TO M. J. R.
Is there within my heart a spot
Where thy bright image liveth not,
In its most joyful guise?
Ah, no! though all may be forgot,
Save sorrow, care, and pain,
Yet it securely lies
Within my bosom's secret bowers;
Like dew, descending from above,
On Autumn's seared and withered flowers,
Reviving it again
To happiness and love.
SONNET.
A CONTRAST.
The flowers that, unrefreshed with rain or dew,
Pine 'neath the scorching summer's sun away,
Are but the emblems—purer still than they—
Of hearts that ne'er the blight of sorrow knew,
To contrast with their gladness—for the breast
That welcomes joy back to its shrine again,
After a weary interval of pain,
Enjoys the feeling with a warmer zest:
And when at length the dew-drop lingers o'er
The flowers that sickened with its long delay,
How sweetly do they own its former sway,
And bloom again more lovely than before.
Who would not, for a while then, cherish grief,
To taste the bliss, the rapture of relief?
SONNET.
ROSLIN.
Roslin! thy scattered beauties, rich and wild,
Lie like a garden-map before me spread;
In all thy fairy scenes I gladly tread,
Where sleeps the sun-smile—and the breeze so mild
Enamoured sighs, as to thy presence wed.
Down through thy vale—so lovely and so sweet,
Yet so retiring, like some blushing maid
Apprized of her own beauty—oft I meet,
Two pensive lovers whispering their vows.
Thy woods and thy ravines, thy rocks and caves,
Contain the gleams of grandeur, o'er the brows
Of thy dark crags, the heath-flower freely waves.
Here Drummond sung, sweetly and well, for he
In thy retreats became inspired by thee.
ON THE BIRTH OF A NIECE.
E. W. G.
11th August, 1828.
The evening sun had o'er the heavens rolled
His brilliant robe of glory and of gold;
The angels round the throne had just begun
Their vesper hymn of praise—the sweetest one;
The stars were trimming then their lamps of light,
Like watchers, ready for the coming night;
The earth rejoiced through all her numerous fields,
Blest with the crop that generous autumn yields:
The meadow streams subduing music stole,
Like dreams of rapture, to the fainting soul,—
When thou sprung into being, like the ray
Of early morn, the gleam of dawning day.
Stranger! so bright, so innocent, so fair,
We give thee welcome to our world of care;
Come to partake our sorrow—thou hast known
The pang already, by that stifled moan—
When rosy pleasure shall her smiles renew,
Come with thy kindred heart, and share them too.
We bless thee, babe! for we have need to bless
A fellow-pilgrim in a world like this,
Where mirth is mockery, and joy a dream,
And we are never happy—though we seem.
Oh! may'st thou never know the ills that we
Have known, and shall know, ere we cease to be:
Be thou thy mother's comfort! thou wert blest
Wert thou, like her, the purest and the best.
ON HER DEATH,
At the Age of Two Years and Two Months.
Not long beside us did the cherub stay:
God's will be done! He gave and took away;
It seemed as if blest memories of heaven,
From whence she came, were to her visions given,
And, tiring soon of earth, whose breath was pain,
Longed to return, and be at rest again.
Too pure for earth, too innocent for grief,
Sweet was her promise, as her sojourn brief.
SONNET.
TO HAPPINESS.
Oh! I do hail thee, Happiness, when thou
Dost shine athwart my path with light and love,
Dispensing joy, like Heaven's aërial bow,
When gathering clouds lour darkly from above.
Oh! I do hail thee, Happiness—the aim
And promise of my being live in thee;
I pine for thee as poets pine for fame,
Or slaves and captives for their liberty;
But fleeting art thou in this vale of strife,
A meteor gleaming o'er a desert heath—
So seldom comes thy smile to cheer our life,
We learn to hope 'twill visit us in death;
In what bright bower, supremest blessing, may
A mortal find thy never-dying ray?