Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

The morning sun!—the morning sun!—
How o'er the earth his lustres move;—
When his first glance he throws upon
The bright, the glowing heaven above!—
The birds seek now each verdant spray—
Now glide, on light and joyous wing,
To pour on air their roundelay,—
To wake on high their carolling!

The soul of halcyon repose
Sleeps on the soft and silver air;
The zephyr's breath is on the rose
And on the woodbine's blossoms fair:—
The dew reflects the orient sun,
Whose magic tints to it are given;
O, man's fond eye ne'er look'd upon
A fairer earth—a brighter heaven!

The morning sun—the morning sun!—
Joy wakes to view his glories spread,
When night hath chased the clouds of dun
Whose gloomy folds waved overhead:—
When Nature wakes from soft repose—
While sports young May in earth's green bowers,
Joy wakes to breathe the fragrant rose—
The woodbine's rich and matchless flowers:—

To dash, with foot-fall light, away
From the green sward, the dews of heaven;—
To list the wild-bird's varied lay
While on the breeze their plumes are given:—
How blest is joy's o'erflowing heart,
To bask beneath the golden dawn:—
To view the sun his light impart
To the bright flowers and dewy lawn!

The dying sun—the dying sun!—
How sink his languid rays to rest,
When twilight throws her shroud upon
The pale and melancholy west;
The rose that bloom'd in early May,
Droops now on its deserted stem;—
O'er its sere leaves and blighted spray
Pours the night-wind its requiem!

The birds, which sung, in summer's light,
And danced on bright and purple wing,
Wake not the tuneless ear of night,—
Hush'd is their blithesome carolling!
Their rest is where their song hath been—
They sleep upon each fading flower
Ah! sorrow's eye can show no scene
More welcome than pale twilight's hour!

The dying sun—the dying sun!—
Oh, sorrow loves its failing light—
It breathes a kindred glow upon
The breast, wrapt in the gloom of night—
Pale sorrow loves the wither'd spray—
The flowers o'er which the blight hath past;—
These speak of raptures past away,—
Of cherish'd joys too bright to last!

What though the wild-bird's loved retreat
Gives back no more their warblings dear;—
The strain of gladness is not meet
For sorrow's lone and tuneless ear!—
Better to list the breeze of night
O'er each sere leaf and dying flower;—
Ah! earth can show no sadder sight
Than meets the eye at twilight hour!

THE LAMENT.

Give not to me the wreath of green—
The blooming vase of flowers;—
They breathe of joy that once hath been;—
Of gone and faded hours!—
I cannot love the rose, though rich—
Its beauty will not last;—

Give me, give me the bloom, o'er which
The early blight hath pass'd;
The yellow buds—give them to rest,
On my cold brow and joyless breast,
Where life is failing fast!

Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
In hours of revelry;
It suits glad brows, and bosoms light—
It is not meet for me;
Oh, I can pledge the heart no more
I pledged in days gone by;
Sorrow hath touch'd my bosom's core,
And I am left to die;
Give me to drink of Lethe's wave—
Give me the lone and silent grave,
O'er which the night-winds sigh!

Wake not, upon my tuneless ear
Soft music's stealing strain;
It cannot soothe—it cannot cheer
My anguish'd heart again:
But place the Æolian harp upon
The tomb of her, I love;—
There, when heaven shrouds the dying sun,
My weary steps will rove,
As o'er its chords night pours its breath,
To list the serenade of death,
Her silent bourne above!

Give me to seek the lonely tomb,
Where sleeps the sainted dead,
Now the pale nightfall throws its gloom
Above the narrow bed;
There, while the winds which sweep along,
O'er the harp-strings are driven,
And the funereal soul of song
Upon the air is given;
Oh let my faint and parting breath
Be mingled with that song of death,
And flee with it to heaven!

FADED HOURS.

Oh! for my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,

On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.

The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,
While flow'd its sparkling waters fair—
And went upon his path-way proud,
And threw a brighter lustre there;
And smiled upon the golden heaven,
And on the earth's sweet loveliness,
Where light, and joy, and song were given,
The glad and fairy scene to bless!

Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,
When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,
To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,
While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!
And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,
While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,
Who spread for him that scene of love
And made him so supremely blest!

That scene of love!—where hath it gone?
Where have its charms and beauty sped?
My hours of youth, that o'er me shone—
Where have their light and splendor fled?
Into the silent lapse of years—
And I am left on earth to mourn:
And I am left! to drop my tears
O'er memory's lone and icy urn!

Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;
Oh, my dark hours on earth are few—
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;—
And I shall soon bid life adieu,
To seek enduring joys in heaven!