A SUNDAY THOUGHT. WHATEVER ills to me betide, I have within a little store, So much more dear than all beside, Where'er I go, I bear this charm, A cure for every earthly harm, A power to dry each earthly tear. And safe within my inmost heart, Still cherish'd rests this humble trust; And by the glow it doth impart, I feel the immortal hope is just. INSCRIPTION. CRYSTAL and cool the fountain plays, And willows screen the noontide blaze,、 Here then, while fervid Sirius blows, And rest thee in the still retreat. The breeze that circles round the pool, The grateful gloom sweet sleep shall bring, And thou thy burning thirst may'st cool, Fresh from the fountain's limpid spring. LINES ON A LATE VIOLET. POOR purple lingerer of the fading year, Whose leaves of withering blue, Their dying sweetness drew From suns more genial, and from skies more clear, How tenderly and cold, Thy blossoms now unfold, Their veins engemm'd with winter's first pale tear! The wild autumnal storm, Which whistles o'er thy form, Will in its ruthlessness exhale Thy fainting odours on the gale, And thou still lower hang thy humble head; Then come, and on the tomb Of one, whose short-liv'd bloom Was like thine own, thy parting sweetness shed. For she, like thee, when wintry scenes appeared, Her modest head uprear'd, And in her gentleness defied the blast; Like thee, she faded slowly, day by day, Like thine, her opening bloom exhal'd away, When summer suns and the bright hours were past. FAIRY SONG. SWIFTLY we fly Thro' the evening sky, When the silver moon shines bright; When the bat flits round, And the dewy ground Is speckled with the glow-worm's light. When the ring-doves rest On their downy breast, Flitting thro' the air we pass; Where screams the owl, And watch-dogs howl, We revel in the shaven grass. |