BY W. H. VINING.
Ob: 1822, æt. 28.
Oh, I have lived through keenest care, And still may live through more, We know not what the heart can bear, Until the worst be o'er; The worst is not when fears assail, Before the shaft has sped, Nor when we kiss the visage, pale And beautiful, though dead. Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope With danger and distress, The very impulse left by hope Will make despair seem less; Then all is life—acute, intense, The thoughts in tumult tost, So reels the mind with wildered sense, It knows not what is lost. But when that shuddering scene is past, When earth receives her own, And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last The heart is left alone; When all is gone—our hopes and fears All buried in one tomb, And we have dried the source of tears, There comes a settled gloom. Then comes the worst, the undying thought That broods within the breast, Because its loveliest one is not, And what are all the rest?
MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Written at West Point.
I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers Whene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:
And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?
Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yon Azure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending, Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion On dewy Latmos to his arms descending— Thou whom the world of old on every shore, Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore: