ON THE SHORE OF A SMALL LAKE ABOVE THE HOUSE.

AH! could I speak, I'd tell them then,
How glad a quiet life can be;
From glory far, and haunts of men,
By rippling brook, and grey oak tree.

Yet would I say that once my heart
Pined for those gayer, glitt'ring things;
And suffer'd many a silent smart,
While Fortune chain'd its eager wings.

It dream'd, that sweet it were to hear
The thousands shout its honor'd name;
And bless'd were e'en a brief career,
That ended at the shrine of Fame.

Nor as I write that word e'en now,
Lies tranquil quite my youthful breast;
I feel the old emotion glow,
Waked by the glorious name from rest.

It would not sleep, and leave again
My soul in peace, to muse and stray:
Thought I, its fire were made in vain,
To shine, to grieve me, and decay.

I deem the day will yet be mine,
(Though first the grave my home must be,)
When Glory's star will o'er me shine,
And Honor ope its gates for me.

Those feelings by th' Almighty given,
Which He has bounded in their flight,
(Like wand'ring fire drawn down from heav'n,
An altar's narrow shrine to light

When those, their earthly task have done,
By stern affliction tutor'd here,
I deem they'll mount where thought would shun
To track their measureless career.

Not crowns obtain'd, nor battles fought,
Nor mortal pomps shall grace the day;
But nobler deeds than ere were thought,
Shall give Ambition's footsteps way.

To bless the needy in that hour
Not earthly treasure shall be given;
I'll help him with an angel's power,
And yield a blessing, spared from heaven.