G. Wallingford Clarke

WHOE’ER thou art, to whom this secret shade

Inviting seems, where many a wild flower flings

Its odor round, and many a murmur soothes

Of distant falling waters the pleased ear;—

If solitude may claim thy thoughts awhile,

Here rest and meditate—her cell is here.

And say, does love thy willing bosom bind,

Thy heart all anxiousness,—thy soul all sigh?

Haply the virgin, in whose clasping arms

A promised paradise thy fancy paints,

Whose swelling bosom heaves upon the sight

More beautiful than ocean’s foam-tipt wave—

Whose kindling eyes, with lavish lustre, thrill

Thy trembling frame,—(a meek simplicity,

And innocence assuming,—specious show!)

Exults, in wanton triumph, at thy sighs,

And mocks their incense.—Rouse thee from thy trance;

And let the light of reason guide thee safe

To love’s pure altar. Does ambition urge

Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths?—Beware!

Think how the storm can rage:—yet the rough blast

That lays the mighty oak a ruin round,

With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven,

Passes as harmless o’er the lowly blossom,

As does the zephyr’s sigh. And rivers strong,

Rushing their rugged channels through, each rock,

Opposing, chafes to angry foam and roar.

While the hush’d stream, fed from its placid fount,

Winds through the flow’ry vale its silver way:

And, as a quiet pilgrim seeks his shrine,

Flows on, to wed with ocean’s distant tide.

Mortal!—whoe’er thou art, should thy pursuit

Be happiness—thou need’st not wander far,

If in thy breast no baneful passions wage

Unholy warfare; and religion mild

Has led thy steps to her own hallow’d mount,

Where hope, with upward eye, and seraph wand

Points to the sky:—but if thy blacken’d heart

Nourish revenge, or hatred, or the asp

Of envy pale—or discontentment’s gall

O’erflows within—or filthy avarice

Disturbs thy dreams,—thou, curst of heaven, shalt find

Peace but a sound—and happiness a shade!