TO THE RIVER TRENT.
ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
Oh! to his ear how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this, that many a sleepless night,
As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream,
On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I can spend my days,
And by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys,
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
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,
Promises 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 aëry sail,
And from the present gloom the soul conveys,
To distant summers and far happier days.
OH! green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of em'rald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground,
Where was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a show'r from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad overhead.
Oh, such be life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd, or unexpress'd;
The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death :
He enters Heaven with prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold he prays.'
Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
The Holy Spirit pleads,
And Jesus on the eternal throne
For mourners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,—
The Life, the Truth, the Way!
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :-
Lord, teach us how to pray!
THE clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;
Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on;
The night wind it is blowing cold,
"Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.
He's crossing o'er the wold apace,
He's stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm;
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.
He makes all toil, all hardship light→
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!
Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear!
And we'll do all that father likes,
His wishes are so few;
Would they were more ! that
Some wish of his I knew ; I'm sure it makes a happy day, When I can please him any way.
I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;
See how he laughs, and crows, and stares-
Heaven bless the merry child!
His father's self in face and limb;
And father's heart is strong in him.
Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now
He's through the garden gate;
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,
And do not let him wait!
Shout, baby, shout, and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands !
THE GREEK BOY.
W. C. BRYANT.
GONE are the glorious Greeks of old,
Glorious in mien and mind;
Their bones are mingled with the mould,
Their dust is on the wind;
The forms they hew'd from living stone,
Survive the waste of years, alone,
And scatter'd with their ashes, show
What greatness perish'd long ago.
Yet fresh the myrtles there-the springs
Gush brightly as of yore;
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings,
As many an age before.
There Nature moulds as nobly now
As e'er of old the human brow;
And copies still the martial form
That braved Platea's battle storm.
Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek
Their heaven in Hella's skies;
Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek,
Her sunshine lit thine eyes;
Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains
Heard by old poets, and thy veins
Swell with the blood of demigods,
That slumber in thy country's sods.
Now is thy nation free-though late;
Thy elder brethren broke-
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight,
The intolerable yoke.
And Greece, decay'd, dethroned, doth see
Her youth renew'd in such as thee;
A shoot of that old vine that made
The nations silent in its shade.
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