The cradled babe,—gay youth,—and white-lock'd sire
That soon to this forgotten cell shall fleet
The shadow of their days.—Earth's most adored
Feel not upon their lifeless breasts the tear
Fast trickling o'er their grave;—nor does the clay
Unnamed,—unchronicled,—less sweetly sleep
Within its narrow house.—For all her sons,
With mournful sigh of hollow-breathing winds,
Soft vernal tears,—and drooping wintry boughs,
Impartial Nature mourns.
—Alas! how vain
The pride that lurks in gorgeous sepulchres,—
The pyramid,—the stain'd sarcophagus,
The tomb columnar. Still there is a life
That in our ashes lives,—a care that wakes
Around our mouldering bed,—and sweet it were
To think that o'er our pulseless hearts should rise
In hallow'd characters that Saviour's name
In whom we had believed,—and that the pen
Of truth might add—"Write!—blessed are the dead
Who die in Him."
TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening star
To bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car,
Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild,
To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe
The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee,
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath
To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.—
