The red man and the white, together sleep That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep Awakes them not--and I a wandering boy, Will not with my sad song their manes annoy.
I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile, To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle; Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,-- How rapid Time, thy desolating march!
Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot; What I have felt shall not be soon forgot: Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep; Your's is all calm, but _I_ must live to weep.
[Footnote 1: It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young _Mohawk warrior_."]
[Footnote 2: Indian term for a great man.]
How softly sweet this zephyr night! To Venus sends her brilliant light! And Heav'n's inhabitants unite Each kindly beam, To put fell darkness' train to flight, With gentle gleam.
The vessel's sides the waters wake, And waveless as the bounded lake, A solemn slumber seem to take Extending wide;-- Along the ship they sparkling break And gem the tide.
Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find An entrance in the pensive mind, But such as virtue has refined, The past must smile-- And flatt'ring fancy will be kind, And hope beguile.
Blest silence! solitary friend-- My thoughts with thee to _home_ I send; And _there_ absorbed my sorrows end-- In vain I roam-- As blossoms to the day-star tend, So I to home.
Not more I owe that glorious ray That beams the blessing of the day; Not more my gratitude I pay For air and light-- Than for that Home now far away-- First, best delight.
A little while, and that blest spot, From mem'ry shall raze each blot, And all my wand'rings there forgot, At last I'll rest-- No sorrow shall disturb the cot So loved, so blest.
A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by Yon fading forest; Upon its rushing wings is borne A voice sad as the anthem's tone Above the dead: It is the wild wind's hymn of death, Which pours in plaintive strains its breath O'er autumn woods; When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm, Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form Sinks to its tomb. Sad relics of the dying year; Thy springtide glories now are sear, And all departed: Where now's thy fairy robe of spring, The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing Once wove for thee? Say, where's that gush of melody Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee In thy summer bowers? Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake Thy rustling leaves? Thy robe--thy song have past away, And the funeral pall and the funeral lay Alone are thine! How oft when summer's azure sky Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye Of sunset's glow, I've lov'd to wander through thy bright And verdant bowers, gilt with light Of parting day; To list to the soft, faint melody Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by On the passing breeze-- Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen Was pictured all thy fairy scene In mimic art;-- How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming, Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming Reflected there. But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone I stray'd. With me there wander'd one Of gentler mould, Around whose seraph form awakening, Young beauty's morning light was breaking In roseate beam-- And round whose stainless brow fond Love, And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove Of freshest bloom. Thou sad memento of the tomb! Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom, E'er fade like thee? Shall Time's chill mildew on it light, Or sorrow breathe its _autumn_ blight Upon its flowers? A voice is in each falling leaf Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"-- _Thus fade its hopes!_ Then mid that wreath of fading flowers Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, Oh! twine that flower Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom Immortal lives, beyond the tomb-- Bright SHARON'S ROSE.