As a fond Mother's evening kiss
Doth lull her weary child,
Kind Nature pour'd a smile of bliss
Around the landscape mild,
But though in love to all she spoke,
Though her soft tones in music broke,
Like balm her breezes stole,
Yet nothing seem'd of joy to tell
So pure, as in that lowly cell
The Sabbath of the Soul.
"Keep thy heart with all diligence."—King Solomon.
For an Album.
'Tis said that hearts have albums. On their page
Strong Memory writeth with a diamond pen,
And Hope and Fancy throw their pencil tints,
And Love his bright creations. It were rash
To trust such tablet to the careless hand,
For Vanity's inscription. Blot or stain
Were fearful there, since pausing Penitence
Must with her bitter waters cleanse it out.
—The deep impressions on those mystic leaves
Possess mysterious power. Back they recall
From time's dim sepulchre lost Friendship's smile,
Bid Grief's long-slumbering tides suffuse the eye
Or wake the cold pulse to the thrill of joy.
—Guard thy heart's Album. Of its slightest trace
Who knoweth the full import? It may help
To fashion motive, and to color fate;
Nor canst thou tell how strong a thread it weaves
