100
PRIZE POEMS.
Oh, yes! to-day his soul hath backward been
To many a tender face, and beauteous scene;
The verdant valley and the dark brown hill,
The small fair garden, and its tinkling rill,
His grandame's tale, believed at twilight hour,
Her sister singing in her myrtle bower,
And she, the maid, of every hope bereft,
So fondly loved, alas! so falsely left;
The winding path, the dwelling in the grove,
The look of welcome, and the kiss of love—
These are his dreams;—but these are dreams of bliss!
Why do they blend with such a lot as his?
And is there nought for him but grief and gloom,
A lone existence, and an early tomb?
Is there no hope of comfort and of rest
To the sear'd conscience, and the troubled breast?
Oh, say not so! In some far distant clime,
Where lives no witness of his early crime,
Benignant Penitence may haply muse
On purer pleasures, and on brighter views,
And slumb'ring Virtue wake at last to claim
Another being, and a fairer fame.
Beautiful land! within whose quiet shore
Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore:
Beautiful land! with all thy blended shades
Of waste and wood, rude rocks, and level glades,
On thee, on thee I gaze, as moslems look
To the blest islands of their prophet's book;
And oft I deem that, link'd by magic spell,
Pardon and peace upon thy valleys dwell,
Like two sweet houris beck'ning o'er the deep,
The souls that tremble, and the eyes that weep.
Therefore on thee undying sunbeams throw
Their clearest radiance, and their warmest glow;
And tranquil nights, cool gales, and gentle showers
Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers.
To many a tender face, and beauteous scene;
The verdant valley and the dark brown hill,
The small fair garden, and its tinkling rill,
His grandame's tale, believed at twilight hour,
Her sister singing in her myrtle bower,
And she, the maid, of every hope bereft,
So fondly loved, alas! so falsely left;
The winding path, the dwelling in the grove,
The look of welcome, and the kiss of love—
These are his dreams;—but these are dreams of bliss!
Why do they blend with such a lot as his?
And is there nought for him but grief and gloom,
A lone existence, and an early tomb?
Is there no hope of comfort and of rest
To the sear'd conscience, and the troubled breast?
Oh, say not so! In some far distant clime,
Where lives no witness of his early crime,
Benignant Penitence may haply muse
On purer pleasures, and on brighter views,
And slumb'ring Virtue wake at last to claim
Another being, and a fairer fame.
Beautiful land! within whose quiet shore
Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore:
Beautiful land! with all thy blended shades
Of waste and wood, rude rocks, and level glades,
On thee, on thee I gaze, as moslems look
To the blest islands of their prophet's book;
And oft I deem that, link'd by magic spell,
Pardon and peace upon thy valleys dwell,
Like two sweet houris beck'ning o'er the deep,
The souls that tremble, and the eyes that weep.
Therefore on thee undying sunbeams throw
Their clearest radiance, and their warmest glow;
And tranquil nights, cool gales, and gentle showers
Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers.
