NATHANIEL APPLETON HAVEN
LINES ON FREDERIC THE GREAT.
—“Apres ma mort, quand toutes mes parties
Par la corruption sont aneanties,
Par un meme destin il ne pensera plus!”
Frederic le Grand.
Are these the dictates of eternal truth?
These the glad news your boasted reason brings?
Can these control the restless fire of youth,
The craft of statesmen, or the pride of kings?
Whence is the throb that swells my rising breast,
What lofty hopes my beating heart inspire?
Why do I proudly spurn inglorious rest,
The pomp of wealth, the tumult of desire?
Is it to swell the brazen trump of fame,
To bind the laurel round an aching head,
To hear for once a people's loud acclaim,
Then lie for ever with the nameless dead?
Oh no! far nobler hopes my life control,
Presenting scenes of splendor, yet to be;—
Great God, thy word directs the lofty soul
To live for glory, not from man, but thee.
THE PURSE OF CHARITY.
This little purse, of silver thread
And silken cords entwined,
Was given, to ease the painful bed,
And soothe the anxious mind.
The maker's secret bounty flows,
To bid the poor rejoice,
And many a child of sorrow knows
The music of her voice.
The little purse her hands have wrought,
Should bear her image still;
And with her generous feelings fraught,
Her liberal plans fulfil.
Its glittering thread should never daunt
The humble child of wo;
But well the asking eye of want
Its silver spring should know.
While age or youth with misery dwell,
To cold neglect consign'd,
No useless treasures e'er should swell
The purse with silver twined.
AUTUMN.
I love the dews of night,
I love the howling wind;
I love to hear the tempest sweep
O'er the billows of the deep!
For nature's saddest scenes delight
The melancholy mind.
Autumn! I love thy bower
With faded garlands drest:
How sweet, alone to linger there,
When tempests ride the midnight air!
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour,
The sabbath of the breast!
Autumn! I love thee well;
Though bleak thy breezes blow,
I love to see the vapors rise,
And clouds roll wildly round the skies,
Where from the plain, the mountains swell,
And foaming torrents flow.
Autumn! thy fading flowers
Droop but to bloom again;
So man, though doom'd to grief awhile,
To hang on fortune's fickle smile,
Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers,
Nor sigh for peace in vain.
