And when youth with its glowing visions came, Thou wert still my favourite seat; And the ardent dreams of future fame Were formed at thy hoary feet. Farewell--farewell--the wintry wind Has waged unsparing war on thee, And only pictured on my mind Remains thy form, time-honoured tree!
WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.
"Tell me, thou grassy mound, What dost thou cover? In thy folds hast thou bound Soldier or lover? Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--
"The sun's westward ray A dark shadow has thrown On this dwelling of clay, And the shade is thine own! From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow-- Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"
There is a pause in nature, ere the storm Rushes resistless in its awful might; There is a softening twilight, ere the morn Expands her wings of glory into light.
There is a sudden stillness in the heart, Ere yet the tears of wounded feeling flow; A speechless expectation, ere the dart Of sorrow lays our fondest wishes low.
There is a dreamy silence in the mind, Ere yet it wakes to energy of thought; A breathless pause of feeling, undefined, Ere the bright image is from fancy caught.
There is a pause more holy still, When Faith a brighter hope has given, And, soaring over earthly ill, The soul looks up to heaven!
Oh dread uncertainty! Life-wasting agony! How dost thou pain the heart, Causing such tears to start, As sorrow never shed O'er hopes for ever fled. For memory hoards up joy Beyond Time's dull alloy; Pleasures that once have been Shed light upon the scene, As setting suns fling back A bright and glowing track, To show they once have cast A glory o'er the past; But thou, tormenting fiend, Beneath Hope's pinions screened, Leagued with distrust and pain, Makest her promise vain; Weaving in life's fair crown Thistles instead of down.
Who would not rather know Present than coming woe? For certain sorrow brings A healing in its wings. The softening touch of years Still dries the mourner's tears; For human minds inherit A gay, elastic spirit, Which rises in the hour Of trial, with such power, That men, with wonder, find Sorrow is less unkind; That human hearts can bear All evils but despair, Or that anticipated grief Which, for a season, mocks relief.