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How canst thou move my fix'd regret,
Or how allure me to forget,

When there is nought in earth, sea, sky,
But hath a Voice to Memory?

What speaks the sinking orb of day?—
Of hope, as quick to pass away!

What speaks the pale and drooping flower?-
Of joy, that withers in an hour!
What speaks the balmy breath of eve?—
Of sighs as sweet, that could deceive!
What speaks the music of the bird?—
Of strains more soft, no longer heard!
What speaks still ocean's glassy breast ?-
Of peace as brief, as false a rest!

What speaks each wave that leaves the shore?-
Of days that pass, to come no more!
What speaks the far-receding sail ?—
Of faithless fortune's changing gale!
What speaks the pure and pendent dew?—
Of tears as fresh, as silent too!

What speaks the deep'ning gloom of night ?-
Of woe, succeeding to delight!

What speaks each brightly-twinkling star?—
Of eyes more soft-more radiant far!
What speaks the blue expanse of Heaven!-
Of plighted vows in sunder riven,
Recorded there though here forgiven!
Thus is there nought in earth, sea, sky,
But hath a Voice to Memory !-
A voice that will be heard, as now,
fill o'er this eye and aching brow,
His welcome shadow Death shall cast,
And this fond heart has throbb'd its last!



O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me: Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

But was it such ?-It was-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possessions! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, the confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd :
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)

Could those few pleasant days again appear, [here?
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breath, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd—
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,

* Garth

Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem'd t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to sooth me left.



THOU UNCREATE, UNSEEN, and UNDEFIN'D, Source of all life, and fountain of the mind, Pervading SPIRIT, whom no eye can trace, Felt through all time, and working in all space,— Imagination cannot paint that spot,

Around, above, beneath, where Thou art not!

Before the glad stars hymn'd to new-born

Or young Creation revel'd in its birth,


Thy Spirit mov'd upon the pregnant deep,
Unchain'd the waveless waters from their sleep,
Bade Time's majestic wings to be unfurl'd,
And out of Darkness drew the breathing World!

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