I Go, Sweet Friends!

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me When spring’s young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander’d far and free In those bright hours, the violet’s hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear, From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear, Think on me then--I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth, When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze; For dear hath been its evening mirth To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh! when music’s voice is heard To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d, Think of me then!--I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

“No more of talk where God or angel guest With man, as with his friend, familiar used To sit indulgent and with him partake Rural repast.” Milton.

Are ye for ever to your skies departed? Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted Through Eden’s fresh and flowering shades of yore! Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye--our faded earth beholds you not.

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, Man wander’d from his Paradise away; Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, Came down, high guests! in many a later day, And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper’s eye, That saw your hosts ascending and descending On those bright steps between the earth and sky: Trembling he woke, and bow’d o’er glory’s trace, And worshipp’d awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar’s brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing As mortal vision might but ill endure; Along the stream the living chariot bearing, With its high crystal arch, intensely pure; And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son? --Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling, Ye left, and by th’ unseal’d sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling, That He they sought had triumph’d and was gone. Now have ye left us for the brighter shore; Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. Though the fresh glory of those days be over, When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o’ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, Yields up life’s treasures unto Him who gave? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill: One, One is near--a spirit holier still!

Ezekiel, chap. x.

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

Oh! how could Fancy crown with thee In ancient days the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant! is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er, Where song’s full notes once peal’d around, But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee with exulting strains Around the victor’s tent: Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave.

Where sleeps the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past; Where, through the halls of glory gone, Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface Each record of the grand and fair; Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Beneath a blue Italian sky, Hath naught of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry! And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race-- Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath pass’d, and left no trace. But there thou art!--thy foliage bright Unchanged the mountain storm can brave; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or deck the humblest grave!

’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see-- The marvels of all ages fled Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength; Days pass--thou ivy never sere!-- And all is thine at length!

“Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying, Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying; Violets are gone from their grassy dell, With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell; The rose from the garden hath pass’d away-- Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled Ever around thee, my gentle child! Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. Roses may vanish, but this will stay-- Happy and bright is thy natal day!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play With bounding heart, my boy! Before thee lies a long bright day Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream To cloud thy fearless eye: Long be it thus!--life’s early stream Should still reflect the sky.

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim On thy young spirit’s wings, Now in thy mom forget not Him From whom each pure thought springs.

So, in the onward vale of tears, Where’er thy path may be, When strength hath bow’d to evil years, He will remember thee!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

Fear was within the tossing bark When stormy winds grew loud, And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bow’d.

And men stood breathless in their dread, And baffled in their skill; But One was there, who rose and said To the wild sea--Be still!

And the wind ceased--it ceased! that word Pass’d through the gloomy sky: The troubled billows knew their Lord, And fell beneath His eye.

And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast; They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep When sultry day is past.

O Thou! that in its wildest hour Didst rule the tempest’s mood, Send thy meek spirit forth in power, Soft on our souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow’s pride Thy mandate to fulfil! Oh, speak to passion’s raging tide, Speak, and say, “Peace, be still!”