A PREMATURE OLD BACHELOR, HE CONGRATULATES A BRIDEGROOM.
How shall a man foredoomed to lone estate,
Untimely old, irreverendly gray,
Much like a patch of dusky snow in May,
Dead sleeping in a hollow, all too late, -
How shall so poor a thing congratulate
The best completion of a patient wooing,
Or how commend a younger man for doing
What ne'er to do hath been his fault, or fate?
There is a fable, that I once did read,
Of a bad angel that was someway good,
And therefore on the brink of Heaven he stood,
Looking each way, and no way could proceed;
Till at the last he purged away his sin,
By loving all the joy he saw within.
MRS. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
FLOWERS! - when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty, when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky, —
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice he set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drowned,
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced !
O FESTAL Spring! 'midst thy victorious glow,
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams that bound to meet thee from thy chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly; we alone,
Severed from thy great spell, and doomed to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again! — But we, O Spring!
Cheered by deep whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.
WELCOME, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom,———
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume,
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring -
Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath,
Whether the couch be that of life or death.
I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour,
When evening spreads around her twilight veil
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
* Written at the age of thirteen.
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