Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/249

 Like Ossian's music, pleasant to the ear, And mournful to the soul. It is the voice Of days departed, and I seem to hear Their chiding spirit borne upon the blast. May I escape the pale and gliding ghosts Of mispent hours; be shielded from their glance Dark and terrific; rather may I hear The plaintive murmurs of those hours of woe Long past, but not forgotten. They are like The troubled sighing of the eastern gale, Passing o'er broken ruins. But a breath, Sweet as the sigh of morn, mild as the breeze That sweeps the harp of Eolus, meets my ear. Days of my childhood, is not this thy voice So changeful and so sweet? Ah! well I know That doubtful melody: it sooths my soul.

I see the pictur'd hours, I see the shades Of infancy and mental darkness pass, As I have seen the night's dim shadows fleet. Forth steps the morning on the misty hills, Trembling and unconfirm'd; and the dim lamp Of reason, scarcely lighted, aids her dawn. While slowly on a dark mysterious world Enters a stranger, but of little note Save to the eye of fond parental love.

Spirit, universal and unseen! Prompting the heart of man to kindest deeds Of care, forbearance, or anxiety,