WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
FAST from the West the fading day-streaks fly,
And ebon night assumes her solemn sway;
Yet here alone, unheeding time, Ilie,.
And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay.
Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd,
The maid of musings by yon moaning wave;
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now renew'd
Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!
The busy world pursues its boisterous way,
The noise of revelry still echoes round;
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;
Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that like thee I might bid sorrow cease,
And 'neath the green-sward sleep-the sleep of peace.
MISFORTUNE, I am young,-my chin is bare,
And I have wonder'd much when men have told, How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou should'st dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!-Shrivell'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, Beldame, over strong;
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate.
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;
I am yet young and do not like thy face;
And lest thou should'st resume the wild-goose chace,
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.
AS thus oppress'd with many a heavy care,
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet
To the dark woodland,-longing much to greet
The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there;
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast;-and tir'd with this vain coil,
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil.
And as amid the leaves the evening air,
Whispers still melody,-I think ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead-man's night.
EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now, bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ;
Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
So, to us sojourners in life's low vale,
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of Misery weave.
So Hope exultant spreads her äery sail,
And from the present gloom, the soul conveys,
To distant summers, and far happier days.
YE unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,
As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies;
When he who now invokes you, low is laid,
His tir'd frame resting on the earth's cold bed;
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,
And chaunt a dirge to his reposing shade!
For he was wont to love your madrigals;
And often by the haunted stream that laves
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves,
Would sit and listen to the dying falls,
Till the full tear would quiver in his eye,
And his big heart would heave with mournful extasy.
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