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Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
Here in this happy dell.”
Thus nature spake. The work was done-
She died, and left to me
And never more will be.
The good throughout the world revere,
Thus sleep'st thou unregarded here ?
And nature decks the chosen dell;
A nation's mournful sighs should swell!
The mother of her Gracchi view'd;
Of reverential gratitude ?
Her tribute of enraptured tears,
Which sternly curb’d his infant years.
Had'st high on her illustrious roll
Who nobly nursed the great of soul.
For disciplined in Wisdom's school,
The lofty pupil own'd thy sway; And well miglit he be skill'd to rule,
So early nurtured to obey. No enervating arts refined
To slumber lull'd his heaven-born might; No weak indulgence warp'd thy mind,
To cloud a hero's path of light.
The savior of his country hung,
Wooing the accents from thy tongue,
Saw'st thou, prescient, o'er bis brow,
The shadowy wreath of laurel start? Or, did thy nightly dream bestow
High visions of his glorious part? And when his little hands were taught
By thee, in simple prayer to rise, Say—were thine own devotions fraught
With heighten'd incense for the skies?
Well may that realm confiding rest,
Heroes and mighty chiess to see, Which finds its infant offspring blest
With monitors and guides like thee.
A future age, than ours more just,
With his, shall blend thy honored name, And rear, exulting, o'er thy dust,
The monument of deathless fame.
And thither bid young mothers wend,
To bless thy spirit as they rove, And learn, while o’er thy tomb they bend,
For heaven to train the babes they love. Oh! what is Beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;
Mute, mute is all
O’er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.
The most beloved on earth
Not long survives to-day ;
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,
Then since this world is vain,
And volatile and fleet,
Why fly from ill
With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be
Come Disappointment, come!
Thou art not stern to me :
Froin sun to sun
My race will run,
On earth was never sown;
A lady of my own.
The girl, in rock and plain,
To kindle and restrain.
Or up the mountain springs;
of mute insensate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
By silent sympathy.
In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round; And beauty, born of murmuring sound,
Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell ;'
ODE SUNG AT THE FUNERAL OF DR. SPURZHEIM.
Stranger, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet:
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who, ihine eye, thy noble frame? But, that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame. Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither,
On the spot where thou shalt rest ; 'Tis in love we bear thee thither
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the charm thy wisdom gave,
Can we give thee but a grave ?
Was thy worship at her shrine !
Advocate of truths divine,
We have been, and hoped to be,
For thy light—'tis dark with thee.
All whose creatures and whose laws
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
Back we give in filial trust :
To its chamber-but we must.