But now alas! the transient calm Flits fast and far away-- The hope that o'er my fancy swam, And soothed my wasting day; For dire disease again appears To break the mild serene; Again commands my streaming tears, And clouds our closing scene!
Why, then, my God! thus closely twine Around this bursting heart, Those fond affections which are mine, Such misery to impart! Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know What mocks our mortal sight; Enough for me, thou will'st it so-- It, therefore, must be right.
The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.
Say, little caged flutterer, say, Why mournful waves thy drooping wing? Why silent sit, the live-long day? Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.
When first a captive thou wert made And in thy wiry dwelling swung, Suspended in the leafy shade Or sunny door, you gaily sung.
My careful hand supplied thee store Of ripest berries from the hill; Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor With glittering gravel from the rill.
Beneath the same luxuriant vine, The same kind hand supplies thy fare; The sun's first cheering rays are thine, Yet thou art sad and silent there.
Ah! little captive, couldst thou see What passes in this wayward breast, Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me, And why vain wishes break my rest.
Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade Which late a paradise I deem'd, Though still in verdant sweets array'd, A melancholy prison seemed?
And bid me mind, each passing day That wholesome viands crown'd my board, That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay For me, too, vernal sweets afford.
Nay, more,--that liberty is mine And lends a ray to every joy-- While sad captivity is thine, Mingling with all its sad alloy.
Thou "still small voice" that will be heard, Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul! Reproving friend--beloved and feared-- Conscience, this is thy mild control!
Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth, When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye; Or discontent, with brow unsmooth, Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.
'Tis thy reproving voice I hear, When from the poor and lowly cot Content and cheerfulness appear, Though mark'd by penury their lot.