth! how swift ye fly,
Rent from the hand, or hidden from the eye:
So, through the web the weaver's shuttle glides,
So, speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides,
So cleaves the bird, the liquid fields of light,
And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight.
But we, frail beings, shrinking from the storm,
We love these skies, that gathering clouds deform,
Though wounded oft, as oft renew our toil,
To rear a fabric on this sand-swept soil,
And still we strive, forgetful of the grave,
To fix our anchor on the tossing wave.
Yet He, who marks us in our vain career,
Oft shows how frail is what we hold most dear,
Spreads o'er some face belov'd, the deathful gloom,
Or hides a parent in the lonely tomb,
Arrests the thoughtless, bids the worldling feel,
Wounds to admonish, and afflicts to heal.
Look to that world, where every pain shall cease,
Grief turn to joy, and labour end in peace,
Oh! seek that world, by penitence and prayer,
Sow the seed here, and reap the fruitage there,
Where shadowy joys no longer cheat the soul,
But one unclouded year, in changeless light shall roll.
O'er distant hill and valley-noting much
God's goodness in the riches of the land,
The summer fruitage, and the harvest hoard,
The reaper wrestling with the bearded wheat,
And the proud torrent's glory, when it shakes
The everlasting rock,-nor yet forgets
To sprinkle greenness on the loneliest flower
That trembles at its base.
Much, too, they spake
Of pleasure, 'neath the hospitable roofs
Of severed kindred-how the loving heart
From such communings learns to wipe away
The dust of household care, which sometimes hangs In clouds o'er the clear spirit.
The eloquent lip grew silent,—for they drew
Near that blest spot, which throws all other lights
Into strong shadow,-Home.
The bosom's pulse beat quicker,-and the wheels Moved all too slow,-though scarce the eager steeds Obeyed the rein.
And as the mother spake
Somewhat, in murmurs, of her youngest boy,
There came a flood of beauty o'er her brow;
For holy love hath beauty, which gray Time
Could never steal.
'Tis there, behind the trees,
That well known roof,-and from the open door What a glad rush!
The son, who fain would take
His mother in his arms, as if her foot
Was all too good for earth,-and at his side
The beautiful daughter, with her raven hair
So smoothly folded o'er the classic brow,—
The infant crowing in its nurse's arms,-
The bold boy, in his gladness, springing up
Even to his father's shoulder,-lisping tongues,
And little dancing feet, and outstretch'd hands
Grasping the parent's skirts,-it was a group
That artist's pencil never yet hath sketch'd,
In all its plenitude.
The brightness of the tear of joy, I felt
How poor the pomp of princes,-and what dross Was beaten gold, compared with that dear wealth Home, and its gratulation,—and the ties
Which Heaven hath twisted round congenial hearts To draw them to itself.
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