Thy active life,—thy look of bliss,
The sparkling of thy magic eye,
Would all his sceptic doubts dismiss,
And bid him lay his pity by,
To bless the ear that ne'er has known
The voice of censure, pride, or art;
Nor trembled at that sterner tone,
Which while it tortures, chills the heart;
To bless the lip that ne'er could tell
Of human woes the vast amount,
Nor pour those idle words that swell
The terror of our last account.—
For sure the stream of silent course
May flow as deep, as pure, as blest,
As that which rolls in torrents hoarse,
Or whitens o'er the mountain's breast,
As sweet a scene, as fair a shore,
As rich a soil its tide may lave,
Then joyful and accepted pour
Its tribute to the mighty wave.
THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE.
Ah! who can tell what horrors urge the wretch
To madness, who infuriate spurns the gift
Of this sweet life?—For life is sweet to him
Who 'neath the ceaseless lash of bondage toils,—
Sweet to the sick man, to the galley-slave,
To him who scorches 'neath a vertic sun,
Or feels the breath of everlasting snows
