There's a tuneful river
In Erin's Isle,
Where the sunbeams quiver
In silvery smile;
Where the leaves that fall
'Neath the autumn sky,
Grow gem-like all,
And never die:
And such is the stream, by truth enlightened,
That leaves the breast by wisdom brightened,
Where even the joys that the storms dissever,
Are turned to gems that glow forever.
There's a darkling tide
In the Indian clime,
By whose herbless side
There's a sulphury slime--
To the flower that it touches,
A scorching wave,--
To the bird that approaches,
A weltering grave:--
And such are the waters of bitterness rising
In the desart bosom of dark disguising;
And the birds of joy, and the flowers of feeling,
Must perish, wherever that wave is stealing.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.