Our lives are similar, our fates the same; From worldly evil or inglorious grave; XXI. THE BUTTERFLY. THE Butterfly seemed to the ancients, the soul, And spurning the worm, and its earthly control, It soared with the freedom of mind. Apt emblem, indeed, is the grovelling worm, It dies, and the light and the rich penciled form Thus man, in his mortal enclosure confined, 'Till his spirit, released, on the heavenward wind, Ascends to the mansions of love. XXII. REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD. [Journal. Portsmouth.] I STAND among the dark grey stones; Beneath me are the mouldering bones And here, perhaps, they mused like me; And knew that they were soon to be A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER. That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught, Yet sense and passion held them slaves, Perhaps, like them, I too shall go, Oh God of mercy, make me know Nor let me idly spend it so, But make it fit for heaven. 119 XXIII. A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER. [Courier. Charleston.] I CALLED for thee to bless thee-once I thought Thou would'st have soothed this bleeding, broken heart : A daughter's blessed consolation brought, And ere the ebbing drops did all depart, I hoped to see thee on the shore of life, Where I would linger for thy sweet farewell, And dying, bless in thee a virtuous wife, Then yield me to the flesh-dissolving cell. I wept before thou wast, that thou might'st be ; I waked with joy to guard thy infancy; That mantling o'er this frozen cheek of mine, They bless thee fallen, in the pangs of death. XXIV. THE LUNATIC GIRL. 'Twas on a moonshine night like this, we took our last farewell; Yet never heart was fond, like mine-how wild that dark bush stirred! The moon was round, the moon was bright, the moon was rising high; It was just such a pleasant night, and he was standing by; long ; 'Tis winter, and he 's flown away, or I should hear his song. The moon looks down upon the spring-she cannot melt it, though; The pretty bird has spread his wing, he does not love the snow; The winds blew hard-they say, at sea, such winds will raise a storm; I wish my love was here by me--my heart would keep him warm. I have a hat of straw for thee-I wove it and I wept, My fingers are so cold, they ache-I shall be frozen soon; 'Twould shock thy manly pride, perhaps, 'Twould pain thy filial heart to find, Then sleep, adventurous boy, and live Yes--I will say, adieu to thee, With scarce a sigh of sadness, And when afar the ship is borne, That wafts thee o'er the billow, I'll seek that vacant couch, and mourn But hark! I hear a distant cry, And now the signal-flag on high, I go--may that eternal friend, Restore thee, when thy wanderings end, XXVI. THE LAST REPOSE. [Daily Advertiser. Philadelphia.] YE dead! ye dead! your rest is sweet, from dreamy trouble free, weep, Shall bosom every secret ill, where ye long vigils keep. Ye solitary relics! pent, in earth, to earth a prey, Ye voiceless lips! how eloquent, to me, is your decay; O sweet the consecrated soil, where pilgrims cease to roam, Where fainting mortals end their toil, and misery finds a home; L And sweet the couch, where coral wreaths, deep in the surging brine, In ocean's dark unfathomed caves, the sleeping dust entwine. Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep, when tempests rode the cloud, Or when the night-star paled the deep, the deep became their shroud; Think not, for these, who press that bed, no seemly knell is rung, Think not, no rites embalm the dead, nor holy hymn is sung: Heard ye net on the midnight wave, when whispered anthems stole ? 'Twas, o'er the seaboy's early grave, a requiem for his soul. Dear to the shipwreck'd is the port, where on a stormless sea, His barque rides safe from every gale, from shoals and quicksands free; Dear to the wanderer is the star, that points his doubtful way, That cheers and guides him when, afar, his faltering footsteps stray; And dear the hour when I, this head, may pillow on its rest, |