CANTO FOURTH.

A summer Night descends in balm

On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm,

Of that romantic steep,

Where, silent as the silent hour,

‘ Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower,

Three happy spirits sleep.

And we will leave them to themselves,

To the moon and the stars, these happy elves,

To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's wing,

That dreams of gentlest joyance bring

To bathe their slumbering eyes;

And on the moving clouds of night,

High o'er the main will take our flight,

Where beauteous Albion lies.

Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween,

The sounds, the forms, the hues have been

Of these delightful groves;

And mournful as the melting sky,

Or a faint-remember'd melody,

The story of their loves.

Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild,

That told of the Fay-like sylvan child,

And of them who live in lonely bliss,

Like bright flowers of the wilderness,

Happy and beauteous as the sky

That views them with a loving eye,

Another tale I have to sing,

Whose low and plaintive murmuring

May well thy heart beguile,

And when thou weep'st along with me,

Through tears no longer mayst thou see

That fairy Indian Isle.

Among the Cambrian hills we stand!

By dear compulsion chain'd unto the strand

Of a still Lake, yet sleeping in the mist,

The thin blue mist that beautifies the morning:

Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath kiss'd,

Till, rising like a giant from his bed,

High o'er the mountainous sea he lifts his head,

The loneliness of Nature's reign adorning

With a calm majesty and pleasing dread.

A spirit is singing from the coves

Yet dim and dark; that spirit loves

To sing unto the Dawn,

When first he sees the shadowy veil,

As if by some slow-stealing gale,

From her fair face withdrawn.

How the Lake brightens while we gaze!

Impatient for the flood of rays

That soon will bathe its breast:

Where rock, and hill, and cloud, and sky,

Even like its peaceful self, will lie

Ere long in perfect rest.

The dawn hath brighten'd into day:

Blessings be on yon crescent-bay

Beloved in former years!

Dolbardan! at this silent hour,

More solemn far thy lonely tower

Unto my soul appears,

Than when, in days of roaming youth,

I saw thee first, and scarce could tell

If thou wert frowning there in truth,

Or only raised by Fancy's spell,

An airy tower‘ mid an unearthly dell.

O! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er framed!

If so thou mayst be named:

Thou! who for many a year hast stood

Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age,

As if thy tremulous length were living wood,

Sprung from the bank on either side,

Despising, with a careless pride,

The tumults of the wintry flood,

And hill-born tempest's rage.

Each flower upon thy moss I know,

Or think I know; like things they seem

Fair and unchanged of a returning dream!

While underneath, the peaceful flow

Of the smooth river to my heart

Brings back the thoughts that long ago

I felt, when forced to part

From the deep calm of Nature's reign,

To walk the world's loud scenes again.

And let us with that river glide

Around yon hillock's verdant side;

And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise,

Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes.

White as the spring's unmelted snow,

That lives though winter storms be o'er,

A cot beneath the mountain's brow

Smiles through its shading sycamore.

The silence of the morning air

Persuades our hearts to enter there.

In dreams all quiet things we love;

And sure no star that lies above

Cradled in clouds, that also sleep,

Enjoys a calm more husht and deep

Than doth this slumbering cell:

Yea! like a star it looketh down

In pleasure from its mountain-throne,

On its own little dell.

A lovelier form now meets mine eye,

Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky;

And human feelings blend

With the pleasure born of the glistening air,

As in our dreams uprises fair

The face of a dear friend.

A vision glides before my brain,

Like her who lives beyond the Main!

Breathing delight, the beauteous flower

That Heaven had raised to grace this bower.

To me this field is holy ground!

Her voice is speaking in the sound

That cheers the streamlet's bed.

Sweet Maiden!— side by side we stand,

While gently moves beneath my hand

Her soft and silky head.

A moment's pause!— and as I look

On the silent cot, and the idle brook,

And the face of the quiet day,

I know from all that many a year

Hath slowly past in sorrow here,

Since Mary went away.

But that wreath of smoke now melting thin,

Tells that some being dwells within;

And the balmy breath that stole

From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering wide,

O'er all the dwelling's blooming side,

Tells that whoe'er doth there abide,

Must have a gentle soul.

Then gently breathe, and softly tread,

As if thy steps were o'er the dead!

Break not the slumber of the air,

Even by the whisper of a prayer,

But in thy spirit let there be

A silent “Benedicite!”

Thine eye falls on the vision bright,

As she sits amid the lonely light

That gleams from her cottage-hearth:

O! fear not to gaze on her with love!

For, though these looks are from above,

She is a form of earth.

In the silence of her long distress,

She sits with pious stateliness;

As if she felt the eye of God

Were on her childless lone abode.

While her lips move with silent vows,

With saintly grace the phantom bows

Over a Book spread open on her knee.

O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!

It tells of Him who for our sake

Died on the cross,— Our Saviour's History.

How beauteously hath sorrow shed

Its mildness round her aged head!

How beauteously her sorrow lies

In the solemn light of her faded eyes!

And lo! a faint and feeble trace

Of hope yet lingers on her face,

That she may yet embrace again

Her child, returning from the Main;

For the brooding dove shall leave her nest,

Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Her long-lost child may still survive!

That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive;

And often, to herself unknown,

Hath mingled with the midnight sigh,

When she breathed, in a voice of agony,

“Now every hope is gone!”

‘ Twas this that gave her strength to look

On the mossy banks of the singing brook,

Where Mary oft had play'd;

And duly, at one stated hour,

To go in calmness to the bower

Built in her favourite glade.

‘ Twas this that made her, every morn,

As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn

With water from the spring;

And gently tend each flowret's stalk,

For she call'd to mind who loved to walk

Through their fragrant blossoming.

Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear

From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear,

Through the heart of the silent sky.

“Oh, such was my Mary's joyful strain!

And such she may haply sing again

Before her Mother die.”

Thus hath she lived for seven long years,

With gleams of comfort through her tears;

Thus hath that beauty to her face been given!

And thus, though silver-grey her hair,

And pale her cheek, yet is she fair

As any Child of Heaven.

Yet, though she thus in calmness sit,

Full many a dim and ghastly fit

Across her brain hath roll'd:

Oft hath she swoon'd away from pain;

And when her senses came again,

Her heart was icy-cold.

Hard hath it been for her to bear

The dreadful silence of the air

At night, around her bed;

When her waking thoughts through the darkness grew

Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew

That her dear child was dead.

Things loved before seem alter'd quite,

The sun himself yields no delight,

She hears not the neighbouring waterfall,

Or, if she hear, the tones recal

The thought of her, who once did sing

So sweetly to its murmuring.

No summer-gale, no winter-blast,

By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd,

If her restless soul did wake,

That brought not a Ship before her eyes;

Yea! often dying shrieks and cries

Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake,

Though, far as the charm'd eye could view,

Upon the quiet earth it lay,

Like the Moon amid the heavenly way,

As bright and silent too.

Hath she no friend whose heart may share

With her the burthen of despair,

And by her earnest, soothing voice,

Bring back the image of departed joys

So vividly, that reconciled

To the drear silence of her cot,

At times she scarcely miss her child?

Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot,

Hear nought amid the calm profound,

Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound?

No! seldom human footsteps come

Unto her childless widow'd home;

No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire:

For still doth selfish happiness

Keep far away from real distress,

Loth to approach, and eager to retire.

The vales are wide, the torrents deep,

Dark are the nights, the mountains steep,

And many a cause, without a name,

Will from our spirits hide the blame,

When, thinking of ourselves, we cease

To think upon another's peace;

Though one short hour to sorrow given,

Would chear the gloom, and win the applause of Heaven.

Yet, when by chance they meet her on the hill,

Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill,

By its wild voice to dim seclusion led,

The shepherds linger on their way,

And unto God in silence pray,

To bless her hoary head.

In church-yard on the sabbath-day

They all make room for her, even they

Whose tears are falling down in showers

Upon the fading funeral flowers,

Which they have planted o'er their children's clay.

And though her faded cheeks be dry,

Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh,

More piteous is one single smile

Of hers, than many a tear;

For she is wishing all the while

That her head were lying here;

Since her dear daughter is no more,

Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore.

A sudden thought her brain hath cross'd;

And in that thought all woes are lost,

Though sad and wild it be:

Why must she still, from year to year,

In lonely anguish linger here?

Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast,

And dwell beside the sea;

The sea that tore her child away,

When glad would she have been to stay.

An awful comfort to her soul

To hear the sleepless Ocean roll!

To dream, that on his boundless breast,

Somewhere her long-wept child might rest;

On some far island wreck'd, yet blest

Even as the sunny wave.

Or, if indeed her child is drown'd,

For ever let her drink the sound

That day and night still murmurs round

Her Mary's distant grave.

— She will not stay another hour;

Her feeble limbs with youthful power

Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell

Of her native stream, and hill and dell;

And with a solemn tone

Upon the bower implores a blessing,

Where often she had sate caressing

Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven.

Upon her hearth the fire is dead,

The smoke in air hath vanished;

The last long lingering look is given,

The shuddering start,— the inward groan,—

And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.

Behold her on the lone sea-shore,

Listening unto the hollow roar

That with eternal thunder, far and wide,

Clothes the black-heaving Main! she stands

Upon the cold and moisten'd sands,

Nor in that deep trance sees the quickly-flowing tide.

She feels it is a dreadful noise,

That in her bowed soul destroys

A Mother's hope, though blended with her life;

But surely she hath lost her child,

For how could one so weak and mild

Endure the Ocean's strife,

Who, at this moment of dismay,

Howls like a monster o'er his prey!

But the tide is rippling at her feet,

And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet,

Dispels these torturing dreams:

Oh! once again the sea behold,

O'er all its wavy fields of gold,

The playful sun-light gleams.

These little harmless waves so fair,

Speak not of sorrow or despair;

How soft the zephyr's breath!

It sings like joy's own chosen sound;

While life and pleasure dance around,

Why must thou muse on death?

Here even the timid child might come,

To dip her small feet in the foam;

And, laughing as she view'd

The billows racing to the shore,

Lament when their short course was o'er,

Pursuing and pursued.

How calmly floats the white sea-mew

Amid the billows’ verdant hue!

How calmly mounts into the air,

As if the breezes blew her there!

How calmly on the sand alighting,

To dress her silken plumes delighting!

See! how these tiny vessels glide

With all sails set, in mimic pride,

As they were ships of war.

All leave the idle port to-day,

And with oar and sheet the sunny bay

Is glancing bright and far.

She sees the joy, but feels it not:

If e'er her child should be forgot

For one short moment of oblivious sleep,

It seems a wrong to one so kind,

Whose mother, left on earth behind,

Hath nought to do but weep.

For, wandering in her solitude,

Tears seem to her the natural food

Of widow'd childless age;

And bitter though these tears must be,

Which falling there is none to see,

Her anguish they assuage.

A calm succeeds the storm of grief,

A settled calm, that brings relief,

And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild;

For the spirit, that is sore distrest,

At length, when wearied into rest,

Will slumber like a child.

And then, in spite of all her woe,

The bliss, that charm'd her long ago,

Bursts on her like the day.

Her child, she feels, is living still,

By God and angels kept from ill

On some isle far away.

It is not doom'd that she must mourn

For ever;— One may yet return

Who soon will dry her tears:

And now that seven long years are flown,

Though spent in anguish and alone,

How short the time appears!

She looks upon the billowy Main,

And the parting-day returns again;

Each breaking wave she knows;

And when she listens to the tide,

Her child seems standing by her side;

So like the past it flows.

She starts to hear the city-bell;

So toll'd it when they wept farewell!

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud

The city domes and turrets shroud;

The same keen flash of ruddy fire

Is burning on the lofty spire;

The grove of masts is standing there

Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;

The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum,

As from the city to the shore they come.

Day after day, along the beach she roams,

And evening finds her there, when to their homes

All living things have gone.

No terrors hath the surge or storm

For her;— on glides the aged form,

Still restless and alone.

Familiar unto every eye

She long hath been: her low deep sigh

Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless breast:

And prayers, unheard by her, are given,

That in its mercy watchful Heaven

Would send the aged rest.

As on the smooth and harden'd sand,

In many a gay and rosy band,

Gathering rare shells, delighted children stray,

With pitying gaze they pass along,

And hush at once the shout and song,

When they chance to cross her way.

The strangers, as they idly pace

Along the beach, if her they meet,

No more regard the sea: her face

Attracts them by its solemn grace,

So mournful, yet so sweet.

The boisterous sailor passes by

With softer step, and o'er his eye

A haze will pass most like unto a tear;

For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted,

Long, long ago, that mother parted

With her lost daughter here.

Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween,

As through the harbour's busy scene,

She passes weak and slow.

A comfort sad it brings to see

That others pity her, though free

Themselves from care or woe.

The playful voice of streams and rills,

The echo of the cavern'd hills,

The murmur of the trees,

The bleat of sheep, the song of bird,

Within her soul no more are heard;

There, sound for aye the seas.

Seldom she hears the ceaseless din

That stirs the busy port. Within

A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound:

And oft, when dreaming of her child,

Her tearful eyes are wandering wild,

Yet nought behold around.

But hear and see she must this day;

Her sickening spirit must obey

The flashing and the roar

That burst from fort, and ship, and tower,

While clouds of gloomy splendour lower

O'er city, sea, and shore.

The pier-head, with a restless crowd,

Seems all alive; there, voices loud

Oft raise the thundrous cheer,

While, from on board the ships of war,

The music bands both near and far,

Are playing, faint or clear.

The bells ring quick a joyous peal,

Till the very spires appear to feel

The joy that stirs throughout their tapering height:

Ten thousand flags and pendants fly

Abroad, like meteors in the sky,

So beautiful and bright.

And, while the storm of pleasure raves

Through each tumultuous street,

Still strikes the ear one darling tune,

Sung hoarse, or warbled sweet;

Well doth it suit the First of June,

“Britannia rule the Waves!”

What Ship is she that rises slow

Above the horizon?— White as snow,

And cover'd as she sails

By the bright sunshine, fondly woo'd

In her calm beauty, and pursued

By all the Ocean gales?

Well doth she know this glorious morn,

And by her subject waves is borne,

As in triumphal pride:

And now the gazing crowd descry,

Distinctly floating on the sky,

Her pendants long and wide.

The outward forts she now hath pass'd;

Loftier and loftier towers her mast;

You almost hear the sound

Of the billows rushing past her sides,

As giant-like she calmly glides

Through the dwindled ships around.

Saluting thunders rend the Main!

Short silence!— and they roar again,

And veil her in a cloud:

Then up leap all her fearless crew,

And cheer till shore, and city too,

With echoes answer loud.

In peace and friendship doth she come,

Rejoicing to approach her home,

After absence long and far:

Yet with like calmness would she go,

Exulting to behold the foe,

And break the line of war.

While all the noble Ship admire,

Why doth One from the crowd retire,

Nor bless the stranger bright?

So look'd the Ship that bore away

Her weeping child! She dares not stay,

Death-sickening at the sight.

Like a ghost, she wanders up and down

Throughout the still deserted town,

Wondering, if in that noisy throng,

Amid the shout, the dance, the song,

One wretched heart there may not be,

That hates its own mad revelry!

One mother, who hath lost her child,

Yet in her grief is reconciled

To such unmeaning sounds as these!

Yet this may be the mere disease

Of grief with her: for why destroy

The few short hours of human joy,

Though Reason own them not?— “Shout on,” she cries,

“Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's sighs

Must not your bliss profane.

Yet blind must be that mother's heart

Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art,

Thou Glory of the Main!”

Towards the church-yard see the Matron turn!

There surely she in solitude may mourn,

Tormented not by such distracting noise.

But there seems no peace for her this day,

For a crowd advances on her way,

As if no spot were sacred from their joys.

— Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there!

It breathes around thee in the air,

Even now, when unto dim despair

Thy heart was sinking fast:

A cruel lot hath long been thine;

But now let thy face with rapture shine,

For bliss awaiteth thee divine,

And all thy woes are past.

Dark words she hears among the crowd,

Of a ship that hath on board

Three Christian souls, who on the coast

Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago,

When all but they were in a tempest lost,

And now by Heaven are rescued from their woe,

And to their country wondrously restored.

The name, the blessed name, she hears,

Of that beloved Youth,

Whom once she called her son; but fears

To listen more, for it appears

Too heavenly for the truth.

And they are speaking of a child,

Who looks more beautifully wild

Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale;

Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,

Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,

While round her head tall feathers play,

And dance with every gale.

Breathless upon the beach she stands,

And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands,

And scarcely dares to turn her eye

On yon gay barge fast-rushing by.

The dashing oar disturbs her brain

With hope, that sickens into pain.

The boat appears so wondrous fair,

Her daughter must be sitting there!

And as her gilded prow is dancing

Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing

Beneath the sunny gleams,

Her heart must own, so sweet a sight,

So form'd to yield a strange delight,

She ne'er felt even in dreams.

Silent the music of the oar!

The eager sailors leap on shore,

And look, and gaze around,

If‘ mid the crowd they may descry

A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye,

Or hear one family sound.

— No sailor, he, so fondly pressing

Yon fair child in his arms,

Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing,

And bidding her with many a blessing

To hush her vain alarms.

How fair that creature by his side,

Who smiles with languid glee,

Slow-kindling from a mother's pride!

Oh! Thou alone may'st be

The mother of that fairy-child:

These tresses dark, these eyes so wild,

That face with spirit beautified,

She owes them all to thee.

Silent and still the sailors stand,

To see the meeting strange that now befel.

Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell,

And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt hand,

To hide the tears that grace their cheeks so well.

They lift the aged Matron from her swoon,

And not one idle foot is stirring there;

For unto pity melts the sailor soon,

And chief when helpless woman needs his care.

She wakes at last, and with a placid smile,

Such as a saint might on her death-bed give,

Speechless she gazes on her child awhile,

Content to die since that dear one doth live.

And much they fear that she indeed will die!

So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;—

And when her voice returns, so like the breath

It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of death.

Mark her distracted daughter seize

Her clay-cold hands, and on her knees

Implore that God would spare her hoary head;

For sure, through these last lingering years,

By one so good, enough of tears

Hath long ere now been shed.

The Fairy-child is weeping too;

For though her happy heart can slightly know

What she hath never felt, the pang of woe,

Yet to the holy power of Nature true,

From her big heart the tears of pity flow,

As infant morning sheds the purest dew.

Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes

His reverend mother on his filial breast,

Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds rest

In the new sleep of undisturbed love,

The gracious God who sees them from above,

Will save the parent for her children's sakes.

Nor vain his pious hope: the strife

Of rapture ends, and she returns to life,

With added beauty smiling in the lines

By age and sorrow left upon her face.

Her eye, even now bedimm'd with anguish, shines

With brightening glory, and a holy sense

In her husht soul of heavenly providence,

Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier grace.

— Her Mary tells in simple phrase,

Of wildest perils past in former days,

Of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself:

Then will she speak of that delightful isle

Where long they lived in love, and to the elf

Now fondly clinging to her grandam's knee,

In all the love of quick-won infancy,

Point with the triumph of a mother's smile.

The sweet child then will tell her tale

Of her own blossom'd bower, and palmy vale,

And birds with golden plumes, that sweetly sing

Tunes of their own, or borrow'd from her voice;

And, as she speaks, lo! flits with gorgeous wing

Upon her outstretch'd arm, a fearless bird,

Her eye obeying, ere the call was heard,

And wildly warbles there the music of its joys.

Unto the blessed matron's eye

How changed seem now town, sea, and sky!

She feels as if to youth restored,

Such fresh and beauteous joy is pour'd

O'er the green dancing waves, and shelly sand.

The crowded masts within the harbour stand,

Emblems of rest: and yon ships far away,

Brightening the entrance of the Crescent-bay,

Seem things the tempest never can destroy,

To longing spirits harbingers of joy.

How sweet the music o'er the waves is borne,

In celebration of this glorious morn!

Ring on, ye bells! most pleasant is your chime;

And the quick flash that bursts along the shore,

The volumed smoke, and city-shaking roar,

Her happy soul now feels to be sublime.

How fair upon the human face appears

A kindling smile! how idle all our tears!

Short-sighted still the moisten'd eyes of sorrow:

To-day our woes can never end,

Think we!— returns a long-lost friend,

And we are blest to-morrow.

Her anguish, and her wish to die,

Now seem like worst impiety,

For many a year she hopeth now to live;

And God, who sees the inmost breast,

The vain repining of the sore-distrest,

In mercy will forgive.

How oft, how long, and solemnly,

Fitz-Owen and his Mary gaze

On her pale cheek, and sunken eye!

Much alter'd since those happy days,

When scarcely could themselves behold

One symptom faint that she was waxing old.

That evening of her life how bright!

But now seems falling fast the night.

Yet the Welch air will breathe like balm

Through all her wasted heart, the heavenly calm

That mid her native mountains sleeps for ever,

In the deep vales,— even when the storms are roaring,

High up among the cliffs: and that sweet river

That round the white walls of her cottage flows,

With gliding motion most like to repose,

A quicker current to her blood restoring,

Will cheer her long before her eye-lids close.

And yonder cheek of rosy light,

Dark-clustering hair, and star-like eyes,

And Fairy-form, that wing'd with rapture flies,

And voice more wild than songstress of the night

E'er pour'd unto the listening skies;

Yon spirit, who, with her angel smile,

Shed Heaven around the lonely isle,

With Nature, and with Nature's art,

Will twine herself about the heart

Of her who hoped not for a grand-child's kiss!

These looks will scare disease and pain,

Till in her wasted heart again

Life grow with new-born bliss.

Far is the city left behind,

And faintly-smiling through the soft-blue skies,

Like castled clouds the Cambrian hills arise:

Sweet the first welcome of the mountain-wind!

And ever nearer as they come,

Beneath the hastening shades of silent Even,

Some old familiar object meets their sight,

Thrilling their hearts with sorrowful delight,

Until through tears they hail their blessed home,

Bathed in the mist, confusing earth with heaven.

With solemn gaze the aged matron sees

The green roof laughing beneath greener trees;

And thinks how happy she will live and die

Within that cot at last, beneath the eye

Of them long wept as perish'd in the seas.

And what feel they? with dizzy brain they look

On cot, field, mountain, garden, tree, and brook,

With none contented, although loving all;

While deep-delighted memory,

By faint degrees, and silently,

Doth all their names recall.

And looking in her mother's face,

With smiles of most bewitching grace,

In a wild voice that wondering pleasure calms,

Exclaims the child, “Is this home ours?

Ah me! how like these lovely flowers

To those I train'd upon the bowers

Of our own Isle of Palms!”

Husht now these island-bowers as death!

And ne'er may human foot or breath,

Their dew disturb again: but not more still

Stand they, o'er-shadowed by their palmy hill,

Than this deserted cottage! O'er the green,

Once smooth before the porch, rank weeds are seen,

Choking the feebler flowers: with blossoms hoar,

And verdant leaves, the unpruned eglantine

In wanton beauty foldeth up the door.

And through the clustering roses that entwine

The lattice-window, neat and trim before,

The setting sun's slant beams no longer shine.

The hive stands on the ivied tree,

But murmurs not one single bee;

Frail looks the osier-seat, and grey,

None hath sat there for many a day;

And the dial, hid in weeds and flowers,

Hath told, by none beheld, the solitary hours.

No birds that love the haunts of men,

Hop here, or through the garden sing;

From the thick-matted hedge, the lonely wren

Flits rapid by on timid wing,

Even like a leaf by wandering zephyr moved.

But long it is since that sweet bird,

That twitters‘ neath the cottage eaves,

Was here by listening morning heard:

For she, the summer-songstress, leaves

The roof by laughter never stirr'd,

Still loving human life, and by it still beloved.

O! wildest cottage of the wild!

I see thee waking from thy breathless sleep!

Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep,

High o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled.

More beauteous art thou than of yore,

With joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom;

And they who in that paradise abide,

By sadness and misfortune beautified,

There brighter walk than o'er yon island-shore,

As loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb.

Long mayst thou stand in sun and dew,

And spring thy faded flowers renew,

Unharm'd by frost or blight!

Without, the wonder of each eye,

Within, as happy as the sky,

Encompass'd with delight.

— May thy old-age be calm and bright,

Thou grey-hair'd one!— like some sweet night

Of winter, cold, but clear, and shining far

Through mists, with many a melancholy star.

— O fairy child! what can I wish for thee?

Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be,

That spends its life in beauty and in bliss!

Soft on thee fall the breath of time,

And still retain in heavenly clime

The bloom that charm'd in this!

O, happy Parents of so sweet a child,

Your share of grief already have you known;

But long as that fair spirit is your own,

To either lot you must be reconciled.

Dear was she in yon palmy grove,

When fear and sorrow mingled with your love,

And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born;

While, in the most delightful air

Th’ angelic infant sang, at times her voice,

That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice,

Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair,

As if it breathed, “For me, an Orphan, mourn!”

Now can they listen when she sings

With mournful voice of mournful things,

Almost too sad to hear;

And when she chaunts her evening-hymn,

Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim

With many a gushing tear.

Each day she seems to them more bright

And beautiful,— a gleam of light

That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth!

It fadeth not in gloom or storm,—

For Nature charter'd that aerial form

In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth!

The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower again,

Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven.

Now far away they like the clouds are driven,

And as the passing night-wind dies my strain!