—Fair, rural scene,
Wilt thou not smile once more?—No, darker throngs
Prolong the fierce encounter in the skies,
And heaven's gate trembles.—But thou soon shalt drink
The sun-beam,—and yon elemental war
Leave not a trace of sorrow.—Is it thus
With man's contentions?—Ask the carnaged field,
The writhing form,—the widow's lonely heart.—
—Methinks this summer scenery, in its garb
Of brief adversity, admonishes
The musing mind.—Meekly it shadows forth
The landscape of our pilgrimage.—Rough blasts
Scatter our foliage, crush our cherish'd flowers,
And hollow thunders wake our bosom'd joys
To sudden flight.—But then through parting clouds
The sun of Mercy beams, leading the eye
Upward, and by a Father's discipline
Instructing the sad heart.
ON PASSING AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA,
THE RUINS OF THE MOST ANCIENT CHURCH IN AMERICA.
Roll on, proud river, towards the mighty main,
And glow, gay shores, with summer's fostering smile,
Your grandeur charms, your beauties lure in vain
The traveller's eye from yonder ancient pile.
For there in solitary state it stands,
While sheltering boughs involve its time-worn frame,
The earliest temple rear'd by christian hands
To teach a heathen world Jehovah's name.
