To yon pernicious island I repair,
He speaks, and melts in air. The youth o'er walks of jasper takes his flight; And bounds and blazes in eternal light.
Aн, who art thou, of more than mortal birth, Whom Heaven adorns with beauty's brightest beam?
On wings of speed why spurn'st thou thus the earth? 'Known but to few, OCCASION is my name. No rest I find, for underneath my feet
The eternal circle rolls that speeds my way; Not the strong eagle wings her course so fleet; And these my glittering pinions I display, That from the dazzling sight thine eyes may turn away;
In full luxuriance o'er my angel face
Float my thick tresses, free and unconfined, That through the veil my features few may trace; But not one lock adorns my head behind. Once past, for ever gone, no mortal might Shall bid the circling wheel return again.' But who is she, companion of thy flight?
'REPENTANCE! if thou grasp at me in vain, Then must thou in thine arms her loathsome form retain.'
And now, while heedless of the truths I sing,
Vain thoughts and fond desires thy time employ,
Ah, seest thou not-on swift but silent wing
The form that smiled so fair has glided by.
INSCRIPTION UNDER AN HOURGLASS,
IN A GROTTO NEAR THE WATER.
THIS bubbling stream not uninstructive flows,
Nor idly loiters to its destined main:
Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows,
And bids thee blush, whose days are spent in vain.
Nor void of moral, though unheeded, glides
Time's current stealing on with silent haste;
For lo! each falling sand his folly chides
Who lets one precious moment run to waste.
I AM not concern'd to know
What to-morrow Fate will do:
'Tis enough that I can say,
I've possess'd myself to-day:
Then, if haply midnight-death
Seize my flesh and stop my breath,
A Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.
Glittering stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honours that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own:
Riches that the world bestows
She can take and I can lose ;
But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.
I've a mighty part within,
That the world hath never seen;
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining boughs
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flowery tree
All the Seasons you may see;
Notions, in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refined, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love;
There, beneath the smiling skies,
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now, upon some shining top,
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.
There are endless beauties more,
Earth hath no resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul:
"Tis a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its own,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis, and brighter far
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery stage
Cannot coast it in an age;
Harts or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand days or more.
Yet the silly wandering mind,
Loath to be too much confined,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round the narrow shores,
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence:
Or she sits at Fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And to' herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.
TO BLOSSOMS.
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush, and gently smile,
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite!
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, awhile, they glide
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
SHALL man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear,
Oft but a moment, and at most
A momentary year?
There was a time,—that time is pass'd,
When, Youth! I bloomed like thee;
A time will come,-'tis coming fast,
When thou shalt fade like me :
Like me through varying seasons range, And past enjoyments mourn;
For ah! the sweetest spring shall change To winter in its turn.
In Infancy, my vernal prime,
When life itself was new,
Amusement pluck'd the wings of Time, Yet swifter still he flew.
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