THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. AND thou to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate; With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright, All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled, Leaf after leaf its bosom rich and fair [air. Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient Wake thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, Some high or humble enterprise of good With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind, FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. BURNS. To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayreshire, WILD ROSE of Alloway! my thanks : Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, And will not thy death-doom be mine- Not so his memory, for whose sake The memory of Burns-a name That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory-be the rest Forgot-she's canonized his mind; And it is joy to speak the best We may of human kind. I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument--that tells to Heaven Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The rich, the brave, the strong; And if despondency weigh down There have been loftier themes than his, Purer and holier fires: Yet read the names that know not death; His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, On fields where brave men "die or do," What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, And when he breathes his master-lay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, And Burns-though brief the race he ran, Through care, and pain, and want, and wo, He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood and in youth, Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,› A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward, and of slave; A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow. |