A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er!
Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power, As the billow the form of the gale that was fled!
I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I!
I felt, how the pure, intellectual fire
In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
How soon in the lavishing cup of desire,
The pearl of the soul may be melted away!
And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That pleasure no more might its purity dim;
And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,
I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him!
The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven
Had already the wreath of eternity shown;
As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven,
My heart had begun to be purely its own!
I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky
Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more-"Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, "can a heavenly Eye "Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!"*
* Ps. iv. 6.-Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us.
WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.
Utáwas tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favouring air!
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.
WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
(Began the rev'rend Sage ;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful Pleasure's rage?
Or haply prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of Man.
The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That Man was made to mourn.
O Man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time?
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime.
Alternate Follies take the sway;
Licentious Passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With Cares and Sorrows worn,
Then Age and Want, oh! ill match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.
A few seem favourites of Fate,
In Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the Rich and Great
Are likewise truly blest.
But oh! what crowds in every land,
Are wretched and forlorn!
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame;
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