To Him who smote it,—nor his lonely tears
Freshen the turf where his loved treasures lay.
—And is there cause to weep, that yon pale clay
Should liberate its tortured prisoner?
Mourn we, because the radiant realms of bliss
Have gain'd a guest?—or that the countless ills
Which poise on vulture wing o'er helpless man,
Have lost a victim? Is it time to weep,
When at this very hour, perchance, the soul
Reads in the sun-bright register of Heaven
The need of all its discipline,—and pours
Its rapturous being forth to the great sire
In one eternal hymn?
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.
Pleasure and wealth to our lot may be granted,—
Love may a far-distant mansion endear, —
Yet who can forget the soft soil where were planted,
Those first germs of bliss never wet with a tear?
Rude frowning rocks, Nature's loveliness spurning,
May rise to disfigure the spot of our birth,
But with rapture's warm thrill the glad wanderers returning
Will press their fond lips to their dear native earth.
Green-house exotics may glow in our tresses,
The pride of the florist expire on our breast,
But sweeter are these than the wild-flower that dresses
The vale, by the sports of our infancy blest?
