Lovely as the morning flowers,
  That bloom so fresh and gay,
I saw a beauteous fair one decked
  In the bridal’s bright array;
But she, who had, at morning rise,
  Exulted in her bloom,
Was doom’d ere evening’s sun had set,
  To grace the silent tomb.

Alas! that things so beautiful,
  So soon must pass away,
And all of earth that’s loveliest
  Must moulder in the clay;
But well we know those charms so bright,
  Which Heaven hath form’d in love,
Tho’ ravaged by death’s icy hand,
  Shall bloom again above!

TAKE THE HARP.

TO KATE.

’Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the “loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures,” the beauty and grandeur of the place.

Take the harp, nor longer leave it
  Sighing on the willow tree;
Pass thy gentle fingers o’er it,
  And awake its melody;
The streams tho’ icy chains may bind them,
  Still will murmur back thy trill,
And the roses wild, though blasted,
  On thy cheeks are blooming still.

Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers
  The lone groves and valleys fill;
And tho’ winter’s frosts have sear’d them,
  Thou canst dream they’re beauteous still—­
Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure,
  And wild flowers above them rise;
What tho’ chilly blasts have strewn them,
  Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs!

Take the harp, nor on it dirges
  Longer let Eolus play;
Touch it, and those notes of sadness
  Change to joyous rhapsody! 
And tho’ the grape, the gift of Autumn,
  Has been prest to crown the bowl—­
Still in thy tresses shine its clusters,
  While down thy snowy neck they roll.

Take the harp, and wake its numbers
  To thy sister planet’s praise,
As up the eastern sky she blazes,
  Followed by the morning rays;
Queen of starry heaven beaming,
  From her azure realm afar;
So thou dost shine midst beauty’s daughters,
  Love’s bright and glorious morning star.

DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

    The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E.
    McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania.  Miss
    McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.

        I saw thy form in youthful prime,
          Nor thought that pale Decay
        Would steal before the steps of Time,
          And waste its bloom away.

        —­Moore.

  And thou art dead,
        The gifted, the beautiful,
      Thy spirit’s fled! 
  Thou, the fairest ’mong ten thousand, art no more! 
  Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb—­
  He hath touched thee—­thou hast left us in thy bloom!