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Though illusion aids no more the poetry of youth,
In an old number of the Athenaum, where it appeared anonymously.
Bot once I saw thee: many round
And yet a strange delight I found
Such dim, yet most delicious thought,
Thy gentle presence in me wrought.
It was not love; my fondest vow
Not joy; for o'er thy cheek and brow
Not grief; for on my soul like balm
Sank down each look, pure, soft, and calm.
It ask'd not, if by unkind fate
Thy heart's young hopes were early blighted,
Thy beauty,—whilst I fed delighted
So once I felt, an untaught child,
The bright bow forth upon me smiled;
So rapturous was then to me
Its marvel and its mystery.
Like that, all beauty, 'smiles and tears,'
Yet ah! too true my boding fears,
And thou 'mid voiceless forms must dwell,
A sainted shade in memory's cell.
THERE'S NONE A FEELING HATH WITH ME.
Found in one of the annuals for 1829, under the name of Hehry Scott.
Tis morn; the sun comes blithely on
And rouseth nature's glee;
All earth is glad; but there is none
A feeling hath with me!
The very trees are not alone,
The breeze doth fan them, and the sua
Doth woo them fervently;
The birds are singing to the flowers,
And spring is busy in the bowers.
Tis sad to mark the joy and life
Around, above, below,—
Earth, ocean, air, with joyance rife
In nature's vernal glow,—
Then turn and gaze into my breast,
And mark all there in darkness drest,
Where weeds of sorrow grow;
And watch the spirit's strife within,
And fear Despair the victory win!
Alas, how changed! To me the earth
'Tis not dull misanthropic gloom
That darkens all I see;
Nor grief for those within the tomb,
Or bright hopes reft from me;
Nor bitter dregs of long distress,
That make me feel such loneliness—
'Tis that cold thought which ne'er doth flee,
"There's none a feeling hath with me!"
But hush! thou impious heart of clay,
Thyself in ashes bow;
How dare a thing created say,
"High heaven, what doest thou 1"
I surely am not all alone—
There is a Friend—a mighty one—
Whose blood for me did flow:
And hope doth whisper unto me
"There's Ohb a feeling hath with thee!"
THE DEAD CHILD.
I Saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious piece of nature's work,
A floweret crushed in the bud,
A nameless maid, in babyhood,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce a show of dying:
So soon to exchange th' imprisoning womb
For darker prison of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth—then straight up shut
For the long dark : ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.—
Riddle of destiny! who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Shall we say, that nature, blind,
Check'd her hand and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought
S'ith her tedious workings sicken'd)
And we, churls, to thee deny
It must be so—my infant love must find
A passage in Professor Wilsojj's poem, so called.
From her pillow, as if driven
By an unseen demon's hand
Disturbing the repose of heaven,
Hath fallen her head! The long black hair,
From the fillet's silken band
In dishevell'd masses riven,
Is streaming downwards to the floor.
Is the last convulsion o'er?
And will that length of glorious tresses,
So laden with the soul's distresses,
By those fair hands in morning light,
Above those eyelids opening bright,