O give me, O give me the wings of a dove! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG. Lines Written in a Church-yard. "It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias." METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom? But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! Affrighted he shrinketh away; For see, they would pen him below In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, Shall we build to the purple of pride? To the trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside, And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, To Riches? Alas, 't is in vain! Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! Bat the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have withered and died, Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies HERBERT KNOWLES. The Mariner's Dream. IN slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere' He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck; Amazement confronts him with images dire; Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave! O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,— Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, Old Grimes. WILLIAM DIMOND. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man We never shall see more; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, Kind words he ever had for all, His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, But good old Grimes is now at rest, He modest merit sought to find, His neighbors he did not abuse, He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. |