Part 25

Yet hope ITSELF a brightness throws O'er all our labours and our woes; While dark foreboding Care A thousand ills will oft portend, That Providence may ne'er intend The trembling heart to bear.

Or if they come, it oft appears, Our woes are lighter than our fears, And far more bravely borne. Then let us not enhance our doom But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom Expect the rising morn.

Because the road is rough and long, Shall we despise the skylark's song, That cheers the wanderer's way? Or trample down, with reckless feet, The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet, Because they soon decay?

Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by, Because the next is bleak and drear; Or not enjoy a smiling sky, Because a tempest may be near?

No! while we journey on our way, We'll smile on every lovely thing; And ever, as they pass away, To memory and hope we'll cling.

And though that awful river flows Before us, when the journey's past, Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes Most dreadful--shrink not--'tis the last!

Though icy cold, and dark, and deep; Beyond it smiles that blessed shore, Where none shall suffer, none shall weep, And bliss shall reign for evermore!

APPEAL.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely My days pass heavily, I'm weary of repining; Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings For thee, from day to day, My hopes, so often blighted, Thou wouldst not thus delay!

THE STUDENT'S SERENADE.

I have slept upon my couch, But my spirit did not rest, For the labours of the day Yet my weary soul opprest;

And before my dreaming eyes Still the learned volumes lay, And I could not close their leaves, And I could not turn away.

But I oped my eyes at last, And I heard a muffled sound; 'Twas the night-breeze, come to say That the snow was on the ground.

Then I knew that there was rest On the mountain's bosom free; So I left my fevered couch, And I flew to waken thee!

I have flown to waken thee-- For, if thou wilt not arise, Then my soul can drink no peace From these holy moonlight skies.

And this waste of virgin snow To my sight will not be fair, Unless thou wilt smiling come, Love, to wander with me there.

Then, awake! Maria, wake! For, if thou couldst only know How the quiet moonlight sleeps On this wilderness of snow,

And the groves of ancient trees, In their snowy garb arrayed, Till they stretch into the gloom Of the distant valley's shade;

I know thou wouldst rejoice To inhale this bracing air; Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep To behold a scene so fair.

O'er these wintry wilds, ALONE, Thou wouldst joy to wander free; And it will not please thee less, Though that bliss be shared with me.

THE CAPTIVE DOVE.

Poor restless dove, I pity thee; And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity, And in thy woes forget mine own.

To see thee stand prepared to fly, And flap those useless wings of thine, And gaze into the distant sky, Would melt a harder heart than mine.

In vain--in vain! Thou canst not rise: Thy prison roof confines thee there; Its slender wires delude thine eyes, And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free In sunny mead and shady grove, And far beyond the rolling sea, In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate Thy little drooping heart to cheer, And share with thee thy captive state, Thou couldst be happy even there.