Though reason may smile at the anguish which now Convulses thy bosom and darkens thy brow; The period may come, in thy journey through life, When sick of its falsehood, corruption, and strife, Thou vainly shall seek in thy desolate track To bring those sweet feelings and sympathies back; And thy spirit will murmur, when vexed and reviled, Oh would I could weep--as I wept when a child!
But let us not darken the landscape with gloom, And fling round the cradle the shade of the tomb, The sorrows of youth are like April's rash showers, Which though rapidly shed, strew our pathway with flowers: On the soft downy cheek, while the tear glistens bright, The young heart is leaping, all wild with delight; The glance of a sunbeam will banish its pain, And it joyously breaks into laughter again!
Oh, our early impressions are never forgot-- And the wide earth contains not so lovely a spot As the fields that encircled the home of our youth, With all its dear visions of beauty and truth: No meads are so green, and no flowers are so fair As the wildings we gathered and garlanded there; And the dim eye grows bright whilst recounting the joy, The sorrows, and trials, and sports of the boy!
[Footnote B: Written to illustrate a plate by Westall, in _Friendship's Offering_, for 1830. To those who have not seen the picture, it may be proper to state, that the subject is a child weeping over a dead dove.]
"When will the grave fling her cold arms around me, And earth on her dark bosom pillow my head? Sorrow and trouble and anguish, have found me, Oh that I slumbered in peace with the dead!
"The forests are budding, the fruit-trees in bloom, And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; But my soul is bowed down by the spirit of gloom, I no longer rejoice as the blossoms expand.
"And April is here with her rich varied skies, Where the sunbeams of hope with the tempest contend, And the bright drops that flow from her deep azure eyes On the bosom of nature like diamonds descend.
"She scatters her jewels o'er forest and lea, And casts in earth's lap all the wealth of the year; But the promise she brings wakes no transports in me, Still the landscape looks dim through the fast flowing tear."
Thus sung a poor exile, whom Sorrow had banished From Joy's golden halls, in those moments when care Struck deep in her soul and Hope's sunny smiles vanished, And her spirit grew dark 'neath the scowl of despair.