I've watch'd from yonder mountain's height
The waxing and the waning light,
The world far, far below;
I've heard the thunder long and loud;
I've seen the sunshine and the cloud,
The tempest and the bow :
Now, 'twas all sunshine glad and bright,
And now the storm was raging;
Methought I read in that frail light
And storm a warfare raging.
THE EVIL HOUR.
THE gliding fish that takes his play
In shady nook of streamlet cool,
Thinks not how waters pass away,
And summer dries the pool.
The bird beneath his leafy dome
Who trills his carol, loud and clear, Thinks not how soon his verdant home The lightning's breath may sear.
Shall I within my bridegroom's bower
With braids of budding roses twin'd,
Look forward to a coming hour
When he may prove unkind?
The bee reigns in his waxen cell,
The chieftain in his stately hold,
To-morrow's earthquake,—who can tell?
May both in ruin fold!
DAUGHTER fair! of cloudless skies,
With thy meek and dove-like eyes,
From whose pure and searching ray,
Things unholy shrink away;
Goddess! of the bow'r and glen,
Flying, from the "haunts of men,"
To the pine-tree shaded dell,
Where the fairies love to dwell;
Or the woodbine scented grove,
Where the fawns and satyrs rove,
How shall Poet wake for Thee
Strains of fitting minstrelsy?
Nymph! that dost delight to brood
In some woodland solitude,
With thy meek companion laid,
By thee, in the leafy shade;
All his fleecy vestments on,
Fair, and spotless as thy own
Watching the pale Lily blow,
As she opes the bells of snow,
Where the torrent's headlong tide
Rushes down the mountain's side;
While within its foamy wave,
Oft thy sportive fingers lave!
Thou that from the cloudless skies,
Com'st to Earth in mortal guise,
With thy brow as marble fair,
Shaded by thy sunny
hair;
Thou, that lov'st the plaintive song
Of eve's bird, the woods among,
When she chants her vesper hymn,
As the twilight shadows dim,
Rising from the dewy ground,
Cast their silvery veil around!
Why should poets picture thee
But,
Deity?
Though, upon the village-green, Oft thy sylph-like form is seen, Mingling with the rustic throng, Leader of the dance and song; Do thy footsteps never rove, From the meadow, and the grove Dost thou only deign to dwell In the Hermit's moss-grown cell?
Art thou but in deserts found,
Where hush'd Silence reigns around,
Like the flower that shuns the day,
Shrinking from the crowd away?
No! the bard would do thee wrong,
Who confirm'd such fabled song;
Since thy form of living grace,
Sure, hath many a resting place
Far remov'd, from sylvan glen,
'Mid the "busy hum of men ;”
Yes!-in childhood's laughing eye,
Thy pure temple we descry;
There, (at least till growing years
Dim with guilt, or passion's tears,)
Thou dost fix thy chosen shrine,
Like the diamond in the mine!
Say, in WOMAN's guileless breast
Art thou not a cherish'd guest ?
Feel we not, thy presence nigh,
In her tear-and in her sigh,
Rather than in words of blame,
O'er an "erring Sister's shame?"
Thou art in the crimson streak,
Lighting up her kindling cheek,
(As the western sun-beam's glow
Tints awhile the mountain's snow,)
When unhallow'd lips impart
Anguish, to her trusting heart!
Though amid the nymphs and swains,
On the flower-enamel'd plains,
Thou dost reign acknowledg'd queen,
Yet thy steps are often seen,
'Spite of all that cynics say,
Wand'ring in the crowded way
Of the city's stately towers,
Pure as in retirement's bowers!
Yes! the bard would do thee wrong,
Who confirm'd such fabled song,
That thy presence ne'er is found
In the busy circle's round!
MRS. CORNWELL-BARON WILSON.
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush, and gently smile,
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
"Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite!
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