Soon these hallow'd shores shall fade,
Fast as the summer cloud,
And stranger climes and stranger forms
Pass, like a pageant proud.
But blessings still your path pursue,
Where'er that path may lie;
Since every devious maze ye trace
Beneath a guiding eye.
Yon evening star that trembling dips
Beneath the western sea,
Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,
Like his, your destiny.—
Though setting now in clouds and gloom,
The day-spring shall arise,
And yon pale star, like you, appear
In pomp from eastern skies!
May He whose word the billows calm'd,
And sooth'd those seas to rest,
Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,
That breathe on ocean's breast.
But there are waves of mightier power
His voice alone can still,
The soul's keen throb,—its louder surge
Grows peaceful at his will!
Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,
As with an arrow's flight,
The untamed winds thy coursers wild,
The waves thy chariot bright!
But there are hearts within that shrine
Where wilder billows swell,
Where the last pang is quivering now
The last fond word—"Farewell!"
PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM.
An Album?—'Tis a pretty book I wis,
Bound up in cow-skin—or sometimes in calf,
All tool'd and gilt—where every pert-eyed miss,
Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),
Hangs o'er the snow-white page—then steals a laugh,
Something between a simper and a smile;—
"Law, I can't write!—Ridiculous, to spoil
I have no notion——Will an extract do
From Moore or Byron?" "No, write something new."
An Album?—'Tis a wide waste blank—a page
All bright and glorious, like the morn of life,
Not darken'd with rude blots;—no dim presage
Scrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,—where no knife,
Like eating care, obliterates.—The strife,
The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,
Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.
If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,
Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?
And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,
Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,
Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?
It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.
Like opera-overtures, the melody
I know the story should foretoken, telling
Of love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;
Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,
Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.