Part 7

O, Take the maddening bowl away! Remove the poisonous cup! My soul is sick--its burning ray Hath drunk my spirit up: Take--take it from my loathing lip Ere madness fires my brain; Take--take it hence! nor let me sip Its liquid death again. O dash it on the thirsty earth, For I will drink no more: It cannot cheer the heart with mirth That grief hath wounded sore; For serpents wreath its sparkling brim, And adders lurk below: It hath no soothing charms for him Who sinks oppress'd with wo. Say not, "Behold its ruddy hue-- O press it to thy lips!" For 'tis more deadly than the dew That from the Upas drips; It is more poisonous than the stream Which deadly nightshade leaves: Its joys are transient as the beam That lights its ruddy waves. Say not "It hath a powerful spell To sooth the soul of care;" Say not, "It calms the bosom's swell And drives away despair!" Art thou its votary?--ask thy soul-- Thy soul in misery deep-- Yea, ask thy conscience if the bowl Can give _eternal sleep_! Then, hence, away! thou deadly foe Of happiness the whole; Away--away!--I feel thy blow, Thou _palsy_ of the soul! Henceforth I ask no more of thee, Thou bane of Adam's race, But to a heavenly fountain flee, And drink the _dews of grace_.

FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.

HOPE.

For we have not a high priest who cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities: but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

Heb. iv. 15.

When gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark, and friends are few, On him I lean, who, not in vain, Experienc'd every human pain, He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears.

If aught should tempt my soul to stray, From heavenly virtue's narrow way, To fly the good I would pursue, Or do the sin I would not do, Still he who felt temptation's power, Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.

If wounded love my bosom swell, Deceiv'd by those I priz'd too well, He shall his pitying aid bestow, Who felt on earth severer wo; At once betrayed, denied, or fled, By all that shar'd his daily bread.

When vexing thoughts within me rise, And, sore dismay'd my spirit dies, Yet he who once vouchsaf'd to bear, The sickening anguish of despair, Shall sweetly sooth; shall gently dry, The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.

When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, Which covers all that was a friend, And from his voice, his hand, his smile, Divides me--for a little while-- Thou, Saviour see'st the tears I shed, For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.

And O, when I have safely past, Through every conflict--but the last, Still, still unchanging, watch beside, My painful bed--for thou hast died; Then point to realms of cloudless day, And wipe the latest tear away.

A. B. C.

TO MY WIFE,

_On the Anniversary of her Wedding-day which was also her Birth-day._

BY SAMUEL BISHOP.

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed"-- So, fourteen years ago, I said.-- Behold another ring!--"for what?" "To wed thee o'er again?"--Why not? With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd, And all my Molly then appear'd. If she, by merit since disclos'd, Prove twice the woman I suppos'd, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow. Here then to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine,) To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token and a pledge I bring: With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which before untried The wife has added to the bride: Those virtues, whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as love's. And why?--They shew me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things--but repentance.

THE ICELANDER'S SONG.

From a MS. Volume of Poems, by Mr. G. RATHBONE.

The southern may talk of his meads crown'd with flow'rs, Where the gale, breathing incense, unceasingly flies; He may vaunt the rich hue of his rose-tangled bowers Or the sapphire and gold of his bright sunny skies; But it is not a theme that will light up emotion In an Icelander's breast; since his pride and his boast Are his hoar-cover'd mountains, that frown on the ocean, Lit up with the ice-blink that girdles the coast.

When the winter of night darkles round him all dreary, And his snow-bosom'd hills mourn the absence of day, With a heart void of care, and with limbs seldom weary, He launches his bark in pursuit of his prey; Rough is his bed, and uneasy his pillow, When far off in ocean he rambles from home; Blithe scuds his boat, as her prow cleaves the billow Of the gem-spangled brine, with its ridges of foam.

Dear is the dawn of the fork'd northern light, That illumines old Hecla's broad cone with its rays; And dearer its splendour, increasingly bright, When the peaks of the ice-bergs appear in the blaze: Brightly it plays on his dart's glossy pride, When it flies, steep'd in spray, on the snake's scaly crest, To bury its point in the whale's finny hide, Or flesh its curv'd barb in the sea-lion's chest.

Dear is the summer of day, when the fountains, Unfetter'd and free, pour the bright crystal stream; Dear is the cataract's leap in the mountains, When sparkling at night in the moon's silver beam; Dear are the shoals where the sea-horse is bounding, With his icicled mane and his eyeballs of fire; But dearer than all, is the comfort surrounding The wife of his choice, and the hearth of his sire.

TO THE SNOW-DROP.

Joyous Herald of the Spring, Pretty snow-drop, hail! With thee, modest trembler, bring Summer's balmy gale.

Com'st to tell us Winter's fled? Bright informer, hail! Welcome guest, why hang thy head. Why thy cheek so pale?

Dost thou droop thy head in wo, Poor glory of an hour? Since not the Summer's heat shall glow For thee, thou short-liv'd flow'r

Thou art only come, alas! To tell us spring is near; Like a fleeting shade to pass, Droop, and disappear.

Thus some son of Virtue may, Tread his bright career, Guide by mild Religion's ray, Erring Mortals here:

Ere his Winter toils are done, Or Summer hopes arise, Sinks he, youth and vigour gone, Points to heav'n--and dies.--HELEN.

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