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

And they have laid thee in thy narrow cell,
Maid of the matchless brow!—for the cold clay
To be thy bridegroom, till the eternal day,
When the loud trump its judgment peal shall swell.

So be it,—what the Almighty dooms is well,—
But who that saw thine eyes' bright glances play,
Thy cheek's fine flush, that mock'd the blooms of May,
So late—could dream of death's dissolving spell?

To rapture love had sung—“the bright eyed hour
Soon will I lead along, with Hymen's train,
To bless the blushing virgin, and the swain;—
And hope believed, and lighted up her bower;
Sudden the scene was changed—a radiant flower
Sunk its sweet head—and love's glad song was vain!

354

INSCRIPTION.

Whoe'er thou art, to whom this secret shade
Inviting seems, where many a wild flower flings
Its odor round, and many a murmur soothes
Of distant falling waters the pleased ear;—
If solitude may claim thy thoughts awhile,
Here rest and meditate—her cell is here.
And say, does love thy willing bosom bind,
Thy heart all anxiousness,—thy soul all sigh?
Haply the virgin, in whose clasping arms
A promised paradise thy fancy paints,
Whose swelling bosom heaves upon the sight
More beautiful than ocean's foam-tipt wave—
Whose kindling eyes, with lavish lustre, thrill
Thy trembling frame,—(a meek simplicity,
And innocence assuming,—specious show!)
Exults, in wanton triumph, at thy sighs,
And mocks their incense.—Rouse thee from thy trance;
And let the light of reason guide thee safe
To love's pure altar. Does ambition urge
Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths?—Beware!
Think how the storm can rage:—yet the rough blast
That lays the mighty oak a ruin round,
With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven,
Passes as harmless o'er the lowly blossom,
As does the zephyr's sigh. And rivers strong,
Rushing their rugged channels through, each rock,
Opposing, chafes to angry foam and roar.
While the hush'd stream, fed from its placid fount,
Winds through the flow'ry vale its silver way:
And, as a quiet pilgrim seeks his shrine,
Flows on, to wed with ocean's distant tide.
Mortal!—whoe'er thou art, should thy pursuit
Be happiness—thou need'st not wander far,
If in thy breast no baneful passions wage
Unholy warfare; and religion mild
Has led thy steps to her own hallow'd mount,
Where hope, with upward eye, and seraph wand
Points to the sky:—but if thy blacken'd heart
Nourish revenge, or hatred, or the asp
Of envy pale—or discontentment's gall
O'erflows within—or filthy avarice
Disturbs thy dreams,—thou, curst of heaven, shalt find
Peace but a sound—and happiness a shade!

355

THE NUN.

Her eye is raised to heaven:—no ray is there
Of earthly pride, or passion. O'er her brow
Angelic, as she breathes the solemn vow,
A bright expression spreads. Her rich, soft hair,

In radiant ringlets, down her bosom fair
Falls—like the beams of morning on the prow
Of the light heaving bark. 'T is past, and now
A pale and pensive hue her features wear.

So young—so beautiful, to turn aside
From life's fresh opening scenes, and sunny hours,
Seems like religion's triumph—but the heart
Strives from itself in vain the truth to hide:
The sigh will rise, the tender tear will start:
Ah! love yet lingers o'er his faded flowers!