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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film^s en commenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparattra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, seion le cas: le symboie — »- signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmte d des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clich6, 11 est f llmA d partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 < i a-' W '\:l '«■« ;- /w^ ' \ £ f \ \ THE MOURNER'S TRIBUTE; ^* EFFUSIONS OF MELANCHOLY HOURS. i ! ^ ' » »Y M. ETHELIND SAWTELL. IhftTS twined b wreath of nature's wildest flowers, llie sad eiltisions of reflective hoars. Glomny the tinges whidi its blossoms wear, But thejr are emblems of eorrodinff care. Why sliould I call the ivy's dasninK leaf? There is not one to still {he roiee <» grief- There is not one to shed aminglbMr wui The ivy, then, hath no memraial here. Nor yet may I the ralest rose nnite. ^wt hatii been cankered with fSste's flxM spring blight. ItbloomethnotapiMiafli^gboi^ r "e ^^ » l%at l lored Oo?emor and his amiable family fnnn those to whom they were so mneh endeared, still the patronage so graciously bestowed has possessed the .most gratifying influence. It is, therefore, Madam, WITH THE MOST PROFOUND RESPECT AND GRATITUDE, IS DEDICATED TO YOUR LADYSHIP, BY Your Ladyship's most obedient Humble sarrant, ». THE AUTHOR. ^ ^^'^■' r5£fe^iir:B::.-r- a n :fX«'- ' .J. tM MKB ; ?:rrrji;.- - ; ;a r.:-;3r rrrr-^rrnr^-? PREFACE. The mourner, who is induced to appeal to the public, and to offer these sad effusions of her pen, as an authoress feels deeply that there will be many who will think harshly of her presenting such ; but it is to be remembered that the appeal is made as a widow in reduced circumstances, and as a stranger in a land without one tie of affinity. Her mind has been trained early to sorrow and affliction, and therefore the productions of her muse are tinctured, generally, with the sway of her own dejected feelings. Her impressions are those of sorrow, and from that source is derived the plaintive tone of the " Mourner's Tribute." -^.t # - • * « 1 9 1 i ['" w 'S ■^ \ . ■' •) \ /; - . * CONTENTS. J. PAOB The Druid's Rite, - - - - 9 Weep not for me, ^ - - - 18 The Still Small Voice, - - - % - 16 EUena and Lorenzo, or, the Wave of Death, - IT The Last Request of Sir John Moore, - 39 Peace — ^be still 1 - • .- ^ 88 The Voice of Sound, - - * - . %6 The Funeral of a Soldier of the 85th Regiment, 87 The Gipsey's Prophecy, - - - . 39 Mary Magdalene, a Tradition of Nain, 41 The Parting, - - - - . - 55 The Panic, a Comedy, - - - 67 The Kindred Heart, - - _ - i - es The Lost Smile, - • - - 65 The Sacrifice, - - - 67 Forget her not, - - - - 09 The Lonely Captive, -. 71 iM^ 4- vi. CONTENTS* The Home for me, • ~ . To the Blessed Virgin, .... The Dream, > • - ■ • > The Dying Mother's Blessing, .... Farewell to an Adopted Land, . - . The Midnight March, • . •- » ^ The Toung Captive's Lament, . - * , '. The Light Bark, ..... The Bride, ...... The Mother's Cherished Elm, ^ - . { A Tribute tq the Memory of the late Lieutenant Weir, - Christmas Evergreens, .... Lines to a Brother, on his Departure, To the Sorel Volunteers, on their receiving their Arms, The Alien's First Love, The Accepted One, . . . The Markham Broomstick, a Tale of St. Denis, The Fading Rose, > - The Solitary Wood Pigeon, - - - - - Blanche of Navarre, a Tale illustrating the Passion of Love, The Disappointed, . . . . . The Church of St. Eustache, - ' n The St. Agnes Light-House ; or, the Parting of the Nore, The Wounded Deer, - . - - - The Omen Roses, > > > - • PAOK T 77 A 78 £k T 80 T 82 T 85 Fi 88 Zfl 91 Tl 94 A 96 Tl 100 A( 102 Tl 106 Mc 109 Th 111 Th lis Th 116 Sui 118 Th 121 Th 122 Th 125 Tl 167 Tl 159 162 T( 167 W iVo Tl " >«'»■.■ 5!lliB!J«JiJHl .1 CONTIMTf. ftt. VMB The Haunted Lute, * <• . * - in A Lay of Liberty, - 181 The Token Flowers, • • • . 188 To the Memory of the late Reverend John Jackion, - 185 The Minstrel'i Harp, * ' s m - 187 Fire, ■ , • - > ■ « 188 Zoology Personified ; or. My own Description, . 189 The Wood Duck, . i> - 186 A Farewell Song ; or. Evening Records, - 199 The Tablet, • . • ' • 201 Achievements of a Volunteer Corps, . 204 The Lidian's Refusal, « « « 206 Memoriab of Waterloo, • • . • . 206 The Emblem Cahn, - ti • * 919 The Only Son, : - . 214 The Meeting, • • • 217 Sunset on the St. Lawrence, a a «■ 219 Thine — only thine ! m m » « . 228 The Departure, tf • « 225 The Morning Watch, m ' m m . 229 The Rose of Jericho, - 230 The Wish, » « • . 235 Tfiink of me, - - ^ m m m 287 Where is my Rest ? « • « . 238 The Neglected, \ 289 3? - 1 T Viii. CONTENTS. ' '*■ PAGE Life, - - - i - - 243 The Sister's Bier, - - - ' ' 245 te The Step-Mother, - - - • " 248 P The Lone Canary, - "0" - - 254 The Funeral of a Volunteer Officer, 256 The Mourner's Consolation, - - - 261 Farewell to My Home, - - - - - 263 After receiving the Sacrament in Affliction, 266 The Willow, - - ' ' - - 269 u i ■ ■ . J, . - • ■% ■ ' ' -m- iJ 'ri * . ■ -'* '■ . -i*. >':-** '♦t ■ 1 :■ ;." - ,. ■' '.■/■.- -. -h .... ■ •.' !!llL_ •'■»# i:'^ THE DBUID'S RITE. ,. * fX ., » ^if k.li^Kr -J (-^i ^»^-;.*« f^tit^ >*; V.' ij. .v^* : A young Chieftaiii among the ancient Britons was attached to a vestal destined to become a Druidess. It was investigated ; and as he would not retract the vow he had pledged her, he was immolated by the Druid's vengeance. She soon followed him, and laid ip the same grave.— fliMory qftJie Ancient Sritont. The gloom that lingers on the sunset hour ^ /, Had not yet passed—- it left a chilling power On all around. The winds no murmurs gave)--^ ^^ ^^Xx The curfew's echo died upon the wave ; ^ ,, The sea-bird slept upon the ocean's breast, ■ 'kmiMt'i'fi Lulled to repose ; — ^the tall trees were at rest— ^^^^ %^ii% The closing flowers assumed their nightly huoj ^t^4^ll And the light leaves were silent as the dew. ' -^t^iit'h^i'. The distant hills gleamed through the evening mist, \'\- Their darkened heights the twilight shadows kissed ; ,> The rising moon looked from the cloudless skies ; .-^ ^;]| The time drew near for evening sacrifice ; .iri i^ I B 10 THE DRUID 8 RITE. And as her pale light in the heaven arose^ So all beneath woke from its soft repose. The curlew's shriek responded to the wave, And the night-wind moaned o*er the victim's grave ; And as it murmur'd through the lonely oak, A deep-toned voice in hollow accents spoke, " The hour at last is coihe : the full moon now Silvers the dark leaves of Our hallowed bough ; Propitious stars display their watching rays As if to bHghten in his lingering gaze. His spirit must depart. Away I away I The Druid's rite admits of no delay." The victim sighed— too ydung, too proud, to brave The utter darkneds of am 'unkh' ^ '•>miiD^_ » . 12 THE DRUIDS RITE. In mouldering rest, in one united grave Where shadowy boughs of Druid oak-trees wave. So drooped the rose, but, as it faded, shed Its sweetest fragrance round the unconscious dead, So lightly now the winds sigh o'er their breast, And the pale moon-beams kiss their place of rest. ?a sdl ■tu-0:Mi...Sif^ -* itejj-^'f-rr?! rtk-^i .'^v?o" :.: ..T '^m .■■*;. Kn ■ 1 ?tf ■*^: Vt«|."r. '■^•t ■ y!j V i rt.' i \^ J WEEP NOT FOR ME. r 0' : ■^l^fiT Mi 'm\ ■ 7iiri ■ Weep not for me, when I sleep in the tomb, And find repose in its unbroken gloom : Til pass away like some pale lonely flower, {When it hath wasted its unheeded power, And is forgot. t Weep not for me— my joys have been too few ; The tears that fall must be the Aoming dew. " Too young," thou sayst, " of life to be bereft ;" I But the blight cankered e'er the bud had left A broken stem. Weep not for me, though the long grass may wave In sighing murmurs o'er an early grave — j O'er my long home, yet one where peace may rest ; [And, while on earth, that must be from my breast Ever exiled. 14 W£EP NOT FOR ME. Weep not for me. Thou seest noughi to fade, And round my lip the smile hath rarely played. Weep for the loved — the happy, who depart, But not for one in whose lone broken heart Death can a balm infuse. ■It- -^^^i-'dt^m-.. .-,1<""'*.-T '"./iCr'Jj' , iJ«,:%i!4;-.£Si:^mtk>^ • jIU. iiT!'^' iV .>jj\* :jf-^ -^'^'■' ■:'•■'■ '''\ ;■:'■'■■■ -.''■■•■'-•■'' 'i ■. ''- _■"','■ balm infuse. THE STIiiL SMALL VOICE. " And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord* Bat the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind, an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake ; and after tiie earthquake, a ftre ; and after the flr<», a still SMALL voiCB.— 1 Kings, six 11, IS. Behold, the Lord passed by— the Almighty Lord ! And a strong blast upon the mountains poured, That rent the cloud-capt summits from Iheir steep, And dashed them in the foaming troubled deep, The impending rocks were into dust consigned ; But the Lord was not in the passing wind. Aftjg^ the wind a fearful earthquake passed. Which in its awful depths the mountains cast, And in its wide course, desolately grand, Deepening the chasms of the parting land, ..^^j^ The raging surface of Uie sea to mo6k ; ^^ '^ And where the bright bird's rainbow-spotted winge Seem the memoriab of unearthly ihingii> ^^ ^ % 18 ■# I SLLBNA AND LORENZO, Fanning the bosom of the trhadowy lake — Where the soft air's low music may but wake A silent eddy, o'er whose pearly gems The lilies droop upon their fragile stems, So purely imaged as if there they stayed To meet the bosom of each sister shade—- Where the blue mountains in the distance rise, Like the faint outlines of the twilight skies — And there, beneath their darkly foliaged brows, Amid the waving of the clustering boughs, Dwelt one strange being. Life no social joy jifielded to him ; his avarice could destroy Each gush of tenderness ; his sordid soul Could nought but interested thoughts control. But not alone he lingered 'mid these bowers : One dear companion soothed his lonely hours. And oft she strove to teach his ruthless heart ** To feel another's woe, and to imp. ^rt Pity's soft impulse ; but the struggling tear Vanished as morning dew-drops disappear From the unfolded blossom, when the sun Hath through the dark woods sheltering branches won A pathway of its own, unshadowed by One quive^^M|9eaf to linger tremblingly^ \Z 0R» THB WAV! OF DEATH. 19 Hb brow contracted with a haughty pride, Frowning on all—- none were to him allied, Save this lone minstrel of the blooming wild, Who, in her gentleness for ever smiled With a calm loving grace-r-yet she was ail- To move with lustre in the festive hall, ' ,< Through the light mazy dance. The wavy shade Of her long raven tresses round her played. Entwined with flowers. Hers was the thrilling lipne Of plaintive melody, in which alone Music's sad spirit lingers ; and her eye Was the pure tint of heaven, deepened by Its shadowy fringe, and, like the violet, dewed With unmarked tears in unknown solitude. She looked a dream's creation ; with her dwelt A voiceless sympathy, which can be felt . But never uttered. Her young heart was taught To cherish fondness, oft too firmly wrought In silence and untold ; for though her flowers, Amid the dark shade of those vineyard bowers, Seemed all that were her own, it was not so. From kindred hearts must genial feelings flow. Long had she loved — ^it banished not the rose From her soft cheek, nor shaded her repose X'' ■LLBMA AMB LOllBKKOy !l llji With dretms of uiiiottt ionow^t to Imt Wm the Mffht lonely star which could not err if^om iu fixei eircln, Mid, nnkttown Co teitiy It had been nurtui , with those chainf of thought And sweet ideas by ^^md faiu ^ wrought^ How could he doubt the proud, the high born brav«, Should be beloved ? Yet may affection save Fer treasures lor the outcast. Woman's heart ^^ .h dassling splendour bears no living part : Hers is the kve which purifies the dust ; In the world's flattering smiles she leans no tmat. Who was Lorenzo? — a poor orphan child, Whose reckless infuicy had been exiled From fostering greatness ; and when manhood came, Where was the opening to the path of hmt ? Not with the sword, for long had smiling peace Crowned the still vallies with its fidr increase. The harvest waved in nature's tribnte to The chainless breeze of heaven ^ the goklen hue Of the bound sheaves, which lay so richly there, Seemed as confided to the moon's lone ^rO) For here was man undoubting. How could then The shout of victory rouse that peaceful glen ? Nor might the sun of Mienee o'er him fling, Its kindling ray. Would not its naing bring f!l!i|l h i! ill!! Illlii 22 SLLENA AND LORENZOi 114 fV •W pMwJH The twilight of that idea — he was poor ? And was not that the haze which might ensure The dim eclipsing shadow ? But It past. And bright affection o'er him beamed at last ; And who may tell its ardour ? As it came Like the slow rising of a meteor flame. ,^^ Where some fringed weeping cloud its path may place Expressive of the darkness whence its trace .^s^fe i^^ Of streaming light had issued. From that cloud ^ t^fB What might love's own created visions shroud ? , Nought but its own decay ; and hers was such ■,.,.^ As cold deceptive feelings might not touch. With one embittering tint ; but often now The lowering frown dwelt on her father's brow, And once, as young Lorenzo passed before The shadowy stillness of the cottage door. He rose to meet him, and his boding eye / Looked with a withering firmness — <^ Hopelessly, Lorenzo, thou dost love. Couldst thou be brought ;|^ To gaze on her with one reflection fraught %feii^ With visioned dreams of hope ? No, I would fling ' ^^ Her fair form to yon deep and eddying spring i|«v^g M^ Beneath its clear and calmly murmuring wave? .^diAth ti^ To find an early and lamented grave, ,, *^i*«i^|limii »)| OR) THE WAVE OF DEATH. 9a aai»-#4. Uti4» fto J. Sooner than see her thine ; for thou hast nought. Speak not of feelings exquisitely wrought, — j Do not my herds which feed beside the rills Whiten the summits of the distant hills ? Are not my sheaves unnumbered, as they lay In the rich valley's shelter ? But, away I In some far foreign land thy path must be Since thou wouldst sting those who have cherished thee." Lorenzo stood as all the pride of youth Rushed to his brow, and energetic truth v^m .^ Rose to his lips — ^full of indignant fire ; But to the aged — and £llena's sire — -^•* Mrf What more than this. But in h^s heart there past A thought untold, which should those words outlast ; And he departed. Then the father turned - To the low-latticed room, where faintly burned ^^^^ ^^i£ EUena's taper. Bending to entwine Jj^^g i^^j-^ The starry wreaths of her clematis vine : ^|| ^t%. " Ellena, my fair child, thou must be still n:iiMwrimi^ In firm obedience to thy father's will. ..^^j^^j j,-j(j ki oifW Tomorrow's sun must set on thee a bride. »^>^ J^vlii nj^' Is justly proud, and he hath claimed thine hand.>i> d^MW Tifr f.m/. ■ i III I ^4 ftLLKKA AND LOREkZO) :$Qit,^^\ Thou canst not think those showety teaft of thin« Will stem the impulse of a wish like mine. Say, hath it been^ that thou hast ever lent One look, one smile, one accent of ass^t To him whom I hav6 banished ? His farewell To this bright vale is uttered. Thou wilt dwell In grandeur 'mid the proud ones of the earth. Oh, waste not, then, one thought on him whose birth Cannot be told. The pearl will gem thy hair And sparkling diamoi^ds mock its paleness there." -"^^ A pallid hue o'erspread EUena's cheek, ^^ ; ' ^ But her heart's bitterness she could not speak. For what were pearls her floating hair to braid, Were truth and faithful love to be betrayed ? And was he gone— the only cherished one ? Must she the wearying conflict meet alone, And sink beneath its power? Oh, M\ the*e cam<5 !^^ A soft light footstep, and the lattice frame ^.ri i^F Shook with a gentle touch. Could it be him, Who, in this moment of reflection dhn, ^' ^^^ ""^M Was at her side ? Her oak-tree 'mid the st6rm ^ -^J^fe'^ Of her bewildering thoughts. How swift we fott^^ "^f An ideal joy. But, yes I it was the voic#" ■* '^ Which coBld her anguished spirit bid rejoice-*'? ^fi^ 'v. OR, THE WAVE OP DEATH. 25 << Ellena, come, we must not linger here I If the poor outcast's lowly love is dear ', Yet unto thee ; and let not thy heart yearn Upon thy childhood's home. Peace will return, When far from hence ; and weep not for thy flowers, For other hills will yield us sweeter bowers. She gave her hand with fond confiding love, * ^ ^M v^ And then a low plaint from her captive dove ' **®*l'^ Recalled her-'steps, to set her favorite free : ^*^^^^¥^'* '^ In woman's heart a lingering spell must be ^ **«^^js t United with her home. Their path then lay Through a dark wooded valley, where the ray Of the pale waning moon declining sent A silvery sadness. Oft Lorenzo bent Over the timid girl, whose fawn-like speed, By fear inspired, was hastening. Oft, indeed. The fragile bud, whose leaves have not put forth. Resists the storm ; so the enduring worth . : ^\ Of young and first afiection can withstand "'^ "^" - - *^ Danger and exile in a foreign land — Rich in its own exertion. Wandering through L Poured o'er the deep, when the dim i^gean isle^ Gleam in the rich hues of its parting smiles, And the viiie-foliaged distant mountains rise Tinged with the splendour of illumined skies In changing radiance. But ere long a mist Faintly curled o'er the T^ater's breast, and kissed ThjB dewy shore ; then soon with feathery spray The white fringed billows seemed to mark their yifoy ; And a low, mournful, sadly mystic tone — A solemn echo of the ocean moan — ^^ " » . , ^- ■' ■ ■ , , ■ ■- ■ ■-.. . x_ , '._:.,:; ..H ■- ^?. ... M 'f %'i *V' OR, THE WAVE OF DEATH. 27 <^p ■ m \ rv« .■■.-{•r.vi <• >-t ',s jMr ' ^r? : rr*f!ttirfe' rf- ^- ml/ »i>i .♦*;•»■« ?^; Was heard amid the cliffs ; the vivid glare Of the incessant lightning, brightened where The heavy clouds were wandering, and the roar Of mingling winds along ^e pathless shore ^ > Wildly resounded through the tall sea^flowers, Green quivering reeds, and snowy-bosomed show^s* Lorenzo gazed — " Ellena, we must seek -^^^r ? i tt f^^ A place to shelter thee : the wreathing streak Of fringing vapor bodes a raging storm. Hasten j my love, or else thy fragile form .w^#«jr# I Will meet the coming blast. It is for me " "tiUfe ^i .*,„ ^ That thou art thus, with nought to shelter ihee^^^i^ Amid these desert rocks ;" — and, as he spoke, >?i^ili f Mi". The awful conflict of the tempest broke : '^ tiflf^fed&ifr The echoing thunder's heavy rolling sound ^ t ?f ^^if f Pealed its reverberating voice around, tf^nl >; Crushing the i^punt heart's hope. In vain retreat .i:^^^^ They sought to find, ^x: curling at their feet • 'kwic^'^ The ocean wavi^i^ere gathered. " Yon high rock," ^^ Lorenzo cried, " will shield thee from the shock iwii&ft^^'^i Of that approaching wave." They gained the height. But the rude blast was reckless in its might. Sweeping the rushing tide's swift torrent, borne t By the o'erpowering strength of mighty storm. m^ 't%t. ^- m i\.A- HtmW In lingering echoes, when the Pyrenees,^ liil ffqatj^jji IC> From their cold summits to the quickening breeze h(W Gave back the pealing shout. Corunna's plain, .flo^lM Amid the sunny vineyard hills of Spain, ' ^ 'itMm^ 1^ Woke with the sound ; but there the conqueror fell JUitH When the red field was gained. The clarion's swell A. Poured its rich voice, and then sank with the tone -•'^ Of anguish wrung from Moore. The faltering moan i Upon his lip repressed the ardent glow ^f # -sif oT Of conquest's joyfiilness. In anxious wo " ^n^mht*.) The mournful victors stood — proud in the might >|y -lyO Of England's triumph ; but the chilling blight 4[ ::•« do THE LAST R II : i:i 1 i Mi! ilM' Mill hi !| hjii ST ' i'!' Of death lay on the brow of him by whom The conflict had been won. The deepening gloom Spread with the slowness of the passing bier Which Scotia's sons were bearing to the rear In tearful grief. The dying conqueror spoke In calm undaunted firmnesS) for the stroke Fell as he wished. He said, that in the strife His country claimed the tribute of his life — That his was yielded in the proud embrace Of victory won by him, to leave its trace On glory's stainless batmer. His career Would close in deathless honor, and the tear Of triumph fall for him, in peace to blend "' 1^ With war's dim blood-stained laurels. Then Mie'lfriend Who by his side had stood, amid the din Of fearful fight, when oft " Close in I Close in I" ^^ Had be^n repeated, and each' noble rank Advanced resistlessly to fill the blaflk aodr? Their fallen comrades left. Where Briton's Wood ' -^^^'^ Had saturated Spain^ — too riiih a flood ^';V-: I ^^^ To be so wasted-^that young warrior then Jf ^» ^^;^i Claimed his next resting thought. He tittered, ** When Our victor king shfitU hear ray death, let not ^f'^*?0l^ My brave companion,^ Golbome, be forgot." W^ '■^ -T ^XT 111: I lii ?■■,; OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 31 ^'' The fainting hero's parting spirit won I Life's last best victory, through God's blessed Son. From conflict's triumph gone, and silent, 'mid The war camp's outcry, that freed soul hftd bid * I Farewell to earth ; and, at the chill ttmhiight, ^+^ ^«<^ I [By the pale gleaming torch's hidden Hgbt, ■ ^i^*,k, They laid the conqueror there beneath the sold Hiif Wh Of a strange lattd by foemen's footsteps trod, wl ';^4'i Hath not a rising star been Colbome's name jOp>noa ^^ In the bright splendour of Britannia's fame — ^l>i<^ JUftl' Conquest's sure metepr, and the beacon light . . , Of mercy's radiance? " His God and his right" u "# By him have been supported ; and shall we Not own, in fervent gratitude, that he v . Our Wellington of Canada has proved, ^ And from the freedom of our homes removed The flames of dark rebellion, when the brand Of burning treason lit the troubled land, And sacred peace in clemency restored ?^ When he unsheathed his glory-brightened sword And raised his trophied arm, upon his blade The sun-light looked but once e'er it delayed The rising murmur, and the voice of war Was hushed in faintly lingering echoes, far u •-'><^ ^# 'ir- -#if.« ■^r^^-r;- m Ill Mill ■'ill life : I II '! I ij i I liii [fllllili d£ THE LAST REQUEST. Amid the woods, to silence. He hath saved Us from its wreck ; and be the deed engraved On memory's dearest gem, and cherished in Each bosom which would faith and honor win. ' ^^^^ ^^i Long may the strength of Colbome's name illume Each loyal heart, amid the threatening gloom ^ q^j y. Of war and desolation ; or beneath ,^ ii0 Vod'; The lion banner, when the laurel wreath gtll & \{ Of conquest hath been won, let Colbome be The soldier's shout to fame and victory/ % iffilt4^l ti ihi^i ."^fn- % .a , • ■iiillii 1 v--^ a. ;H».t PEACE-BE STILL. 'VTf. And he arose and rebuked the winds, and said unto the sea, Peace — be still and the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.— JtfarAr iv. 39. Vi^TT »>;,■:>( ?V53'»'P"?T IjIItW ^•■.'•.11-1 it\.tiei It was the evening hush ; the full red moon i' '^ hv.L- Through the dim shadowy haze but faintly shone ; ^f h-^ The silvery star gleamed o'er the ocean foam, ;j j<^^^^ ; ^^^[-^ Like a pale circlet in its misty home ; »v tr^'vfjjj ;,-.{ i^dy The sleeping foliage of the shady palm , ^^.^^ ^.^i^i ^,15 Woke not the silence of the stilly calm ; i'^^.,r,M?; ;aK The drooping liliej wept the orient dew, .,; *.«,,,, ^,jU And Sharon's rose-buds paled their glowing hue ; ..ay The distant rippling of Siloam's spring ^^,,^^,,,,,^,1 ^,rr Won a low sigh from echo's murmuring ; ,,. ^v^, j^^^^ The twilight shadows mid the vine-leaves played ; t^ ^ The bright birds slept beneath the cedar's shade, ^^i'.?/ And with a spell the voicelesa woods seemed hushed, When the blue lightning o'er the sky's gloom flushed, And rising waves responded to the blast, 'h^ .4 ■{.,<.>= And quivering moon-beams o'er its foam-spray cast A fitful radiance through its floating veil, ,,. '^ H, ^^-.^ „ /. c (''-''■ tli hi "J ill 94 PEACE — BE STILL. mm Which showed afar the tall white-bosomed sail In the loud chill wind trembling. As the skiflf Seemed dashed against the high impending cliff, Each hand was raised to heaven for defence, * Each heart implored the aid of Providence — And it was there. He breathed forth, ** Peace — be still !"| And winds and waves alike those words fulfil. The voice of God was on the waters — hark I — / And all was still. Again the fragile bark ^ ^^ Awoke with its light oar the rippling sea, " ' " • ^sn^ That softly kissed the shore of Galilee ; The midnight air was hushed in fainting calm, Nor flung the odor from the spicy balm, c; Nor waved the bent stem of the broken flower : The storm had passed, and silence held its power — The Saviour's voice had bid the winds be still — The lucid waves were sleeping at His will. ' ' -"^ And when frail life is drawing to a close, *^ ^mi&^mli^ Oh I may His mercy mildly interpose */'^^ ' '^ ^' ' ■ When by the frowning storms of conscience wrecked, Oh 1 may His love its healing gift direct ;"'*i»'*^^" '"^^ And may the voice which lulled the ocean storm Soothe with forgiveness death's appaling form, ''* "''^^ And to the soul those blessed words fulfil";" * -f To the departing spirit — " Peace — be still I" T if'** .'J :e— be still !" THE tOICE OF SOUND. Dost thou not hear, in every passing sound Which softly floateth by, Some tone of rapture in its music found, . ■>. Of plaintive melody ? Is there not aught of solemn feeling shed. When the low midnight air Seems some lone spirit of the hallowed dead, Breathing for thee its prayer ? Or canst thou list, without a sad delight, The murmuring of the jsea ? " • Or is the moaning of the winds of night * * An untold mystery ? >< Doth not a voice from the neglected tomb Rise in the evening hour, . And break the silence of the twilight gloom, With deep, heart-thrilling power? ^^ ■♦ 36 THE VOICE OF SOUND. ¥% "*- V Or doth it not some painful thought renew, j Which memory would not urge, ■ When thou canst hear the lone and wild curlew Scream to the wind its dirge ? " y I If i hi mm And if these sounds thy soul can fill With sorrowful delight, Something there is congenial still, Which owns not earthly blight. \-M ;ttr. ii III li'ilir '■■• : .i ■ ^ trX ft n^i ai rm^/ f (■' i^*A '•jfrr ;^^;g-,: THE FUNERAL ,i,,.'-... ^ OF A SOLDIER OF THE 85th REGIMENT, aiW i Who had been heard to express his regret of his not dying in battle. List I List I — a mournful sound ^^j^ /j^ a Vv Wakes with its sadness the still air around. . c jj-^^jj^j/ J si/{ r' ?■ j'sb'y W5;» It is the murmur of the clarion's swell, Mingling in sorrow with the parting knell ; The solemn rolling of the muffled drum Deathlike falls on the ear ; and sadly from The thrilling deepness of the bugle's tone The low faint breeze has caught a plaintive moan ; ;. i,^^ And now the marked, the slow, and heavy tread j.^ fis#t Is heard advancing — leading forth the dead ! ,^ ijj^ ?? fl T And now upon the high and glittering spear ^r ^ ^^i^^, ? The sun-beam trembles, and around the bier ^,j Ysufi kt-: England's unfolding banners proudly wave, • j ^^'^ A soldier's glory tracing to his grave. ,^ ^ « .i vj^: ^.4^ -f^f^i. I !i liy I! m 1 1 38 THE FUNERAL OF A SOLDIER. * "■ ■i-i- One lonely tear hast thou not to bestow ? * f - Weep, for a brave heart death has now laid low — ' Weep, weep for one whom conquest oft hath thrilled. Look but around : each eye the tear hath filled. ' ^ His place was 'mid the proudest and the best v» Who in the red fight shivered lance and crest. . And blame thou not the soldier's ardent prayer. Which oft he breathed, that death would meet him there. Called from the battle-field, in glory's pride, "■ 'Mid dauntless hearts, whose courage had been tried, r Where the dyed steel was IJnked in each firm grasp, ^ And victory's echo lingered in the gasp Of parting breath — there, mid the mighty dead. It was his prayer his i^pirit would have fied. But no — a grave of peace hath been his doom, Though humble laurels will around it bloom. * Now earth's last blessing o'er him hath been poured. And dust is to its native dust restored. Then rest thee, soldier, in thy dreamless sleep Thou wilt not heed the tears we for thee weep. Again the bugles* deep-toned voices swell. But they to thee have breathed their last farewell ; The banner s folds upon the air are spread, But thou art left to moulder with the dead. ■% 'Hi sft Uiii ***% 4% 7- ' ,7,^/»f;*«. V'i f> 'iKff-t'lO 'UUt :V*f2U^i,A -i-r^. .f!:^l>/ „„>«i M'^^^<'4U^r'b -i'-r^u) i V : tm' THE GIPSY^S PROPHECY, m.4 4 ;%.u.;f 4 «'«¥.« it it r^^ little child was met by a gfipsy near the borders of a wood, who, crossing her md, said, " Pretty d«ar you are picking flowers, but your path through life will ! a thorny one." 'm'. 1 \)v\i h •>}s:fT'> •:?ji3r?^ I'iS IT was a lonely spot, the summer breeze -^ v«|A ^^^ , :^^j^/| llcarce waved the foliage of the tall ash trees, It softly through their fragrant blossoms played, LS though the genii of the forest shade [ad breathed a stillness o'er the drooping flowers- shadowy silence through the sunny bowers ►f noonday's brightness. Here I oft would stray, beneath the shelter of the elm to play ; ind once a voice breathed in mine infant ear, Come hither child and listen : thou shalt hear '^hat, in the bloom of youth, thy fate shall be. *ale was the star that marked thy destiny. 'he cypress wreath will all thy hopes entwine ; •"ew smiles of love will ever answer thine ; 40 THE GIPSEY S PROPHECY. ^! ^^11 IV: .:.!! ir .VI I Lonely thy path will be, with few to cheer, Or soothe thy sorrow with a mingling tear ; The world to thee will be a wilderness, Thy heart betrayed by its own tenderness ; - ^ Thou'lt seek aflfection, which is not for thee,A i!'!' In thine impending grief. Too hopelessly The blight is threatening on thine infant bud ; The flower must droop, when storms it hath withstood. Go gentle child — I will not check the smile Which curls thy laughing lip, but for a while, Too soon thy cheek will lose its roseate hue. Too often dimmed by thy lone tear-drops dew. Go, twine the violets round thy brow serene But as their tints decay, alike I ween, Sorrow will canker all thy future years ; "" ' ' '^^H^* r>>/^^ And in the grave thou wilt have done with tears. ^<^^*^* K n-m~ c:i*i pi:p m :fuiJmH "^M Miii#t4t '>mU'^^h-m-> !«»** ^■m^^m^ :^K■'■ *»^^^m:iW%V£M f J Ma r y ■ arose '■ --^^^ v^ ' 'i t - ^ "'V- From crimson pillows, where her soft repose ^s :i,mi:\ r £t Had been long and unbroken ; and she drew 4 Back with the silken cord the dark deep blue * «i?t«H Draperies wrought with gold. The sun's bright rays is Were shaded thence, and with a thoughtful gaze, B Magdalene looked upon the quiet street * . uwjiif HO Of Nain's city, whence the sea might meet '>hk 10 Beyond its walls. The flushed resplendent light ' 'hsm^k And shadows scattered by the softened might -'f Of the low-setting sun ; and far away, lo huA Like dim grey clouds, Judea's mountains lay. hm r^^iii iO 1^ fell 42 » V MARY MAGDALENE. ii P!! i! i|. -*♦ iXl &>-.>4 :* Many a rich bark deeply laden past Ri:«r*A O'er the still waters, as they gliding cast The hues of Nazareth's bright dyes o'er each wave, • Which crimsoned back the brilliant light they gave ; ' And gold and jewels from far distant lands Were freighted here to Nain's glittering sands ; And wreathed pearls, and silver gleaming piles, And ivory wrought from the Ionian isles. Then came the mariners' sweet echoes sung As the light oar the blue waves plashed among, And the white sails scarce to the breeze could bend Looking like clouds whose passing tints might blend On its low tide ; and then the vesper hymn The young birds warbled, as the earth grew dim, t'^',y luoi And o'er the city's towers eve's shadowy veil v,^ ft^?xf Nf- Hung in its solemn mist. But, oh I how frail \i jf >jvr isi O'er Magdalene's lone spirit was the calm ^ *— »3>/s<.|M Such scenes inspired : she did not feel the balm f^^v, ^n^ Of inward consolation, as the band -qwim^^oi «mtif f Of fair and playful maidens, hand in hand, m fe'maV! 1 Passed from the spilng of purest water there, # i^jr 'fm© f ?> Whilst her heart withered with its blighting CBre^h^lih hti And crowds of children danced to the glad sound ,(^f o^f' Of lutes and cymbals, training to the ground ;it^ jix|jb ^ ^ MARY MAGDALENE. I t 43 Long vines of flowers and interwoven wreaths, tirft vl^ And joyous tones which mirthful laughter breathes ■r^ttj Accorded well with music's harmony, ;?-« -. t*^ /|j|fit£i 4^1' But not with her sad feelings. Wearily ? jj^^ '^f.c^s nX Did Mary turn away from soothing peace, Uvti^l And sought in gushing tears how to release ^-^k'^mmm^ Her spirit from captivity. She leant , ,,i,^.; > ^Ut^ s;fj it*'!? Her drooping heavi wheie marble pillars sent %f*| A wreathed column forth, when lo I a sweet y rjcxioS »^ Accented voice breathed on her lone retreat, Is ^^ fctew J Poured in a plaintive Jewish song of old, --v-^^miiM. ^^m iiH Which, in its chastened sadness, could unfold i t^^fki oT A broken heart's deep sorrow; and a young *!^m'mM-h%ri^.' And lovely girl in pity o'er her hung, :»>,,^ #ii^f «4t ^kI^ f*^V Lowly and meek. The gentle rose-tint flushed ^i^ Her varying cheek, transparently that blushed, :%^^fi t*^^ As in her downcast eye there seemed to be l^fesjl ^ ^yyi' The mirror of her spirit's sympathy. ^m&M^h,m: kirn al Her sunny hair her graceful form half hid .^ nbiAt With clustering curls ; and mournful and unbid ^^ m^:^ She gazed on Mary's tears, who, as she wept, ,^^^1 1 ^ 1 4i 'Ill 'Villi m I mi !!!'!■■ '-'I fi 'r' i' li il 44 MARY MAGDALENE. My sorrow to have known. How darest thou .mv 5^<%t( Linger near me, when care is on my brow?"--f ivtsYm^t J^t The timid voice was stilled — the young fair head torrj.. In tears and silence bowed ; but anger fled %^iii Jij- From Mary's thoughts, and a mysterious change mM' h¥. Gleamed in her eye, for beautifully strange aa.^ii^f'n^ hti..- Was the pale captive's touching grief; it woke^ imc^h xs^i Pity's soft impulse, and she kindly spoke, ■ " t '<4> laf " Come hither, Addi — come, my drooping bird— aftor^ j I would not that my voice of woe was heard, ?■? imM^j But sing to me, and thou wilt bear thy part p/m'm%iW, To cheer the dampness of my heavy heart ; * #|iii*4iin!lasf)^ And the sweet cadence of thy music bring, tm>t! tt'>5l«;!^^ > To stir the still fount of its calm joy ; sing, ^4^Iip%>I -biu My Addi, sing : in exile thou art glad, :.:^.^i^i^':'^9^ Now wherefore, then, so silent and so sad ?" istf/ia*? ml " Oh I lady, the bright star which lit my path M m.M Is sunk in darkness — my loved Zimri hath '^mm^^' Been called by death — the lonely widow's son , i^^p.:^ From her is taken." Oh I then, Addi, shun All love but for the dead ; firmly I would > ;|^g>^f That thou shouldst cherish thine, not be subdued W^ By other wanderings, lest they depart, And leave the cold wreck of thy rifled heart J.W»' J^-- t MARY MAGDALENE. 45 Ji t>2?ig--i Like the chill waters of that sea whose waves '"'''f >^ «5 W Sullenly cover the long ancient graves ^^^ Of those proud cities iii iheir might destroyed '*^^' 'i'^'^ * For Great Jehovah's glory. Then the void ^-^ Of thy young spirit, like the fruit's pale hue On its banks clustering, would be blighted too.»*' -•^•^ ^^ ' *^ If thine aflfections perish, thou wilt be ^K-^^swa # Lone, sad, and desolate ; and then, like me, All bitterness within, and mouldering grief: ' ^'^'** The earnest joy of happy love is brief. -v* c'^iU . > 4 But, hark I what sounds of woe mine ear now fill, ^' **-*** ^ Rending the bosom with their bursting thrill ?" ^ ' "-'^'^'^ " Oh I lady," sobbed the meek and weeping slave, <^^^*i^*- " 'Tis Zimri's mother's wail. They to the grave ^ *^ ** Now bear him forth ; and hear his kinsmen weep,'' *^''^^ - That one so loved, so beautiful, should sleep ^^^^•^i'^> Beneath the valley's sod." And Addi gazed ^ lUtH From the high open casement. When she raised Her streaming eye-lids, then she saw the bier Through twilight's deep gloom solemnly appear. There was the mother's pale and bending form Bowed to the dust by strong affliction's storm. »^'^*''' -^*^' " Lady, they come ; the flaming torches throw A quivering glare, and by their blazing glow mi ^1 it * I i 'A # V 46 MARY MAGDALENE. Each sorrowing face is known. Mary had flung td'*.- Herself upon her couch ; but anguish wrung yiciltm From Addi then aroused her. " Oh I my love — My Zimri — must the lonely grave remove - I'g-.v^/v ^r.r Thee from mine eyefe ? Methinks e'en now the smile Is on his lips, in pity to beguile ^'^\mw^i ^i n< My bursting tears ; and there his shining hair Parts in its golden clusters on that fair ' * And ice-cold brow. See I see ! the sable pall Is closely thrown, and its white draperies fall So loosely floating, that we mark each trace, '^'■■" Even in death, of that loved form's known grace. ;^;i^?l?ff^J But here why stop they now ? A crowd appear t j |,^ It is the prophet Jesus who is here." fe'lrml^ 4T' ■' Magdalene started, throwing back the vei. ;-.r>?. r^i\ itr^ Of her dark tresses, and her cheek grew pale .^j,,, jy^rn With that o*erpowering feeling which betrays j|^ d^-?, tnof Its deep emotion; and she fixed a gaze . t^^^ ,j^ AjI ,y,fj <^p^^ Of intense eagerness, as Addi spoke :|.^^ 0irlf?^.fj jon ka ^/ He hath approached. Methinks the trembling tear rf ,,|| Of tender pity glitters in His eye. ? us v See, what a look the widow's agony "^ -.-^d jim-i ryfij^. Hath won from Him I He hath compassion on y^ tyrr 1 1 The mourner's anguish for her only son. .i n-Jifj K> Was Israel's God and Saviour — He who wrought u -.i-L This striking miracle, He who had brought '^ -.jj iv.-^/.** Life to the dead ; and now, when He had bowed i^^nifd t His meek head on His besom, from the crowd >.« h «.'**! With noiseless steps He glided — to His breast -imhd oT His folded garments drew. The Saviour's rest nlri'^ vM ♦ .woHr-ifO isiv> mnu mwm3--'^'.on:,i:m'na. :^-i>:t' vdj y^aiB .^1*^3^ 48 MARY MAGDALENE. If ill "!: ,.i It' i'l| ■■■■.'Ni i^u 11 ii:- iilliill Was not of earth, so to some desert place )4 h) fin.j^i' iL^*f >,h^ In mournful bitterness, the bent down head iy^» v>j^?'# fh#|i Of Magdalene was raised. As then with scorn jr>(^ ^^jf^ In a bright mirror, imaged to adorn .«.^v5«.^,i — y^-ri l\iC Her lovely form she rose, but tears glanced o'er rui huf Those glittering gems which could not peace restore. \mJk. " Why art thou weeping, Mary ?" breathed a voice feajT In soothing tones, "rejoice, my love, rejoice ; vwfifer4/|^i;lk Phelon, the king's own son, is with thee now jfl^ hhr. M In a poor lowly garb, disguised to bow |f fei^k'^iwicr mb m Unto thy beauty. Look not thus on me «^x5 od> tO Magdalene sadly uttered ; but the pain Uii^^^i^ m'^M- Of silencing her feelings could be traced, i wi^o^i ii^Mfi/>LiA As o'er her chamber hurriedly she paced. ■--} ;^ v>» i«ti 04% *' And art thou angered with me, Mary, when iuiV I bring a parting gift ? My father, then, M &^«*l Shall quickly be obeyed, for he had sent >^mA oiM To bring me to his presence, and I bent i es . j .^aitwi AiBM My erring footsteps hither. I will gOy^^ii^^^'^^ ii:sl}M di^ Since thy dark melancholy frowns thou wilt bestow. -M- \ :;^> MARY MAODAL£N£. 49 E'er the first gleaming of the morning light, With plume and shield, and ready for the fight With battle spear, will Phelon then go forth To lead the mighty army ; and the earth His war-horse steps shall echo. Mary turned With palid cheek, and sorrowfully learned He was so to depart ; and plaintively she said, " Oh I I have loved thee, Phelon ; but betrayed 'f My bosom's peace hath been ; and now I pray ^ ^^aii^M ** Never again to meet thine eyes' bright ray t^M Of doating love, nor hear the silvery tone I' Which thy dear voice for me must ever own. ai? ft*aii»v4 'M But I have sinned. Go from me — go — depart, UnM And let repentance claim my breaking heart." «-«1* Sternly and stedfastly he looked on her i ;faiew#t/^il As she thus spoke, n\d with a glance to stir *^ii - fj^m^l: Her inmost soul, •* Oh ! Mary, thou hast seen Or heard of that same Prophet, Nazarene, s t . *f. Who calleth Himself Jesus." " I did gaze On Him," she calmly uttered, " and the rays Of mercy round Him shone : contrition then Awoke in silence ; and tomorrow, wheit Thou in the battle wilt proud conquest meet, t-ys'^ikm tifi' I shall in dust be kneeling at His feet." t^/^ "s^t-^uhm, 'niT 'w t| l^^ \?t\ 50 MARY MAGDALENE. i'iijhil a;^^»./*j' iX '^^ir: ; JV** \i Phelon laughed tauntingly, as he replied, " Mary, look on my gift," and at her side An exqufsitely woven casket laid. The soft flame from the shaded lamp then played In aromatic odour o^er the gold And beaming jewels, which its glittering told Were there encircled, and sweet spices, blent With myrrh and cassia, forth their mingling scent. " Hence, tempter I hence I" she shrieked, " or thou wilt hear Thy name, like thunder, sent upon the ear Of Nain's peaceful sleepers. Thoughts which tear And rend my frantic soul, I must not bear - * .- j uu To sway me so." But unaccustomed to ^mm^m^^^i^ Her strange wild mood, he left her ; and she threw ^^a"^^!^ Prostrate her form upon the marble floor, ^ — ef^ tf And pressed her burning brow, and strove to pour > -^^ Her spirit's torment forth ; and mightily ^'' ^ * ;'*d {f0 She writhed and wept, and strong her grief could be, For her sins had been many. When she rose ^^^ It was past midnight, and in calm repose The tranquil city lay : all was hushed, save The soldier's watch-ci-y, when he slowly gave i <*mf The passing word, and the resounding clang w>ii^ i Of heavy spears upon the armour rang. >< • ¥^M \m u MARY MAGDALENE. 51 jThe waves came rippling from the distant sea 1th melancholy sound, and Galilee iay in the splendour of the moon's full light, [Serene and beautiful. The breeze of night, * ^hich, throu[;h the day, 'mid groves and orange bowers, [ad been exhaling from the snowy flowers balmy fragrance, now passed with a tone -^^ -#^# ■ )f something sadly moumful-^as alone m J-'fm-p.mi.'P^. iMary watched o'er that scene. The ruby gleamed [n her long floating tresses, as they streamed [n rich luxuriance ; and the pearl's pale hue '?v;{^*fc«ii*tfir [Over her costly robe of crimson threw softened radiance ; and her sandaled feet nit* >tih^;jr: v iBore silver stars for clasps of gems to meet, i •} >?v»^s^ IShe looked out on the heavens, pure and bright. And holy came the softness of that light, [n azure and in glory. From on high It $?p^5 j*i?l ijsv [Again she trrned to earth, and there her eye'^il mm m^' [Saw e'en the watch-dogs slumbering ; then she gazed [Round her apartment, and there ^Eiintly blazed 4 Ib!^ [Her solitary lamp ; her singing bird -i^v «Jiii>#*«sM7^ifi [Slept in its gilded cage, and scarce was heard *« 4v^>fi Itj A ^ 'he fountain's murmur ad it wandered through .t:^ fbi^ ; 'he laver's marble roses ; and there, too, v - ' -'^ l(> im 1 ii , ,.,. Ill l"[^ i'ly i h ¥ ii 1 r i L/^;'fil Wr ■ i Ii '1 i lli\ 1 i" ■;, r*!i i ■ li ■h|i i 1 iH , ,' 1 II III i ' ! ,l,,||::'!''l'|,! I i|MiTnir!i;i!i: (,. fill! 52 MARY MAGDALENE. ■<:<■■' Laid Addi, in her soft sleep ; and her dream Of Zimri was, for a calm, gentle stream Of tears was on her cheek. Where could she find Aught of an anguish like her phrenzied mind ? Her harp*s glad melody, she sought to win. But her light fingers trembled, for within Her breast the demon raged ; the wandering trace Of tears was on the chords; her palid face She slowly raised, and her white arm Siie threw Back on its resting place; the changing hue | Marked her pale compressed lips ; her eyes she closed. As if a breathless statue there reposed, f^jir t .rl - Waiting the touch of Promethean fire, .^^*i^mS:-i^' To wake it into life, and to inspire The gush of feeling. But, e'er long, her breast ^ 2' ^ Began to heave, and her teeth firmly prest .,-.-p- 4^*^^^^^ Upon her arm ; then with a bursting cry Jif/i «>%» She gave herself up to her agony. ^*> l>^/i|i»yrj^* s^i Upon her knees she bent in wild despaii^^^ p^'ik^^ And tore the dazzling brilliants from her hair; .1^4 Beneath her feet the precious casket fell, ♦ And her heart quivered in its mighty swell. I^^lail^ Addi was wakened with the piercing grief ;, Of her fair mistress. " Lady, seek relief iMii aS^i^ K.' MARY MAGDALENE. 53 ciLM^M:^: From Him who raised the dead. Oh I He can heal Thy spirit's wounds — to Him thy pangs reveal." " And wherefore, maiden, wherefore, then should I A great despairing sinner even lie Beneath His feet ? Would He not from me turn, And my sad words of supplication spurn ?" " Oh I no, not so. If death's pale sleeper could i^ til Rise at His voice, surely thy spirit would ' " Wake unto peace through Him. If from the grave He can call back,, so surely will He save M^^s^r Thee from thy sins. Place but in Him thy trust, ' ' 3 r He will raise thee, weeping, from the dust, * 1^ lucj forgiven. Oh I then, lady, go : • It is the sinner and the outcast who Should go to Him, for He is said to take The burthen from the weary, and not break The bn:^ised reed." And Mary listened till The weary conflict of her soul grew still ; And she on Addi's slight form laid her head, --'w Clasped her fair hands, and calmly, freely shed ,^ j,?_. j^ Tears, in the hope of peace through His great name. And as " the Master sat at meat," there came,' On that same day, a lowly woman, veiled, ^^ Who knelt at Jesus' feet, and there bewailed , i: -I I 'i« ■ i: Mm !' >■» il'ii 54 MARY MAODALENEi r'^U.i ill I i Her guiltiness of sin, and with her tears Bedewed those sacred feet. What thrilling fears Her bosom heaved, as with her raven hair <^he wiped thot ■^ tears away, in silent prayer ; And then the spikenard's rich perfume bestowed Its aromatic fragrance, as it flowed In balmy incense ; but the Saviour knew What she would ask, and mercifully to / Her listening ear He said, " Thy sins have been Many and great, but here now hast thcu seen Forgiveness freely given : go in peace And sin no more — thy faith hath saved thee— cease. I'^m-m ?«*;s-f^ MW^ And Mary Magdalene departed hence From Nain's quiet city. Far firom thence She in the desert dwelt—and in its still "^t^^^ And solemn solitudes sought to fulfil Her penitence in tears ; and in its gloom She raised an altar unto Him by whom ^^ *n^*? ^*^ Her sins had been forgiven. ?f- -.km rrm'y fe!^:/5s4«fcM- ■'^ff*: -^^m -Iw i Uluii^kiiJ ^i^'^i ^,j.^ti sj :J^^^^0i <>iv¥'^ W5=>"!ii -#■ THE PARTING. 'm^i My heart hath been thrilled with a sister's tove— ^ deep fraught emotion, all change above ; " ''^ " But the joys are fled, which the past could bring, ' ' And the hopes which it cherished are withering. '^^^^'-■ From the happy band of this peaceful home " V The lone strayed lamb of the fold I will roam. * r [When wandering far from our lowly vine, Beneath the sweet shade of its leafy shrine, [With a tender love hath the evening kiss, ' Lt the hour of rest, been our parting bliss, ind the fervent tone of the fond delight ;'hat joyously uttered " Good night — good night." Jut now must the mists of the twilight fall, '' iike the dampening gloom which surrounds us all, Lnd with glad free steps we no more will meet, ^n the morning light, our rising to greet ; h more will we wander where nought could daunt [n the woodland path of the wild bird's haunt — ■ ;•> y I '.i 56 THE PARTING. ' ; ■■,: |: n Where the breezes pi ed 'mid the forest* leaves, And the earliest flowers which the summer weaves — Where the hum was so sweet of the honey bees, And the ring-doves cooed 'mid the sheltering trees. Our voices have raised for the last, la^^t time. Their mingling lay with the evening chime. For one beloved ^/laymate will then have left The youthful band of her smile bereft. But the forest shades will still be their own Though the branchea may wave with an altered tone. Their doves* tender voices will there yet be ^ , When I shall be fer o'er the moaning sea. ........... ai iuw ^%? ?qoi«$ '>/u .-«4% p^m ^^ ■maeniii liii: V..- ««* THE PANIC, A COMEDY.~Ji;nb 30ih, I8a7» * :?J #^ i''^5^_ Come on ! come on ! ye faltering band ; We all your threats defy — We who have crossed the Atlantic waves, "^ Can hold our courage high. ^^' What should we have to fear or dread, '' *' Where British standards stream ? And proudly may we raise the head Where British bayonets gleam. Bright is the glitter of those arms ; / V ' Unequalled yet in fight ; f, '.if How vain then Papinesu's alarms r ''^^ *^" Unfounded, useless quite. :- ' As idle was the panic fear Which struck their coward mind, **^^''Q'^h' ii'MiU A ^^H,*' ^€>Ci i*.. 58 :i#' THE ^ilNIC, A COMEDY. m'-m ill 111 ii iMH "^ "■■■;/: When deeming that the coast was otear, They left all dr^aid behind. - 'Twas an important day of state, In great assembly met. On high discussions to debate, But not tc us known yet. The Speaker gravely in the chair Assumed his stateliest mien, When distantly upon the air A clouc of dust was seen. " Lo I here they are *'* the children cried " The Thirty-second come, Darkening the air with banners wide, . And hasty beat of drum. It was then the confusion rose, Each member looked aghast ; Full well they knew that British foes Were not to be surpassed ; So in their haste to take to flight Some on the pavement fell ; They did not like to meet in fight Those whom they knew fought well. " Return ! Return I" then cried a voice, " Desert me not, ye brave ; ^.^f^^i-^ j^m^ i^W. f r'. 4, ^_ ^ % THE PANIC, A COMEDY. 59 fm 3 V Your courage makas my heart rejoice, But meii^m peril Mil." One who was braver than the rest — The very first to fly— ' ^ Because his limbs were of the best Pursuance to defy ; "" '^ "^"^ But as he turned, there met his view A harmless drove of cows— ' "« "^^ They to the meeting coming too, * ''"^f'^ *"^ * Their prudence to arouse. So on they came, the homed race Of their own fertile soil : They did not seek for empty place, ^'^' * Nor their debate to spoil, ^^'^ ^^^'' Then, lo ! the cry " Return I Return !" . Again was loudly heard ; - " ' " But, Oh I your breasts with rage will burn : This is indeed absurd, ' "^'^'^ ""^ That patriot heroes met like you, 'Whose courage has been tried — You who can speak so loudly too — Should thus have been defied. *" And had they come, the warlike ba'hd, ^ **^ They are but few to us : in liP '^ tf:. A)i i-.y.-'''> ^^^ y U .'I (M> THE PAKIC, A COMEDY. None here can dread, for, as we stand. We have the overpliw." i. " No I We are conscious of our might I'* They cried with mingling tones. *< At home, abroad, or in the street, Each heart its firmness owns ; * But from this day, a strict decree We make, which shall not change : — On days of great and public glee No herds of cows shall range. So listen well, ye patriot band, Ye children of the soil— Though cattle in that class may stand. And yet our meeting spoil ; .j ^, For after this day's great alaroi, The cows so widely spread, I am afraid it you may harm. So I advise your bed. First take a few composing drops- Not of the poppies juice, But of our own Canadian crops — The fever to reduce. So witlrthis last request they all As quickly did comply .1 ,^ :^ u (■>t>rv *; -([yt.f -**■*.» ■ ih. ni^f'«!fi: * • THE PANIC, A COMEDY. I • 61 i As their poor trembling limbs the call Of natur»^^uld supply. Then to their beds they hurried soon, And tried to soothe their fright ; But all in vain to court sleep's boon — Their dreams were still of flight : ** The Thirty-second I" on their ear Still fell, a fearful sound ; It with their nerves will interfere Until the year's gone round. Now when upon the glittering steel The sun-beams brightly fall. How proud the gallant band must feel Their courage to recal. Champions of England I ye are few, But ye in fight are strong ; The laurels battles round you strew, In peace will linger long. I have one prayer — 'tis that ye brave Dye not this far strange soil ; In Britain's home, a Briton's grave ; Repays a soldier's toil. ^ . , Come on, come on, ye patriot band, And list to what I breathe : — )i ^.- ! l\ ,>,/!'. .''jiiiiii- I'* I.l li an I 69 / THE PANIC, A COMEDY. Seek but to cultivate your land. Your swords and sabres sheathe^ But strive not to resist the brave. Who neither yield nor fly — They who have crossed the Atlantic wave Still hold their courage high. , 1- . ■■■ VK ".',■•'■ "tilt '^'• ■..•irV f<:\ ■Vr,. i-l:; y -- ■.-. ■''::.■: ■/' '^im^(^,-^^(A ' '^.:v 'tiin^i ' '■'''■.. •■r. : ■< -'r.. ■T"' ''^:*"^ - • .11-: .'- ':; .'o^tl-i^^i- . .■ ..,^ .. ^H .':Vi*; V'. »?/;i r'^l^iii^^Wxl ,.r'.i.'r 1 • '■>"■'"■■' ' •''"''"■ ^■.■4*.#;{Cl';;^;; Hi 'r^l^lW^'^'^., " , , ■ s ■■■■■.'■ ■■■.■■■■*..■ - * ■ ■" ■-■ '*' 1 .V 1,..,' V' '' ". '^'^ii^■^^,ii\.: ■ Mf^-'k^J^4 r^- SSli^'^'^.ftil ■!■ J THE KINDRED HEART. Wilt thou accept from such a breast as mine The tribute of affection's gift to thine — * To thee, in sorrow or in joy, innpart , The sweetest incense of a kindred heart ? Then through life's path the social bliss be ours • To blend in friendship's love, like young twin flowers ; For few the hearts which sympathy unites v Conflicting thoughts the genial impulse blights. But let us twine the bands which kindest prove, Because not false to lead the soul to rove. Let the sunshine which may diffuse ib:- ray In fitful gloamings o'er life's clouded way, Though evanescent as the rainbow's tints. That 'mid the darkest skies its hue imprints. Let's share the brightness of the sunny glow, And feel alike the sting of every woe. |?=4t-i-' r» \ . 64 THE KINDRED HEART. As each sad tear, by mingling, to beguile Each joy and hope to l^righten with a smile ; Then may I ask, to cheer my darkened fate, From those sweet hours, when youthful dreams elate Until the time when ages' snows descend, Through life's lone pilgrimage, to call thee friend ; Though other hopes and other joys depart, Be loved by thee, as thine own kindred heart. ':i £j4^:*t. . ,|:,,. ''v^5""T^-'»'f ;*)«^*i# ■ ; 1 1 kie THE LOST SMILE. •%\H # I ■':<^t.t«^ *■ 0s ' ^?* iM Oh I no, waste not thy sighs for me, But stifle each regret ; For say, why should a fading flower ^ Be with thy tear-drops wet ? -^ «<>^^'^ -r/: The sunshine can but kill the bud That's broken from its stem. And like its beam, thy smile would now The flowers of hope condemn. ^^h ■<■'**♦■ The spell of every joy is o'er, Like a faded token. But now thy smile cannot recal The vows which thou hast broken. But may life be as fair to thee As when thou wert all truth, ,a-ft 1--^'^' ¥- sm mm : 1 :;,*»-*-» '■''•' /^hiftt'U- 'Vv :li mA^'-^h >• ' ' THE SACRIFICE. •?»■;««,» «9'^i' o''/ " The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit : a broken and a contrite heart, O Lord, thou wilt not desi^se."— Psalm li. verse 17. •W*' A BROKEN spirit is to God i^te The mourner's sacrifice. A lowly and a contrite heart, -f '■* Lord, Thou wilt not despise. '■? ^^:-4«" Oh I teach me how to weep for sin ^ ' Which tears cannot efface — ^ ^^^*^ Which can but win redemption from ' A dying Saviour's grace. | S'^'J" ,". Oh 1 Jesus look with pity on A sinner of the dust, Who feels forgiveness only for Those who in Thee have trust. ym^' 68 THE SACRIFICE. Oh ! teach me to revere the words Which our salvation won, When agony Thy soul had wrung To say Thy work was don( When " it is finished," from Thy lips, ' In dying anguish broke — v When free redemption was declared, And loosed the sinner's yoke. Yes, "it is finished'' : in Thy blood I The covenant is sealed, And through Thy suffering, through Thy love, Peace is to us revealed. lit Then, Lord, accept the contrite heart. Which doth the offering prize,fol n^ f rfif^ And let my broken spirit be A lowly sacrifice. .j-m- FOBGET HEB NOT. Vf.-AJ • •.-:.( 1 '' ' r, 5 FoKGET not Ethelind, when far away, When thou wilt breathe thy lonely minstrel lay, When thy dark tresses *mid thy lute strings play — Forget her not. ■**■• When o'er the liver's peaceful waves are cast The silent moon-beams, think then of the past : In every thought, the earliest and the last, ^. Forget her not. But thou canst not forget, for every tone Must, in its low recording murmur, own ' A thought of that neglected pining one. Forget her not. s,^ vK^.' Will not the flowers* brightness seem to pale, And the rich mossy rosebud's fragrance fail, * And bid thee, when theii leaves the dews inhale, ;, v, ., turget her not ? m'4 ■ 'lb,. i "' (■■■I- 70 FORGET HER NOT. V" When to the vine wreathed bower thou wilt retreat, y< ill not remembrance each memorial greet, v ' iind memory echo la its stillness sweet, . ,; '_ :■■•■,: .- •;■■;.,,- ..T-^ ;,. •' For;;r€t her not f;Kt^? 0^ ■ ■ s ■i'M'Kf^i vjvi'-i''.;;'," >f^ ,.f4iijr.|i»;.. •xi■m;^.r^ y'hy:,-. ■ -v.:-, ilia i};:^m a^i-^^ ," ■ 'tM' :4'"[ k '■ il m : K. «. ..Kt»ij *r.>.u--i*-f'A ij^M:,-- j'.f ,,i(i v,.^." :,' a,t: .;» ! Ili'^' ' *;*}-iJS-W " - rf -Vh i>-^L; ^ >A ," r " ■ / ■ • ■«->l.I-. „ \ ' '.%. t, ^ll not if .:i ■ ■,^j ,:... THE LONELY CAPTIVE. t.'^a imjH . f ?', • . -» «^*i'<^' yjf ,.J i*^».y.fV' U-.i A youug Highlander being tempted by the beauty of a summer's evening to wander some distance from his fort, was taken prisoner by a tribe of Indians, and about to be sacrificed, when the Chieftain observing with what undismayed courage he advanced, rescued him, and adopted him as his own son. Some time after, hostilities commenced, and the Indians were in alliance with the French On the morning preceding the combat, the Chieftain conducted his prisoner to a (ofty eminence, and bidding him look down iqwn the encamped English, in- quired if his father yet existed. On the young man replying in the affirmative, the Did Chieftain wept, saying his oulY4ion had been killed in the laat eonffict with the English, and that he could trace a resemblance of him in the captive. He then told him to return to his father, that his blesssing should make his heart rejoice when the sun rose in the monung, and the tireee blossomed in the spring — Coleman. •'■--,-v^-^^^>^ ,■:.>;■> -•;,i-.'-s.-.:. -vt The bugle's blast upon the breeze had sung, ' "^ ? - And o'er the wide Savanna plains had rung, «j i^s Calling each footstep back which wandered far, By the pale gleaming of the evening star ; li y,[- H^^ MisW But there wa^. one who loved deep solitude, "^ -^"^ ;ridf 14) Each gushing feeling by its spell subdued ; ;r?is<' 4^mi cT , And as ne onward roamed, beguiled by thought - 'tis. J; fi A Of those loved scenes to faithful memory brought, <.Ui^'f Of hb dear boratv surrounded by the flowers x'M Wluch he had pl&i)ted in those gone-by hours ^M.'ii irB4 U li ' H m ■ I, ! lii;! 72 THE LONELY CAPTIVE. 1. Around the green porch of that cottage door, So sweetly twined with Scotia's blue bells o'er The low vine trellice, where their blossoms hung, The trained clematis pale star wreaths among — ,, The winding streamlet by the mossy seat Beneath the favorite tree, the old retreat Where evening L^ngs were lifted, and the lay In mirth and laughter gladly float away. Where his aged sire had blessed him, and the tears Of his fond mother watched his tender years — Or those wild haunts of boyish pathways cleft Amid the Highlands, where the dark firs swept O'er the white village church, whose soft-toned bell Rung forth its sabbath chimes with pausing swell. And that retired quiet shrine of prayer, ' -ij^iv^' With its tpU elm o'ershadowed windows, where W^^ i^Jil Oft times the robins nestled ; and those days Were vividly impressed, till from the maze ' -^« 'kiU^r. Of his own thoughts he woke. Well might it seem kM'- To flash on recollection, like a dream vp^Mw-^j^ ** j*^ And one encircling those ideas brig ht, *^<5v ^A m f^it.:. With the faint visions of the dim twilight. ^I^id iw^jii^} He wildly gazed upon the scene sublime -^'^^ S|?^ ii i^4^if Mid tangled forests of the flowering lime ; THE LONELY CAPTIVE* 73 7 rs ^'4^ 11 im^' ! • If. 'H> &{1 The pine that raised its lofty head between, Darkened the windings of the deep ravine ; The lone acacia, in the varying tract, Waved o'er the white foam of the cataract : The gloomy foliage wore a silvery hue As the pale moon-beams faintly struggled through The heavy branches — till the mingling sound Of full-toned voices filled the ?»ir around. "" :# ^^ The shadows of tall plumes came floating by : ^^' '^^'^■ He felt the hour was near for him to die ; 'P "X^^'^ A deep emotion heaved his manly breast, tj? /'i, Ar. brh As savage forms around him quickly prest — * ■ '^ The feathery scalp locks o'er their painted brows With eaglets' downy pinions, and green boughs Of tasseled cedar twined — and glittering steel The radiant star-light's gleaming could reveal v' « He is our victim," the red warriors cried, - r^ ^ And viewed their captive with exulting pride, r Break down the branches of our forest trees iHis moans must mingle with the midnight breeze. To the Great Spirit let our shout ascend, [And let his death song with its rising blend." ^ith ready step advanced the aged chief, [is fierceness mingled with expressive grief. Jound lay ^ victim — and the free night air : t va ' I l, .'■ i- -JTiO'i' ■'■ Mf ;■' 'i. * li . rlii ^.M Ill-' '11 74 THE LONELY CAPTIVE. I. i Played 'mid the light curls of his waving hair. "Now lead him to his death pyre," cried the band,"^*'* And each t?»ll Indian grasped his flaming brand. They led huii l;^rth — when lo I the chieftain turned — A deep emotion his sad heart had learned- He gazed upon the calm, undaunted air That with such firmness '• .rful death conld bear. Struggling with thought — the forest chief now stood, His burning ardor of revenge subdued — Stay, quench the flame : it is — it is my will, •'"> "_■% And all around my mandate must fulfil. -Vv^ /* 'Tis the Great Spirit bids his soul be free : "^ m'-«' s One lonely captive is no victory. .. << r v / %riJ% i The morning light shall hail him as my . n,'* '- ' As a young warrior to the forest won. ''' < ' ' The dusky forms withdrew without reply, ' h',,,-,A;i But purposed in their hearts that he should die, For their revenge frustrated ; But the hour ? «^f^i Came not to yield li an to their ruthless power. \^^'^ The chieftain knew their wish, and lingering so. The time passed on, until the Indian bow f'*'^ "^ Unerring sent thp an v from his hand, i'^ *'* ,0'er those dark es* heights sublimely grand, ;^4 i Till war's relenlloss conflict was declared,* |*^m;^'^'? ■ And the red tribe for battle too prepared, \^ ' ' In clos Round And fn They cj Those 1 When t Scarce ] When t Scarce I The mo When h And ma But vet And ba( His luv*. T'he dee The cr'r Toldi , He then But Eng The red As the c Silently The rich " Seest i THE LONI Y CAPTIVE. , * 75 itfj' jr^ i ■:fi')jr In close alliance they were tiien combined, Round GalKa's standard they their flag entwined, V^ And from the dim woods, in their fierce array, They came to mingle where the mighty lay — >' ' Those warriors who had never known the hour ' ^ When they had yielded to a stronger power. Scarce had the twilight's solemn silence broke. When the proud chieftain from his slumber woke ; i^ ' Scarce had the mists the mountain shades unveiled, The morning star its br' rhtness had not paled, ' ^' When he aroused his captive as he slept, , And man's unbidden tears his dark eye wept ; But yet he led him to the mountain's brow, • And bado him view, where far encamped below, ;'/. His ha od companions lay ; and loud and clear .-{ ^he deep-toned bugle thrilled his listening ear ; -; The cr'mson streamer, floating proudly free, i, / Told tj is young heart that there was liberty : ,v He then the brightness of its ardour knew — „ ; ■ But England's banner who can coldly view ? > t ^.^ The red sun's splendor blushed in rising power, As the clear dew-drop fell from each bent flower i ■ ,' Silently drooping, and the morning's sigh.-> , '\ The rich magnolia*s fragrance wafted by. j^ " Seest thou beneath thee," wildly asked the chief, » t 4! r^ hi- ' Kl I 1} f! •76 THE LONRLY CAPTIVE. !(, I V l«, His voice accontod with unmingled grief ; ** The scene around can bid thy lioart be glad, But it to mo is as the desert sad. A sound of loneliness pervades each tree ; ' ^ But thou art happy, for thou art now free. "" ^^ Hast thou a father to bless thy return ? Go, bring him joy — ^for thee his soul must yearn. In the last combat, by thy nation won, I lost my cherished and my only son ; ^* ^'^^ • iVnd in thine eye the fearless ardor played "" *'* n Which ever beamed in his, until he laid :M J.'irt 'f fe*? mok Among the heaps of unrevcngeful dead. ^^" In the warm conflict's heat, his spirit fled, With the red torrent gushing from his brow. As a fierce warrior of the woods should bow ; His trailing plume in foeman's life-streams dipped, ' And the heart's dark drops from his arrows dripped. But thou art free : it is enough that I, In the full depth of wretchedness, should sigh. *^* * Go to thy father, where afifections cling, That when the trees may blossom in the spring. And the brtght sun the dewy morning light, ^ That he may own the fervent deep delight To call thee his once more. Go — from his voice Let the fond blessing bid thy heart rejoice. i. ^m*» '% ".^r^f'i r^^t'n THE HOME FOR ME. .'. . t ^ --' • ■ K • I .^. M *;*' Wandering across tho wave-beat shore Where foams the angry sea — Where poace hath fled — where joy is o'er — Oh I there's the home for me. ^ ' /■ Where all is drear and desolate— ^»o>iv mdi I nO Where smiles can never be— • *' */ Where frowns the darkest gloom of fiite — ■ Oh ! there's the home for me. • ' ^hn^,s < Reposing in an unknown tomb» ^ •# ' ^ j ^Tvirr* No eye may ever see, j> J «f^^ f.' 1i>'0 Where none but blighted flowers bloom^— vj. ;[j idrtiA Oh ! there's the home for me. ■ ^^^,4? j.^y^, ,^r^f ')- m ■.» -m Ill ' 1$ r. 'i!;i iilliiiiliili -^W 4m: 51!: .. HI ■m ■sv^ ■ - ■ -fe." '■.^{H.-i;: ^JJ'* -.J^-^^:- . ^*.. -"If - TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN. W \ ■-''fK)(iSmM''wl '3'?Ai-»'^V*V;i^^i?.'^, :i'^>l''''JI WKITTEN FOR A FRIEND. -;^i:3:-^''' mn:.«i«vi^ *••'- '«^?'' i -i'U r Oh I thou whose name hath its recorded place And high memorial on the leaves we trace . i 1/ Of the bright book of life — ^yes, thou art there, Mother of God ; hear then thy votary's prayer. 4Q Oh I where is it— -in what unhallowed spot-«- That we behold thy sacred name forgot ? Thou art remembered where the cataract ^-* ^:' ' ^^ Breaks the hushed stillness of the desert tract — Where the lone graves have been so long untrod They now awaken to the voice of God. *- ^" Where the tall fir trees wave and wildly sweep t "^s O'er the snow summits of the Alpine steep. Amid their windings, with the minaret wreathed, There, even there, thy vesper hjmii is breathed. / m^ *'v ^^ TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 79 t ;dU U. 0- un'^^ ' " f T rod led, }d. And where the long unfolding palm leaves bend j We mark the lowly spire to thee ascend. I Amid the deep gloom of the lofty trees The " Ave Maria" lulls the evening breeze : [To thee the cadence of the vestal's song, iThrough mists of incense, sweetly floats along ; Lnd e'er the light clouds weep the morning dew, 'hy votaries then tl^eir early praise renew. Thou art remembered where the billows play, [n the red tinges of the sunset's ray. 'hou art implored upon the ocean foam, Ster of the wave" to guide the wanderer home, Ls his sad heart lifts on the lonely sea [he silent prayer or evening song to thee. ^-^ -k^y^^^*^^^ jif-; J>:!.i^. len the pale stars of hazy twilight shine, ^ ^ ^^ *'^^ ^ ^^^^^ -/r M [he Angelus awakes the sacred shrine. Phe midnight orison to thee is said, h'-'f^^" v?;'i^^ t*)?!;^ wf? ^ith lowly oflferings at thine altar laid. m ^^^^i fc|tl ^h I wilt thou soothe them in the hour of death _ 10 hail thy influence with their parting breath ? [other of God, T^ilt thou in pity hear, I 1 len the stilled spirit faints and earth must disappear ? :n- ^m ;j'f Wyf^ii^'»h y^f'T.l s' -^0 -w'- ;55-J«i&i:sCl- f-'-'Vs:f¥'tj^r "i'j^-fu w* ^i>.;fi^i^ '«*:?r^ t h^'f- ^j^ ?«3 i* a 1 i 1 ;l^ ;*':: ■;*:- m > >. i '-'fi'j'M'M ''■!i^ 14S# .1 V -« ■.^! ■ -''i' -M ), f'4!iii|iiiilii * '■iiil'ii ii'i<« THE DREAM. '^' ' "^ ' ."^■^i? 'R. .:;.■.■, .fi Lumt-^'^ '*:l^-:©' 'r«'t' i^^'Sr'-'V :':>r rL. r. 't ii Again departed I Vision of my sleep, Oh I what a blank mine eyes unclose upon. When wakening thoughts in sadness ever find ^ff , ; r. That thou, the idol of my dreams art gone. I listen to the music of thy sigh, ,s i>i tsi^^ k ■ Through slumber's shadowy stillness, till my heart Thrills with its response, and I wake, and then There lingers not one echo to depart. .;yr Why dost thou break upon my peace, if, when n? " Ideas melt away, I am left to weep (? f^?i That ]^so seek thee in the hour of rest. And meet thee only in the dreams of sleep ? i' Oh I thou whom memory loyeth, is thy smile, l^- ^' Thy cherished smile, but an illusive spell, ^ Brightening anew each long departed hope ? And I must wake, its magic to dispel. \''i P^ IK THE DREAM. 81 How vainly cherished these impressions are — In folded mysteries veiled ; and yet the bond Linked in its soft oblivion hath a claim The influence of my wakening thoughts beyond. Yes, I have loved thee. I have sought and strove Long to forget thee — but it cannot be I Since, in the rest of evanescent sleep, f ,,:,{ ^f .1 My wandering visions s;^ll return to thee. . tTK^ i 'I \\ ^ tl :.!«!?. ■m' mii'U i! '!■ i' y . li' f ! ■! il%: i-^^--.-^^^^^i' w 1 JL. ■' rt^■' THE DYING MOTHEE'S BLESSING. A WAN and sickly lamp gleamed o'er the couch Where the pale sufferer lay. The transient tinge Of the bright hectic bloom had left her cheek White as unvaried marble, and the trace of tears Moistened the heavy lids. The slender hand Passed like a reslless shadow ; and the lips ^ ■* % ^^^i-%^0^ Were«i|)arted in deep prayer. The long „?%s\ijjfe.)^k UnbraJded tresses darkly floated o'er The heaviiig bosorn, as the faltering breath Waved their luxuriant flow. Her dreaming child Lay by her side, in gentle slumber hushed ; But a low sob awoke her, in that hour j^^. * Of sorrow undefined — then, when the fragile flower Droops on the stem which death hath broken, and Is withering to depart, the blossom which he culls To bury in the shadow of the grave. » And she shed tears — that fading mourner wept. Long had her heart been riven by the stroke -V-V '' •. ^■.■ ■' ''* THE DYING MOTHER S BLESP NO. 83 '•.• I' ^lod kill Of desolating grief; fbi^ ^lie'iiad seen^^ '*^* uaimAn-. Her earthly idol of aflfection lay ''^S ^" ^»^^^ ^^^*^^^- ; Mute on the battle-field, unconscious of the grasp She round him twined, as on the gory sod . , / She sank with him ; and she had seen him laid '^^'^^ ^^"^ In a lone resting place, far from the shore '' ^*" ' -"' Of her own home, and, "with the blighting love With which we cherish sorrow when we pine For memory's buried treasures, she had kept The vigil of affliction, till the grave ^MP'^^^^l ^^ ^^'^ Was destined to receive her. But thgte lingered yet ' ^ One restless phantom of earth's bindiifPaim — '^'"' *" Her orphan child, whom she had nurtured with *^ '' ■^' Her heart's o'erflowing tenderness, unwearied through Pain's languishing decay — the mourner's last of earth, The tie of parted love. She looked upon that lip, Which bore its father's smile, and in that tranquil eye " Undimmed with tears, which looked so lovingly '"^' "' On the pale mother's face. Who might not weep To leave such on the world ? Whose voice might not With yearning accents breathe, " Farewell, my child- My lonely — my deserted : I must go Within the darkness of the grave to dwell, '■'^ But God will bless thee in his tender care. - t %f m i h V I ■f k.ii 'lliii jiiiil illil 84 THE DYING MOTHERS BLESSING. ff»i^f^l^\ Mit^S'^'i^i i,^;i :;.:5!S .^ii3 ...I.. .i.lJll; IlilililliilliiL mf' km^t^^^^'^'MtH'-M^'-vi^ "' '■^ 1%rMhiM'm^A^m>' ;i:YtJf'li*0a- ^>'vt iim'-^ -S^L»t.^iJtrt iikl- . diJitl'r^ i'v^-i '-:*vl»Vi ,t , f ,iji } .;V Vi '* Land of my birth. ,1 J-':.. . Ltind of my heart, From thee I'll never part." ' W. ;f 3fi?jit: . f » t %?v.- . «.!3 Z.a ^K/ftMse awe bordt du lae, W i OiiOi ■.'« :mji Land of my heart — ^but riot land of my birth — - Land of each hope I cherish on this earth finmmm^a'^ And fond affection's impulse must impart >^^'^ und^ii, AmA A deep emotion when from thee I part, j*'^*^ 'irn'M ^T « -4* O'er the wild waves for me there is no home ; -^^ f From thy loved scenes, oh I why then, must I roam ? * Lonely to Wander on, where nought endears, -^ ^^ In each strange land an alien in my tears, ■ "*« ^^-^^ *^*^^ * Where there is nought to bid my heart rejoice si^sre lo^- When the wind moaneth with a hollow voice — '^ ^i**' ^^ •r vf .V; Ot ' .-r ' i- .i} . ( If if' J'v J ii UA'" 1 J 'it*- jt- 'B'M i^ .'1 i 'I ll i ll I i£J III 86 AN ADIEU TO AN ADOPTED LAND. "' 111 I'll' Where each strange flower wears a look of gloom Round the pale tinges of its opening bloom — Where there are none unite in friendship's bond, Nor sighs of sympathy to mine respond — Where the young doves my accents will not know, ^- «^- And all around a sadness will bestow. Land of my heart — land of my changeless love — Oh I why from thee must mournful fate remove Far from the still and solemn hush that seems To lull the genii of thy sleeping streams \ To soft repose, beneath the dark pines shade, Where the faint mists of shadowy twilight fade ; Into the gloom of night ? Oh ! why, then, far from thee Must my lone path of drear misfortune be ? Why am I doomed, where grief alone can thrill, * Where not one eye the mingling tear will 611,^-^^ m ha.«4 And, when the moon will light the evening skies, I h0F|. The lonely incense of my prayer will rise Jv Faintly and sad to heaven. Oh I none will blend ; -^^^O With me in silent grief; and who will tend /.jj moit The balm of pity to an alien heart - K ,- ft- ,>1 ^nom-.^ That can but sorrow in return impart, .^^ -,t\M\h-. m */?-i f^l Nor own the fond the tender love of years ,; ,-,, f*^ ^tfiffWl Felt but for thee, com|>anion of my tears — ^i a&^'P- AN ADIEU TO AN ADOPTED LAND. 87 For thee, dear friend, viho, through the gloom of ill, Hast e'er upheld me, and been faithful still ? ^ Hast thou not c^'^^red me with 4hy tender smile, ^'■ And sought each mournful feeling to beguile? Hast thou not soothed me with devoted love. And my heart's wounds to heal, hast thou not strove ? Hath not the same flower been our mutual care, And every joy, was it not ours to share ? ^- Have not our tears been mmgled as we wept, m^/^tdmh^A When sorrow's darkness o'er our pleasures slept ? Are we to part — say, is my fondest hope To perish, as a cankered rose must droop ? Yes — it is so, I must, I must depart, tf'tfj y||,t ; rMiJ jf^nd know the anguish of a lonely heart : ^^W ^iU hhmM^ The past hath faded like a broken spell — iilfiig m Land of my heart — land of my love — farewell. ITiJ^^ 20: t- Tf i • t II ♦ ,-i i «' >f ■if m. ,^y•■^/,.^t^TX^a.*, tt: <. ' flv ^liiaA ifcA ill ffii "^j. ^ ■ '.i,'f" THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. ''" Tiie military force, consisting of detM'.hments of Royal Artillery, and S4th,32d, and 66th Regiments, and acroropauied by a division of Montreal Volunteer Ca- valry, uudor the command of Colonel Gore, left Sorel for St. Denis on the night of November 82d, 1839. \ ■'>--vN,(;^ ^ \mw. u^^ I ^.b !>Ii^.(v^ And dauntless courage, though the transient rust ,-^ /^^ Of the fierce storm-tears dims the blue, drawn blade ; Yet may their hastening'steps not be delayed, ij i^,,^ <',i/» Why should Britain's sons, with their battle-cry, .;^>j^g>huiid^ With the mantle of darkness to shield each blow, . )> And no floating pennon of England spread, - ih r^orfl* As her war-shroud of glory around her dead ? iiryyf^ ,{,< > But it cannot be. No, their onward might . ,.. . Is to strike for their God, in their country's right — ,p For their Island Queen, and each loyal hearth, ^^ «r^ And the relic mould of the much prized earthy , ,, , . - ^^ _ ^''•**?^ uBtio i ■ •1 5 ^^ > IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 taMTA |2.5 2.0 1.8 IL25 11114 IIIIII.6 V] 3 "1^ 'V:) »" /> '/ a Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 90 TIfE MIDNIGHT MARCH. ' li-, .>itf '!S''ft . Ill Where the treasured life fount of Wolfe was spent, Are the war-tropfaied legions to combat sent. Not in secret to bid the unerring dart w^^ iP^ )^ kaJ-. Speed its swift^winged flight to the foeman*s heart-^ Not to stain the bright gleam of theiir oft dyed ste^l/ ' When none hut the weak could its pressure feel — Not in tempest's tumult to ^tifew the diead - omiX 'Mid the pale snow rifts, wheife tho feeble bled. '^ -'*• No — to crush the force of the gathered throng i ji^^i 'Are they borne in the strength of their cause along, i May the great God of battles be th«ir guidcj ji ^^^^^ s^i Through the lone forest depths. The Richelieu tide Perchance tiiay bear a crimson swelling wave, aotfc viTW But England's wirriors fear no secret grave.'' r^^#|«oifr Though each sword glittering to defend our land^^<«> ^> Should e'er the mom gle£im in a fodman's hand-^ sfoiW Though to the scattering winds we soon may spread ih'^ Our cherished bahner*s dust in fragments shred. iC^iJ fe : Should victory's name be tainted on their breath, It will hot wake the conquered^ who in deiitTi '^-^;^- *^* Sleep and are free ; and though our Ice-chiHed IblBbd' The sun may vie^, yet from its wasted flood Shall glory's triutnpii riSe, for "(ibd and Right'^*^^ ^'"^ Resists the conflict of opposing might. i' 'yi ■^,. I'f- ;.i— ^j •*wjl-^Atl': THE YOUNG CAPTIV#S' £aMENT. ng.'. 1 riJlrtMY tide •gHOTfcll'X |r;ao #1' - .Ui *'. gadn!' ' *ij>il--tA Oh I why is it that I am thus forbid To watch the pining stream ^Hhich glides amid Those shades of verdant beauty ? Why should I Not trace the path where such sweet violets die Untrodden and unseen, and that soft breeze, So lightly waving the acacia tree's .^tii^i^x^^ij^a^ Clustering and fragrant blossoms, and its tone Through the pine branches echoed? Why albhe Am I deprived of these? Who deeply feel' What swells of living rapture can reveal Miw | The ardent flow of firee creative thought^ *^*^ *'^^- And varying bright imaginings, which, fraught With high impassioned fervor, can remain With the lone captive, whom the binding chain Hath fettered in his cell. There yet may sottf^^ '>* The wandering mind, and glowing vision pour r^^^f^i «♦<*. j,k iV/ ^* \o 92 Tiys YOUNG captive's lament. ■J. :• i 1 1! ! Its dreaming influence. As the viewless air Upon its voiceless breath can slowly bear Those clouds of floating grandeur — as the stream's DiEirkly embowered fount reflects the gleams Which the arched rainbow's vivid token wears. Like hope's sweet sunshine looking on the tears Which sorrow's gloom distils — and as the dew Falls o'er the night-flowers light deserted hue — So ideal rapture lingers to entrance Those pilgrim. hours its reverie enchants With its ethereal loftiness. Com,bin^d f. -4; With those eSi^ions of the pensive mind, A tribute to. that struggling restlessness ^ Of sad emotion and strange weariness Which must U^e captive haunt. The heaTy,Jchl^a Hath never bound me ; but the breezy plain Is not for me. The murmur of the ri} Soothed with the music of the wood^l)ird's thrill. And when the placid moon hath floated through The evening mist in silence, to renew The pale and calm serenity which hath A softened peace bestowed upon the path Of the free wanderer's step— is not for me, Through the stirred foliage of that gloomy >ree :\ /2S,!iv, >*>•■ THE YOUNG CAPTIVE's LAMENT. 93 Which owns unceasing verdure. No — shut out From nature's loveliness, with grief and doubt To shade mine early years ; but led on still Through the dim chasm with what can fulfil The deep impressive spiritual gush Of animated feeling's fervent rush, Blended with memory's power. Were it not so, How could we bear the conflict which below We must endure* Did not the dove-like wing Of lofty vision lingeir o'er the spring ,[ // Of ti^easured thoughts though none with me may blend In fond congenial rapture — ^none may lend , ^(| ^^i^ ^ ^^ A mingling extacy. That is forbid. My youth's first dream-like, offering veiled amid AlBliction's mornirg shadows ; but its gloom Hath not the power to blight the hidden bloom,^^^, , ;;. Whose leaves are folded in the spi?it'^3de§]^||^.,,j, ^ ,j,^| Silent, untold devotion. And to weep Is dew, to rear the flower cherished in The mind's deep sanctuary's peace within. -^ .# fi vjiumm b iijO •i>i»M,i6 >.; .A, /r TeSm ^£ffl' >-«ifO"/^..M' . US' Mi ■■ i ■]|: 1 THE LIGHT BARK. ■ ■<> •»•??■ I)ir! • The dark willow boughs in the streamlet play. Where the moon is shedding her softest ray» And the dewy flowers seem to be stirred ^ ^^mmmm By the thrilling plaint of the lone night bird» ' '<*■ For the breeie is hushed o'er the waves' repose^ Which is kissed by the shade of tlTe drooping rOse, And the genii spirits all seem to be 'Mid the tangled woods by the moonlight free^;^ ' But a small bark glides o'er its silent breast, As the light oar awakens its shadowy rest^ And its rippling thrills, in the breeieless night, The watchful heart to a deep-felt delight. It hath passed away o'er the silvery stream, - As the fairy-like sounds we hear in a dream. To some other heart the voice may be dear ] That oar's welcome murmur may bring to her ear. THE LIGHT BARK. 96 Oft have I watched o*er thi8 waveleti tide A tiny barli by the moonlight glide ; But its oar for me hath long ceased to lave In the placid fount of the summer wave. It hath past away, and a breathless sleep And spiritless silence reigns o*er the deep. ■ '."h ki- i I, t'i,(iii. ^Mi'i I ,1 ■ A i 1 '.{. a7..1 >ti '^f\ M ) fimm THE BEIDE. ■■>■] mm '* And (MAce afain w« met ; and a fair girl stood near him : He smiled, and whispered low, as I once used to hear him." And is she doomed to be his happy bride, And must I see her at the altar's side Standing with him for whom I've cherished life With love devottd through its wearying strife ? Though she may twine with braided j)earls her hair, Yet my heart's feelings she can never share. A child of fortune, gems may round her shine, But oh I her love cannot be such as mine. Though her long tresses, o'er her harp she flings. And wakes soft music from its deep-toned strings, Though o'er her cheek the richly tinted rose In the full blush of pride and beauty glows. III! iilli'i TUB BRIDE. 97 From her bright eye the tear-drop ttiaj not flow She is beloved, and reckless of my woe. It must be so. *We pity not the flower Forsaken by the sun-beam's cheering power When it is blighted ; so when I depart. None — ^none will mourn the loneness of a heart Gone to its rest. The fountain flood of tears Will then have ceased, which hath from early years Flowed from each bitterness the heart can feel, But soon the grave the slighted will conceal ; None there will look on me with chilling pride, Though we should moulder even side by side, And mingle in the dust. There cease to weep The lonely and deserted — ^there the sleep Which lulls our sorrow hath no lingering thought Of vanished hopes with stifled anguish fraught. Hath not the world upon me ever frowned, And cold neglect my tenderest feelings wound To hushed but sickened silence I And my love Hath been betrayed and wasted. I have strove With sadness undefined, and straggled long With intense woe, Its conflict hath been strong ; But, oh I how vain to weep. Cannot the smile Deepen my faded lip's changed hue, and thus exile ■a ■y 06 xTHK BRIDE. i ' j: II V. I! That melancholy look which with its gloomy Hath withered with its blight the roses' bloom ? Why should I shed so many bitter tears Until the eye which, bright ih early years, , i. V» Is dimmed beneath the shade of that dark fringe, ,^^ // Which seems to mourn the pale cheek*s care-worn tinge. Those unavailing tears shall fall no more, And pride shall now its wonted hue restore : My smile shall be the earliest and the last — No transient shadow shall its ray o'ercast. \ My step shall now be noticed in the dance, And laughing joy dwell in my sunny glance. The past shall be forgotten in the strength Of ceaseless pleasure, which must still at length The pining heart's sad musings.-:~How ? — The sain<} As the wind fans the low and wasting flame To evanescent lustre. So must break '» . ? <^' ' The grieving heart, which struggles to forsake Its treasured hopes, whilst yet they fondly cling, With firm impassioned rapture, to the spring /^^ if^j^i] Of cherished idea:; so my lonely fate - Cannot with smiles its tears obliterate ; ri But I will weep in silence and forlorn, ,. ;, Not sink again beneath the gaze of scorn, . ,.ry,,d f ■t r THE BRIDB. 90 Where none will seek the gone-by hours to trace, Nor mock that grief which nought can e'er efface. Smile, then, oh I smile on thy affianced bride-~ I cannot wish thy joy with tears allied. Go, be united. May the rose now bright Live on her cheek, and may her love requite All thy affection ; and may no regret. Like a dim vision, haunt thee — but forget The one departed. Let my memory's power Pass like the sweetness of a faded flower ; And may the blessing at the altar dwell With hallowed peace around thee. But, farewell : Earth o'er me must not triumph. From above Now will my spirit seek undying love. To sanctify in meek devotion's trust Those feelings which it lavished on the dust. ♦ « #1 :f» ■ J," ■♦1' 'I THE MOTHEB'S OHEBISHED ELM. Let this tall cherished elm. Which I have trained, Be with each lingering thought Of memory veined. \ firi- •1;: 4,:^;.:'*- !!• - -:'« Think of the nurturing care Each fragile bough Claimed from mine hand, like thee In manhood now. ' When the young robins build Its buds among, Think of the parted strains In childhood sung. When the light evening dews O'er it will fall, Remember those sad tears Grief may recal. \ THI MOTHERS CH1RI8HID ELM. 101 When wandering fire-flies glance Amid the leaves^ Blend them with hope's sweet ray, Which oft deceives. When the tame pigeons coo Beneath its shade, ' Think of the sisters who Oft there have played. When its bright tinged leaves fall In autumn's gloom, So must we fade away Into the tomb. When its green foliage waves With spring's first breath. So must we be renewed By iaith in death. '%f i ■m^: '■,'!'.:• .i; m A TRIBUTE f'l^iW ttia^ te>||)i .^/ ^vX. _ TO THE ^^, _^ 5iEMORY OF THE LATE LIEUTENANT WEIR, Who, ill endeavouring to retJoin his rogiment, under Colonol Oorc, wr«i inliii- manly slaughtered by the rebels at St. Denis, November 23, 1837. Iife5 &rm fsi si* it.mii''f.: \ " My tears are for the dead, and ray voice for the inhabitants oltlie grave." Oiiian, My tears are for the dead : my spirit mourns ** < *^ For one who sleepeth coldly in the tomb—*" i--" w^ For a young warrior — ^for the fallen brave ; *^^^ "v ' ' ' But mine are not the first. The winter's snow <^^ i Hath long been wreathed upon his place of rest' C % Since in devoted woe, his destined bride hath wept The bitter tears of unavailing grief. ' ; Long hath the chilling blast moaned sadly o'er His dark abode, since the last hallowed prayer ' i j fThat leaves it* parting blessing on the dust i^ ? V Hath bid him sleep in earth's cold latest home. $ A TRIBUTE, &o. 103 Long hath the soldier's footstep marked the grave, And vowed deep vengeance on the ruthless hand '■* f*--^ That laid him there. But these are not the last. ^ t^J 'r>ti Where is the mother, who had trained his steps, ""^^^*^^^ ^f And taught the early prayer ? Oh I where are all * *^^»^ His childhood's first aflfections ? They are yet ^*^% ^^\ To learn his doom ; and what a fearful one I ^^" fi^fel^rili^ Where fell the warrior? On the battle field, • - #ta»#^ Where victory soothed the agony of death ? ^ mh No— no—it was not there: hb blood alone "^5'^^?O0 &#? Gushed on the rebel hand, and stained ti^iigi|^«!^'^^ The unpitying dust. None but the rebel ear '^^* Heard the last utterance of his failing voice, '**^ -^^ ^fi^" When it was raised for mercy from his God ; 'it 'J*^i im^.. For none around would grant it. He was there — Alone and fettered ; — and the plunging steel Drank of the fountain of his bosom's blood ; ^^ iBut the shrill clarion's murmur pealed not forth |To hush the dying moan — the banner streamed not o'er The lonely spot, when death*s faint twilight dimmed The closing eye ; and the chill night-dew feli jike pure but hidden tears in solitary woe ; * ^^ Jut now he sleepetluin an honored tomb, '^^ ^*oi? i^ihIt ^here his own warriors laid him ; and th^jr Wepr' ""'? -^ ? '. . Ff'' 104 A TRIBUTE TO THE •! |i rt>.!M Wi ' For him — the young — the loved — the martyred brave ; And the clear bugle's deep and saddest tone Breathed o'er him then ; and England's standard waved In mournful foldings o'er her fallen son. Then sleep thee^ Weir. If ardor ever thrilled The generous heart to courage and to death, Thy fate hath roused it from thy gallant band, Where each would rush beneath the shining steel And all devouring flame) to wreak dread vengeance on The coward ruffians who have wrought thy doom. A Sleep thee, Weir — sleep thee. Let thy spirit rest ; For hadst thou fallen on tho gory plain. Thy fate would not have b«en recorded, as. it isj^-j j^i 1^^^. Upon the living page of memory and of fame ^ M^vmi- Engraven deathlessly. Oh I martyred Weir, g ^m-m ? Never, oh I never can thy name be breathed; ,« Jm^ a< By Briton's lip without his heart recals, 0<^ ^Jjltr ^uw With still enthusiastic sorrow, all t'fr'^rb flKt^V&ilij * The sufferings thou didst so unaided nieet, ^^^j dm^l ■ » Defenceless victim of unmingled hate— ^pq^ j»|©ix€l ^■ Never, oh 1 never while the gloomy woods vj du^i^l Of Canada's dark forest land will wave j0^ i^m Their heavy boughs to the lamenting winds*— ,|( ,^^^,4 ,. Never, oh I never while her rivers flow ., .. j^ -^j^ ^^^ r? •:K\ It, ''V^ v-'-i-i^f^M K- ^Vi..-' -r.-^ MEMOP'" OF THE LATE LIEUT. WEIR. 105 In silent tribut^.> and their peaceful tide Bears the proud shadow of Britannia's flag In victory blazing, and in mercy blessed — Never, oh I never, then, while England's might ^, Floateth untarnished o'er the ocean's breast, "^ And still triumphant o'er the conquered land — Never, oh I never while her sons are free, (And theif can never yield to slavery's galling chain, Or stem oppr^sion's law,) will that deed be forgot. Thy name vnW mingle ever with the breath Of England's deathless fune. High on the! laurelled Of her mourned heroes, Weir, thou hast thy place* page 'iJ^I i ^^x ^■^^'•j$f . I- n ,l:.l. •* YiH>*i^^i SiU 71'. . Itsffl I'' I CHRISTMAS EVERGREENS. ,^^ ■<4i**'»3 % f 4 The custom of decorating churches with evergreens is of very ancient date. On this subject an English writer observes. " The evergreens with which churches are usually ornamented at Christmas are a proper emblem of that time, when, as God says to the prophet Isaiah, ' I will plant in the wilderneas the cedar* and the mjrrtle, and the olive tree : I will set them in the desert— vhe fir tree, and pine tree, and the box tree together.' And in another place — * the glory of Lebanon shall come onto thee : the fir tree, and pine tree, and box to- gether, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of ^y feet glorious.' " '* f'^i-iiVaiiriiwiiif ♦*.«•* ri' ,r,-»^ f-,T*jL j.'ivij i#rfw** Ti^^ii % i>. S' ■i.!' ! t I Deck the glad church and wreathe the aisles with flowers, And twine the myrtle with its snowy showers, Around the altar, with the dark pine bough, •> So that the sanctuary of the Lord may now * 4- Rejoice and blossom as the rose, to make . ^^ 1, The place of His feet glorious— whence awake The joyful sounds of grateful love from earth, / - To hail the triumph of the Saviour's birth — ^ . Where blends the foliage of the evergreen, _ An emblem token of whereon we lean 5^ v i > CHRISTMAS EVERGREENS. ' 107 Our lasting hope, in worship oflfered to ^^ ^^M^^ MsTM The Great Supreme, who hath bestowed the hue ^* ^'^ ^'^^"^ Of glowing beauty on each unsought rose, '*^* Whose leaves have faded in the still repose ^^ ^'^-'^ .^''M'^miT its ■„ ■ . ■ Of Sharon's valley, or on Judah's mount^^* ^^>^^f^ ^AmrM Or o'er the rippling of the tranquil fount ^^> ^"w '^^ttq ]( % Of Siloam's stream, or in the desert where >'^^ 'fin^yrmii ni He makes the lilies of the field His care, ^ -^'^i '^^'' ^'^^^ Who toil and spin not — ^where the fertile sod f5»olv*5i?* m\i Yields its fair tribute to Almighty GoAym^h h^.yJ'imM > 'Mid the lone forest and the desolate**>^ ^^^^*o^^«" ^^^ ^^^> Untrodden solitudes — where groves of date ^-i^^ •*^^^' Ml\i) ^ And lofty palm-trees bend, to beautify ^^ MB:m ii IvmklO The wilderness of nature's sanctuary— sihiffa mimd ©ilT Where budding olives, with the box and fir, ■• <>^'^ ' h*^m^ The cedars of Lebanon and the myrrh, ^^^'^^ ^Mp^i ^l Wave their sweet aromatic foliage, and *?i^ ^ With morning's breath the tamarind leaves expand, In the soft freshness of the early rain, r '^ : When the vines languish, and the tender grain Thirsts for its moisture, even as we pine For living waters from the source divine ^ *"' Of everlasting joy. But now adorn -i*. - >?'" ja The altar of our God, for that blessed morn :^m t *• ^tl t\ ■v. I ■M ft i ■'■■.;!fs 108 CHRISTMAS EVERGREENS. »lr" I mm flMi Which brought us peace) when Bethlem's bright star set Low in the orient sky. Its radiance yet With beams of rising lustre guides our way Through life's dim wanderings, when salvation's ray «^j; Breaks through the mist of sin. Now twine long wreaths Of pine and olive, while devotion breathes ,«J4 ^^y -je^,> ^i Its heavenly incense^ Cedar boughs and fir, p'oimi}'^^. K With the loud anthem's pealing swell to stir ,f. vt The shadowy foliage, so to mak^ the place Of our Lord glorious, as His word we trace \ On each unfolded leaf, which from the path Of the lone wilderness we bear. H^s hat^r,;,i^J , uobfio^i. Claimed it as His own tribute. Ours must be j ^^^j ^^^ The broken spirit's offering, and the kneek^/.vv^?f»ftri|4|^ ^||| Bowed unto Jesus. And the contrite heart . ^ id^%^ Its deeply sorrowing sacrifice impa»t^,,^j,,|.tf^ j^^|^ -.Its ffsffl* m&'if fete-d te ■!&# el -.^ ,&&>:%■■ XK^>i^,$j!fi^*/' :i m l'.'?i^ ::(r 5 ;mwfih ■j^jTUQii^'--^. . ii0if"^0i^'^^n^ .1 ■- t K' •' Mr • 'If A'U: . ml^f:^- iti -^Jii' i^, r^«-r»^^--r .^.1^;^ LINES TO A BROTHER, ,'M !«» r ON HIS DEPARTURE. <''3 T«J raoil I" Now, may God bless thee on thine anxious way. And light thy footsteps with religion's ray. Look, look to Him, in loneliness and grief, And heavenly solace will be thy relief. ^ * Thou hast thine earthly parents' wish to guide Thee on thy path, though desolately wide ; And God will bless thee. Thy obedience will Ascend to heaven, and heavenly dew distil. I know this moment bids thee breathe farewell To all that binds thee with affection's spell. But thy return. Oh ! then. the gladdening smile Will the sad parting of the past beguile : Each meeting hand will thrill with eager touch, With the fond welcome breathed in tones as such But greet the wanderer's ear ; and home, seem still Far, far more dear enjoyment to fulfil. f--' n t I no LINES TO A BROTHER. Go, then, my brother. On thine early youth Fate yet hath smiled, and fair religion's truth Is still for thee — sure beacon, when the storm Of worldly conflict may thy peace deform. Go, then, my brother, go. Thy work fulfil— Mine oft breathed prayer that God will bless thee still. Far from thy childhood's home thy path will be, But in thy loneliness God is with thee. ft «; ^m0m: 'TJtrir _ i?r Tf r \ fiii '. .. - , ■^ rifiii^i^'' '■' . utb'iMs }^m oiU llr^ f' V\ I'! f*!| 'jbM(\ ikdi wm i^v £)i'»y feuA TO THE SOREL VOLUNTEERS, ' < i, - - .1 i.«~ ON THEIR RECEIVING THEIR ARMS, ♦iiiit III England's bright blade hath ever yet been grasped By the brave and the free, Whose onset shout peals o'er the battle's din For death or victory. ^iM,' > -^ .1. England's proud pennon ever yet hath waved O'er her sons' conquering might, Who feel, beneath its star-like guidance borne, Sure victors of the fight. I -r- And England's vow is yet untainted heard On each wind's passing breath, > ;ir. In firm allegiance to her monarch Queen, To battle and to death. ;:.i^l'i'i:^' Jp^^ !9na(i * I >. « 1 112 TO THE SOREL VOLUNTEERS. < ■■ ' m ^: . • it: ]: ll'; '^ And you who now that blade untarnished clasp, For England's spotless fame, ^« \ And thus beneath her sacred banner s shade, ; A place of glory claim, . % "^ ' m ' = T 5^f» ^ Be it unsulUed mid overwhelming force, Nor yet resigned the trust, Till on the well defended sod it lays In mingling blood to rust. With life remember that the wei^pon strikes ^^§, , .:- For God in fi^edom's right, ,....,,.,. ,.;^^, For Him whose all directing arm leads forth \jofP^ ^ The victor in his might. ,^^i,^^., 4.}^>,i> ^^^H ■ ■ " - ' ■: ' ' ■■' - -.r 's^ ^iii&m4, :£nmM^ «'ljf(iv/ d^yp . nQ, .\[ :^ ,. ♦ y \ ' ■ 'I THE ALIEN'S FIRST LOVE. !:Vi^'t) Which falls unmarked, unmingled, and unknown, &.tiT' Shed in the bitterness of hopeless grief , > ,.4 ^^i 4imIX And friendless desolation, hath been mine — '^h'^i i'<^A Yes, ever mine, from the unconscious hours Ti^i .ism'tT Of helpless infancy ; for I have been m.% 4thi_.mAi^ui*t. An early mourner—- one deserted by - .iiw hibu^d buk Tne kindred tie — the kindred link of all. i<^ Trs^ <|aoi c'd Why am I loved ? It is not that the smile ur>3lii^?dfl H Of beauty dwells upon my drooping brow, mMm d'^uf*. Nor that the lavish hand of fortune decks ^s&niimi ik? 1 * if: r '! .a- -,« 114 THE ALIEN 8 FIRST LOVE. y ' \ glitterncig gems my dark plain braided hair, Noi that tb9 glow of Aoble pride can rush Upon my cheek. There iiave been none to claim, Or shelter li om the storms of dreary fate, ^ The alien and the strtf^ger — the adopted child-— TTie lone and parentless. Now hath she found ; Affection's strength to soothe and cherish her ; The softening hand of pity hath awoke ' ^4 I roa ax^^ From the deep fountain of the high wrought soul %',ih The purest feelings which have nurtured love n* bf/st v For that lone being. Is it not toojiur pi\ iUr^ ^tfi^i »jV; To linger so on me f May it not prove '■^•d-^m t?>«o! i The rainbow's bright but evanescent tint, ti bawii dinl*^ Glittering in tears vanish f No — 'oh ! no— ' to« lilcll The sun-beam now may pierce the heavy cloud ii 'jltiVV That long hath shadowed me in doubt and gloom, <>oiic' And may disperse the sorrows of the past. /Jfm'jhl hnl Thou, from whose love those sweet hopes emanate, ^aoY Mingled with glowing visions o'er the future, dreamed And blended with that tribute, which hath sought :.s.i. So long for aught to cherish, in the voiw f 'onatiiiil itn'i Unbroken solitude — say dare I trust ai , uis ^^4V* Such visions as they pass ? Can I believe nh 'j%m^ Kp ■ 1 '^m beloved by thee ?— thou v^ho hast bid tsd.i i^ivi KM 11 ' . / THE ALIEN'S FIRST LOVE. 115 Each grateful feeling's earliest incense rise. With tenderness united. Thou ha»t claimed Its first pure offering und'vided ; And until its light Is darkened with the shadow of the gravis If w!^l be thine alone. I well know how to prize 'il>i> measures of affection ; and thy smile Will teach me to forget the bitter tears The mom of life hath yielded ; and thy voice Will hush the memory of each vanished grief ; And deeply will my heart fulfil the vow My lip will soon pronounce^ through joy and grief Thy solace and support. And may my fate Not cast on thee its sadness ; but may I • ''*^'*'. '' Emerge from sorrow, when, in plighted faith, ''^ ' I kneel thy happy bride. But shouldst thou ever mourn, Should'st thou with conflict struggle, thou wilt know The long enduring strength of love which hath "^"^ ^ * ' Been chastened by affliction, and refined in tears. Such love can bear neglect, reproach, and want, And the cold world's desertion. Pictured woe ' ' ' ■'■* May be so imaged ; but my changeless heart ''*^*^^^'^^^' • be 11 fii, ^i V Hath only been — and only will be — thine. ^ "^ -' '^ *^' f-ty -»»fij i-^aa "fMW' 'I' I - r; 1 upl . ,.: i . T r . .• . 1 .,- . y .! |K Mi - ;^> ; fr ■ ;■.;* ?,, -. .M..'. THE ACCEPTED ONE. " ■mr"W'' ■ fe.- *+"." *" ■' '.-.■ J. Ir. < t ■0 ■ 'i -if ;?.•'■' ::i^'l y -1 i. r. . /.^.j,. 1 • i'.: .;*'•: H^m ^^"» -:^'nA w „ , ?- m-) ■■ -f ,T>> !f' /. ■'• m. Ck, ( » !'■- i.:?' ti ? 'ff;! jjH ii'i 1 I'ipf iiki n ii^L •*.. .„., ^... ../.^.J;*v,.^i..i» «w?^, ,' THE MARKHAM BROOMSTICK, "^ .a-X^tV ^•51:>-W -i*|- A TALE OF ST. DENIS. %i^^'-^ '*^^J '•■ ,v.r . ..J : »-;..|.... ( -, . " The bugles sound. Away ! away ! :^ ^^^^^ > '^ . ^^ I The ranks in order close T ' *^ '^^^ ^ 1^^ ^^^ \^ No ammunition have we left «i^^« ^^^^^^ - To warm our reconnoitring foes, ''*- -^'^ ' *'■ '''^■ ^^ ' "^ ' • '*^^' But here lays Captain Markham. *^>'^^ ^ " And our brave leader we will not '*^'* ^>^'^ ^-ivroak-i For our own lives forsake. ^^w&M ^f ^mlMm^i .: ^ ' ■ ■ f- The patriots will not rush in here "-'-^ ^^ ^^''^ "- Whilst with our bayonets drawn we make * *' A guard for Captain Markham. " But at the window, lo I there is ' ' / A peeping officer. Watch — watch, his cap with nodding plume, And, see, he cannot, dares not, stir, y Can it be Captain Markham ?" \ < J V *■ 'i ■..■; : THE MARKHAM BROOMSTICK. ^ 119 " Vites I vites ! avancez I tirez vites ! -H And swiftly pelting bullets through imo > mil That glittering fated cap made way ;^''i ^^ ^4 r^M But harmed not Captain Markham. And then the quick escape was made, i" * '4» I Before they could reload, ^^^''^^^ ^u JiiV/ And Markham, on the Serjeant's back, £i4 iiui. c. Was borne across the road. *evfi iv?:^ ^^"^^ .iB^iiitfiM No danger then for Markham. And with a shattered hand did he, ^%,& hio''( U That trusty soldier, save 'mmim lubiiH / His much loved Captain ; and his coat ^ p'ft}lf. ,, Received the bullet of each knave ,n B-h .iasii>=sui. Who would have aimed at Markham. But still the cap and plume remained * >< ii'^ In its conspicuous place — • . ? ' •*' The open window — and it stood ; .''-i« ' c! 7?' With long abiding tireless grace, " ' -^^ i Though gone was Captain Markham. i ii I i ■ ! iJ Jl 11 h ; 1 I li ! ' »'. •iV 120 THE MARKHAM BROOMSTICK. ss " Mais c'est le diable — cet ofBcier : > ! VijC^?" '* We cannot bring him down, v ^i^-^b ^/t.] ^ But come, we will rush in, and see v:Pi'vm i>rr4 If bullet-proof remains the crown |js\] Jvi: Mi li As not mid showers of ball to stir. > ,'4 .mM^fkl^- i$i ilt was not mpch like Markham. ■•;1^^^.,.,. But here's long life to all of those Who played the clever trick Who with such smart ingenious thought, /I Could represent with cap and stick (ii< /^ .fu«4 ii«M aii The valiant Captain Markham. \ - 'k ■ '.■•r^fi t>i^fe"*'?^^\^'ai-'* l^'^>iri1y:y hJ.■ .:i,.^rn J':- s=J-■^'^:^■^?^;■J;;;>i> ''^^ -"^'i^J'v. ,-v?^> ^■n^'Jt. 'k-:yi^:) ,;. THE FADING EOSE. , /^s)a£ii*I (100 v/ YjiA'i'i.loa MET Say, why should the rose from thy cheek depart ? Or why should its clear tint fail ? No, leave it to those whom a grieving heart May bid the once bright cheek be pale ; But why should thine lessen its blooming tinge, E'er sorrow its canker hath flung ? ^ ^..^.h , j, ^ Thy cheek is but kissed by thine eyelids* fringe, Wh ere rarely a tear-drop hath hung. No, keep the young rose of thy joy and thy health, Aijd long play the smile round thy lip. -j^^rf v./us, f Mayest thou never of blighting affliction partake, Nor e'er of its bitterness sip. ,, .^ ,,,,,, uo-.n ..»^-. And keep thy sad tears for those chill future hours. When thy life will have past its spring. ' • ■? Knowest thou that the dew but dims autumn flowers When it weeps for their withering? ^ ' v '/-toi i. i :' ' In f . : ;...■ :\^ > \ ■ ■■ .-.#..i*^3^. >l- %-^'i>»^*^':4'^k*#4 '' *^ Sf .' '- 1 • .'-'».! ,*•:: ■'t*h^b ':^*» /'■is^', ■"-"••tii. ,'$fe>l'f' y^i, THE SOLITAEY WOOD PIGEON. Written on seeing a wood pigeon, very late in the autumn, take refuge in the belfry of a decayed church* .»V>I Art thou a lone and plaintive dweller here, ' Beneath this sacred gloom, ^ . . . ^^ Where each sound echoes from the dark and still And lowly vaulted tomb ? 1 ' u '* ' Long have the autumn wanderers gone from tience To where the green leaves wave, ^' •**/ f^ ''^^' And thou art left deserted and forlorn, '^ ' " • -^ Companion of the grave. T Poor widowed bird, thou art indeed among '!m^ J* The desolate of earth — ' ' " A lonely mourner in this hallowed wreck Of past decaying worth. ;,.i;V.->" 1 1 <~.l- Ml THJS SOLITARY WOOD PIGEON. 12d The low-toned bell's sweet music oft hath stirred ^ The trembling poplar trees. Nought save the fluttering of thine own light wings Now answers to the breeze. *-.- . ..w. ,.. «'.jt . The deepened voice of hallowed prayer hath waved The elder's snowy bloom; mmi >* But now no breath of sacred worship wakes ■•^mn\'V The silence of the tomb. ^ "^ Here hath that partmg blessing been bestowed* ! Which lasting rest must sway — jb':^*- fe^'fj .iii That heaven entrusted peace the world gives not. And cannot take away* , .rr But here none kneel in meek devotion now, Beneath this mouldering shrine. ;,VfU' ' i Around the altar's place the clinging wreaths I Of wild clematis twine, ifif* ,ii -Ifj^li ■ - 1^ The dark-veined leaves a saddened murmur breathe — A deeply mournful tone — "^ * ^^"-^ ^•' ^:Un_ ? 4i;'i A low and plaintive melancholy sound — r.riBA A spirit grieving moan. , -j ? ', i ><>;.^l; /ffi^iiV/ Thy rest, lone bird, hath never been among Such relics of decay, ' -^r/rfl "^ " Where o'er the dead the crumbling tombstones fell, Beneath the night-wind's sway. ■ , ■ :^ ( ,V V. 1^4 THE SOLITARY WOOD PIGEON. Thou wilt thy long and dreary vigils keep, Until the spring's warm breath Shall stir thy muffled plumes, and bear thee from This monument of death. But unto thee there speaks no hallowed voice Within thy chill abode. Though the toll sepulchral nurtured trees Rise from ancestral sod ; For thou couldst rest in peace, thy bosom, where Their sacred dust is spread. No haunting memory should thy pinions trail The ashes of the dead. |l: ! Ill|j|l::il Fold thy light wings. This sanctuary, in Its perishing decay, Mournfully tells how fondly cherished things ' From earth must pass away. Dust with its dust to moulder is the wreck Affection's -tears behold. Where drooping flowers and long funereal grass Sweep o'er the sainted mould ; And mystic murmurings from the unsought grave Sigh through the shadowy gioom, But not their spirits voices^ for their rest ^^ Is not within the tomb. Ki ' ';i -immi^ BLANCHE OF NAVABEE Ki; A TALE ILLUSTRATINO THE PASSION OF LOVE. .V.) This tale is rendered into verse from a prose composition, beariug the same «, by G. P. B. James. Some slight digressions from the original have been if, which it is hoped do not detract firom its interest 1 ' ; '\*'M [here was a strange glittering pageant in the gay fright stre^ of Pampeluna ; and the ray ' quivering brilliance from illumined spires i (learned in the distance, like for beacon fires ; nT ^ o'er calm Arga*s gentle rippling shone be blaze of lighted piles, and mirth, unknown im^fn'^K) fntil that hour, was celebrated in iuy iifi^ii LKi^a-*! lie festooned courts and splendid halls, rzithin W [he towers of Pampeluna. Every heart 'f^ "hib-mnJtl emed with its outward strength of grief to part ; '-fjM^': b freighted air with acclamations rung^,uii <.7.ii, where stood The rich pomegranate lofty groves below The green acclivity, on whose high brow The towering city rose. Was it the reign Of welcomed peace those revels brought again ? Peace had been theirs. Was it the voice of war, Which in rejoicing woke to arms Navarre ? It was their monarch, who led forth his bride, Valois' fair princess, who, with power allied, Had yielded to his suit. And eagerly. In breathless silence, gazed each watchful eye ^^i L.:Jiii 0iii BLANCHE OP NAVARRE. 127 For Isabel's approach. The marble floor Gave not her footstep sound. The corridor Of glittering light she passed. And she was fair, And exquisitely beautiful ; but there I Sat a proud, conscious look upon her brow, I Which, for the timid bride, who came to bow Low at the altar, seemed not like the glance Which should be there, to leave her native France, And seek a far strange home. Her restless eye Shone with the haughty eagle light of high. And valiant race. The arching lip defined The firmly dignified, unbending mind. Yes, Isabel is lovely — she is all ITo grace the splendor of the monarch's hall. But look on Blanche, our own sweet princess, and ■Mark the endearing feelings which expand lln early promise ; and her bloom of youth iBeams with the gentleness and peace of truth. ■With what an earnest smile she hastes to meet |Her future sister. Her low welcomes greet The stranger's ear ; and the affianced bride Manche did sincerely view, yet seemed defied )y Isabel's repulse. Where was the soft ilnduring look of tenderness, which oft mm Wi- S'sH '."■-■ ;!l ':> t > li r ii% BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 1 She deemed her brother claimed ? That wandering gaie Was lifted to the crowd, or on the rays Of dazzling ornaments, which might enthral< ^ Some lonely passing thought. The coronal Was placed upon her forehead. Should this hour Of feeling so intense, betray the power Its thrilled emotion yields — that moment when The plighted tow is breathed — unspoken then Its solemn extacy ? When tintless flowers, In the pale clusters of their snowy showers, As emblems droop around the kneeling bride—- When earthly love by God is sanctified ? With such impressions, sorrowfully vain The bright gems' richest splendor. In the train Of Isabel of Valois, at her side, A prince-like noble stood. The glow of pride Flushed his high brow ; and perfect beauty seemed With manhood's grace united ; and there beamed From his dark eye, a fixed expressive gase And triumph glittered in its liquid rays. He bore the warrior's crest ; but with his name^^ Francis of Foix — a deadly paleness camo O'er Blanche's cheek : her full'lip lost its smile, As she felt his very look defile BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 129 The purity of hera. Oft had he sought, With light unmeaning vows, to win, and wrought That agony of pricf in woman.s heart, With strengthened anguish lingering to depart From its last rest of hope ; which bears the might Of crushed affection in its withering blight. Francis of Foix beside the festive board Was gaily seated ; the rich wine-cup poured Its sparkling foam ; and with a mirthful smile, Some of Navarre's young nobles to beguile The banquet's revel, rose, with " Now, brave Count, We pledge love's conquest in the rosy fount Of generous wine." — " Most willingly will I — Blanche of Navarre — for never hath mine eye Rested on look like hers." With flushing brows His proud companions gazed : it seemed to rouse Each fervent energy, to hear her name So lightly breathed by lips which could defame One so much prized. And then De Leyda rose — " Learn, valiant son of France, as I repose Faith in uninjured honor, words so spoke Shall be recalled, or the avenging stroke Mine arm shall give. Blanche of Navarre must be By every lip pronounced with purity. « ■ '^ ■m -h i!i 130 BLANCIIK OF NAVARRE. ,;! ^ i Didst tliou but know how her high mind is fraught With virtue's fairest treasures — how each thought III that unsullied sanctuary must " fi rji? Reclaim the erring, and mspire the trust . ' *i^ Which leaneth not on earth ; for is there grief, ^i >■ " s Blanche of Navarre administers relief; a*^*^ \ Is tliere affliction — doth injustice reign, Tile opiiressed to her can never plead in vain ; Is vice concealed beneath the bright array ' rM^: Of pomp and power, Blanche shrinketh from it ray. Though in the pestilence she stood beside " ^'' •■ The moaning sufferer, and unceasing tried iVt/j To lull each fear, instilling hope's sweet calm M*'^% Into the wounded spirit, with the balm Of her low uttered priytr, which slowly breathed Over the closing liJ. Oft hath she wreathed ^'^ The censer's fragrance, when the faltering plaint Was hushed to bless her. And yet wouldst thou taint A being such as this ?'* The count's eye gleamed With anger's fiasLing fenor as it beamed The way of bursting feelings. " Yet, I say Blanche of Navarre is woman, and she may Be conquered and betrayed. Though beauty I Have ne'er beheld like hers — such dignity V And graceful softness blended — that fair cheek -■-*' u:. .{ .■If- i- Ut. Jiviis-.i BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 131 ^i ji^U "■J -•r,-. ij* {*«■, At; *if t\ •') -'/}' - y- . \\ .,y VV T r ■:. . J. ^ -\ U > r^J* '.' With palest rosebloom tinged, and eyes that speak With full confiding radiance. Not alone < » For this should I a triumph o'er her own ; But it is for that purity within ' That I would strive such taintless love to win, And she will yield. Mine shall the tribute bo. Yes, she shall fall, or she shall conquer me. The sun had shone the gothic casements through Of the dark ancient palace. Crimson hue • '* Streamed on the mighty mountain's distant sweep Whose snowy heights were imaged in the deep Clear fount of Pampeluna, and the bend - "-^i^-' Of the sweet Arga's circle seemed to blend With the green shadows of the citron leaves, *^ Where golden fruitage hung. The low wind grieves ^'^ Amid that glossy foliage with a tone ? ? i**^ >^i*'<>;^v::;i ^U Of plaintive listlessness ; but not alone ^^^'^ 4Js;w/*i? *' That breezy morn it sighed ; for lance and sword ■ * In gleaming fragments lay, and bright streams poured ^ > Upon the dewy grass, and stained the fair ^1 And bent down flowers, that crushed were withering there Amid the tender moss. The glittering crest H Trailed its dark plume ; and o'er the warrior's breast / t;) "iv^^ %. ■'■ ill l!:Bf- 132 w- ■.% BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. W '-H"; Bow ed many forms. Beside Tafalla's gate, 4;^,- ".,, Francis of Foix the mandate seemed to wait v r Of death's chill triumph. But the spirit woke .;;)(? From its deep transient sleep, and faintly spoke ] >; , , Words of returning strength. DeLeyda's lance, l Laid in its rest, had borne the son of France ^ry^:.. ^^ Down to the earth. The severed helmets, cleft,' h -■, Upon the field the conflict's trophy left ; - s . For both renown had won ; and in the strife |>#;ff jff?;^ v-^ Would but have yielded with departing life ; ,^. ^^ And their tried steel was shivered where they lay y^ As senseless as the crimson moistened clay Their forms then pressed. The Count of Foix was borne Unto the palace. And who may not mourn h.,.-^^. ,,5. \ O'er manhood's vanquished power, when health contends With baffling pain, and wonted vigor lends ,; fv. >v; ., Its energetic ardor, fraught with fame, ^^ ,..j|r i^ ^ To struggle with the weak and wounded frame. ,^ Those who in battle dangers welcome, there ^,: »i. ,,- , Upon the languid couch, repining bear ,„.. <, ; .,,, i Its silent listlessness. Oh I then, not vain i? ,< Is woman's chastened meekness, to remain r ,,,... „ Beside the sufferer. And fair Isabel, ^^ ,>,j^«jf .^ \;^i ^ji .| With her alluring smiles, sought to dispel ;, y^ ,.**^'' .0.v/ ri BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 133 M ■ ft ■■% 4 ■ J • The fever- haunting phantoms as they rose ] To dim the visions of retired repose. . : . ; But from its sunny glance his anguish turned Unto another's face, and restless yearned For that sweet patient look where pity dwelt -. In its soft stillness, when beside him knelt ?;-■ - Blanche of Navarre. As her light passing hand His burning brow assiduously fanned, Oft would his closing eye recal its gaze • i* -^'^ = On her unwearied vigil. She would raise < His damp and raven curls with gentle care, >! f When the bright flush had vanished, and, with prayer And low accented orisons, would she ■^- '"'^ Seek, when from wild delirious raving free, To lead him to the blessed and duly prized And hallowed impulse, when the agonized Turn from this earth to treasures not attained Whilst blooming health with transicQt joy remained But on the couch of sickness then we turn To everlasting life, and deeply yearn For what hath been so long with cold neglect !>%?:>- tl^ Forgotten and despised — what we reject vji\ s ?/i^^ r> f Whilst pleasure's frail delusions lull us, till, A: ' ipu-^vii'X At the bless'd bidding of God's holy will. .r?^ A.t. ,•!*:;*'?!■«• »;r 1>.' u;.n- . '-^ I t :. \:\\ -Jtt^-^i' '.m JM S, \v . \ » 134 BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. ii % i I ' The tender plant grows up before us, and, i v.-.v;.'^ i-] In hidden mystery, its leaves expand ■■iM^m-i >i V; m- ' In sorrow or affliction, till the ray i:fi>'Tit£fm:f:n iu<'-^^\ . Of Faith arises, and the Truth — the Way— fi^*;*^*^- « The Shepherd of the fold — the Light and Life — * »! Hath power above this dim world's wearying strife. ^ ? ;»F^}^ ■■«T^; -»*■,(>'; ixi .i'-KJ-i • - The radiant Queen, the lovely Isabel, -?/( 1 1 i ff. '^irys ,; By Francis oft had watched, until the spell ^ - ' ■ Which beauty shed was gone. The languid shade Of wasted symmetry no more delayed *fc*^im? q^j^^u^ » Her pleasure-seeking step. The painful sigh jj m,^: And pensive gleaming of the hollow eye, ., >m: ^ml i ;. She lingered not to trace ; it ceased to speak s- -i?; ;i„ The language of the past ; and his wan cheek ? ^' ' Was worn with suffering. But with Blanche the tie Was firmly wove of buried sympathy. is^u:ip.i':n as. Had she not soothec^him with devoted care, >5o»a lilLi And untired vigil, and unwearied prayer? -^^^iii uqI. When her sweet evening blessing gently bid ji^elK/VL? ; Slumber's hushed silence close his wearied lid, UiUi r Yet would bar voice, to each awakening sigh,' Through the dim stillness of the night, reply. Had she not lulled each raving, and refined, ?!t%>»i \d^ ■■ With lofty visions, his new dawning mind ? \ \ ■■ BLANCIIi: OF N'AVARRE. X35 Is this not woman i, part ? and more, is not • , ,»,'j- Her love augmented, when affliction's lot , ,, ,. ^; .yff Or suffering claims it. Undivided there It seem: a still more sacred tie to share ^ , ' ,. . ( Man's anguish and his sorrovi^ — this the bond r^ ., f Oi'^womans love, all varying change beyond. -? < ';".' But health's return again caused Blanche to throw ; /^ The veil of frigid coldness o'er the glow n. v -rj'- ff Of her heart's lavished feeling. Nought betrayed • .(^ The secret fount where such emotion laid >^' , ; i ; , , lis hidden source ; and eagerly, in vain, rff '^^^ . . :. fi Did Isabel of Valois seek to gain lir^iv-''-::^ ? '^ \nght to confirm that doubt, which had untold '•, > fv/, So long been mantled in suspicion's fold — : : j T That Francis loved her n^t — that Blanche had won .,; ' Virtue's fair triumph ; for he now would shun w,j,4 *,'"i .■ n That proud and lovely Queen's bright glance, which oft. From sparkling passion faded to the soft Still langour of subdued expression, sought, ■ '! i . - [ With restless gaze, to shade each passing thought :H^r^l It eloquently beamed. What stedfast claim Hath that affection which survives the fame ^i Of injured honor, or the faith which hath -j\ Been to another plighted. In that path ^jv v ; ;:J:i ;4-; -'"ff'.X- -t-p *> '.< -'■♦.i* '^T •■Ui.r 'W \\ fj,V ,1 - 1 • '%: 186 BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. There lies unmingled poison, to destroy /^ What erring guilt adorns with withering joy. »\V The setting sun gleamed o'er the distant main, And tinged the lime groves of luxuriant Spain ; Tall citron forests, and where orange flowers And almond trees, bent with the fountain's showers. The pining murmur of the listless sigh - 7 H. / Of shadowy eve, fresh odors wafted by, ' v In the wide hall, dejected and alone, ;. > ^^vJ , , Blanche heard the echo of its whispering tone - [,i Wake a low music from her harp's sweet strings ; And at that hour, remembrance fondly clings > To memory's visions ; and her tears among ?» V The breeze-swept chords in glittering silence hung, As the peru's closed blossom's dew hath been ^ . . , , By sunny light, 'mid folded leaves unseen. \;^i:^vA { But she wept not unmarked in that sad mood, *; For, veiled in twilight's gloom, beside her stood u Francis of Foix. The narrow casements threw, In silvery faintness, the young moon's pale hue On those dark imaged walls. The long hushed sigh Burst from his compressed lips so audibly %. : ) That Blanche raised her bent head. The eloquence Of other hours stilled with the influence . linRilBIIUI Mf Ik 1 iiL'. BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 137 Of agitated conflict ; and he felt ]: >, ^- f -^^ i That purity had triumphed, as he knelt 'if^^-v. ?;<.., t*;> In mute anxiety. How lovely is the might rr'-* ^^i^/ Of woman's power, when the radiant light -tf cj /. Of virtue claims its tribute, to subdue >t,(*'I «<■ r?r ■ : * Those passionate appealings, which renew VsXt • HitlX The light unhesitating vows which coldly break * *j) i\> The wasted heart they win but to forsake. " Oh I Blanche, I seek the stillness of this hour, ^K !..r-. To utter thoughts which language overpower Mii^ll I With their intensity." " And what wouldst thou, 'r Francis of Foix, with Navarre's Princess, now y'l So earnestly request ?" " That thou shouldst know The change which thou hast wrought, and thus bestow Thy aiture confidence. Think not that I ^ ^^(v{ jfi^ Speak with emotions such as hours gone by ;. ■,:_, utj^^ Devoted to affection." "If denied * ? I-^; uiT My love should be, and with temptation tried, j'lf i,Vf| Wouldst thou not weakly falter ?" " No, Blanche — no ; Virtue hath triumphed o'er the transient glov ,,.. iij,^<£^. Of frailty's delusions. Should it never be ,., ^^ ^.j^. ^f| My fate to win thee, yet thy memory j,, . Will flowers unfold in its unshaded light, , ,, Which may not droop with falsehood's withering blight. r>«' i m I, u 188 BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. n , ! 1. * . Oh ! Blanche wilt thou not bid me pirove that I sj^a. 1^> Am thus so changed? Yes, daughter of a high f| mii And warrior line of princes, thou hast gained :ii ■:jm^ r. A greater victory than e'er arms obtained, hmm'ii Ki For thou hast conquered vice. Once did I say iiit * ' That I o'er thee would hold my wonted sway, " '^^ *> ^ Or that thy strength should triumph ; and thou hast My vanquished pride a captive led at last ; ;w j i r And if by truth I cannot win thee, still ^v' -e; 3 ! hi) I firmly will the promised change fulfil. '^\''^:hi '^.uhj ( ; Should I behold thee one more favored bless, , ,f!i 'I'; Yet thy remembrance error will repress. \h,fw Should cold indifference place its icy bar -t; > irMO - For ever in thv bosom. Princess of Navarre, '-; vtb^ji ; Still thou hast conquered — still thou hast subdued (^ Long pampered follies — still thou hast renewed '^<:r'' The early light, false pleasure darkened, and 4 wStoVi C Bid those sweet sympathies once more expand ^* <.'^ Which long have languished ; and until the grave £ Shall cast its damp earth o'er my breast, and wave tei i Its long funereal grass with dirge-like sigh, f » In mournful requiem, as the wind floats hj^^^ ' Till then I will be thine." Her firm reply Blanche slowly uttered ; and her liquid eye X •^-^ BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. lai) Rested upon his own. His lofty brow Bore the fair stamp of tn**' " Suffice it now, My heart hath treasured yet no favored one, And may be yielded ; but it must be won By upright honor and pure virtue, when I can believe the change. And think not then The past will dwell upon my memory. ' '^^ No : he who conquers vice must ever be ''' More worthy than if he had never erred, ^ ' And the bright contrast of the change preferred :" " Enough — enough, then, dearest Blanche I know That calmly as thy low- toned accents flow^, " • ; * ^ That they imply a promise, and a boon f-'--'^^ • T' ' '"^ ' Of hope and of encouragement ; and soon •**'*' • '■'■^•^'■ Will I the token claim." Blanche spoke not ; and ' ''^^^" The tremor of her unresisting hand Clasped fervently in his — allowed the tie Of yet repressed, but tender sympathy. Amid the dimness of that hall's wide gloom Stood Isabel, with feelings to consume With torturing passion, as she glided by. Rejected love and wounded vanity Urged their resistless struggle to complete Her fixed design — that in some lone retreat tj-K I t'f ■1 H^s f;<. > U'.:\ ^, ■'-^f:: If » w m yi ■ i ^n ir m ui UMi \\ 140 BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. ■ni <;«, 1 ■ ' 1 1 • J Blanche should for ever linger, and no more Behold the one she held such influence o'er, ^ Whose every thought seemed now to idolize • . That virtue Blanche had taught him how to prize. From the sweet confidence of early years , , And tender childhood, Blanche had poured her tears Into her brother's bosom ; for the tie , ,/» ij'^ j>5«^ . Maternal fondness forms in infancy, ., j, , f ,^ .^i , , Had by the grave been severed ; and her sire, j ,,^^ ^^^, When he beheld his faithful queen expire, On earth had rested not. Thus had the bloom Of ripening youth been mantled in the gloom Of orphan grief; and she expanded to . . Her only brother's eye, which ever through .-^^ ^„, Affliction's mist had smiled. But Isabel ,y Ji * * Now chained his thoughts with falsehood's erring spell ; And led him to believe that Blanche was now An altered being ; and his darkened brow With lowering frowns dwelt on the sister who He from the utterance of expression knew, ^ And through the close retirement of her youth, f To be all purity and taintless truth. ^ , , But those reflections vanished ; and the keep. Beyond Navarre's tall mountains distant sweep. '»;f,- UxH:3 ^v r'^Mw j;' Vr BLANCHE OF NAVARUE. 141 /-■' K. t, ,:'/ M\ Was destined, with its guarded heights to be Where Blanche should languish in captivity. Its strong embattled towers small casem.cnts through Their veil of ivy dimly gave the hue - .4/'« And shadowy rays of evening's parting light, * As Blanche looked o'er the forests, where the night Slept in its mantled darkness ; and the rush ;. ry-y Of sad and gloomy thoughts arose, to crush * -sj^ ^,f Hope's faintly nurtured blossoms, as she dwelt hi? v^ On past remembrances, then meekly knelt v,ij^ Unto her Heavenly Father to defend is' n; ri f\\ Her with His care ; for now her onlv friend — Her brother — that dear guardian of her youth .-.if Thought not his Queen could deviate from truth. >■ ,,V,^ ■!V.\ Might not the poisoned cup or hidden blade Be in the darkness of his pathway laid ? . But hastening footsteps o'er the echoing floor Aroused her musing ; and the vauHed door Swung back on its dim hinges, and its shade Illumined by the quivering lamp, pourtrayed Francis of Foix. ** Blanche, mv beloved, wilt thou v ? 1 Confide thyself to my protection now, kr*> I :.;«.* *>i^.>1f i4 -,-SJ ^^_m. y^i ■ p /J I''! I';-, 'I ii tM Ii. 1 .■ ;i": 0' I : .Hi- (■ , 13 Ir 14-2 BLANCHE OF NAVAIHIK. , I . .t . : / , ... And fly from hence ? The castle**; aged chief I have deceived. An instant this of hrief And firm decision ; for he doth not know Yet, whence I came ; but in the court below > '•*' :> Armed horsemen enter. Haste, my love, then, haste : No moment this in anxious fears to waste." ' '» • Blanche on him gazed ; then hesitated not, ^ c--' i^^ '-'■■;■ For, in the loneness of her captive lot, ♦ ^ ' He seemed the solitary palm-tree 'mid ' y- :ut4 ^^ v Surrounding desolation. He then hid •> -tf*^. ?*:a | Her slight form in a pilgrim's mantle ; then'^i '^^ They hurried to the guarded entry. When •^' ' The watchword had been answered, they emerged Into the shaded pathway, whence converged -• -■ - The mountain passes, fringed with chestnut trees. ■^' The frowning masses of the Pyrenees ' j'^ W c^m Rose in the moonlight's silence, as its ray "'t^^' ■' Gleamed on the bright drops of the fountain's spray Which dashed beside their steps, when, lo I a shrill Wild clarion's blast the forests seemed to thrill. They gained the crag's descent. Beneath the steep And towering precipice, o'er which the keep ^^^'' In ancient grandeur looked. Each battlement ^^■ Resounded with the echo which was sent, "\ '"-'-^ i.-i r^ BLANCilE OF NAVAKUK. \4i} w. ;t : haste : - <* ■ .\ u\ .r-:': ■^^■y ' ' \\ c'".' • . u.. \ III di'cpeniiig lioarstMU'? ',:, *' Blanche chmg tt) lliat stronjj; arm which round hrr twiiu'd Its first and fond support ; hut lu>w conihiued v < ' • • l With intense angi isli, for exulting came "a- ' r /»' The glittering horsemen. Mingled with the nnnie, ■ .» "Blanche of Navane," each luging word was given ; ' • But their light steeds awaited where the riven • ' < Descending {)athway ceased. " Ivar not," he cried, V "But haste, beloved one, on ; nnd in the pride • ^ Of rescuing thee, I lay my lance in rest, And bare the armor of my shining crest; . . • And with thy dear nanu» for niv battle cry, . . - 1 strike for conquest. France hath warriors uit^h." He turned to meet the for His stand lie chose Where marble heights majestically rose And waterfalls impetuously reft : * i * ' Their margined chasms through the tall rocks clef*. And, in the shelter of the mountains's shade, Francis of Foix his gleaming lance displayed, Beside the deep stream's torrent, to impede ' "'"< Each effort to surround him ; and his steed • • -'^^ Well knew the battle crash. So there, sustained '^^'^ ^ By his brave followers, nobly he maintained ^''^'' * ^ *>>'* y>^ 144 BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. Long and unequal combat. He had slain The war worn leader of the ranks of Spain, Amid the conflict's fury, and the wave Had borne him to its dim and starless grave, When loudly rang the near and startling cry Of Gallia's troops advancing, and the high Cliffs woke to music. Then the Spaniards fled, And ebbing streams of darkly crimsoned red Were left to tinge the bubbling cataract's foam. Whose ceaseless dirge moaned o'er that last long hor^ie Now the young victor with impatience turned To seek for Blanche, and in mute anguish learned She had her flight continued ; but delayed, fe S? To send his warriors to their leader's aid. He onward urged his steed ; but not one trace Could he obtain ; and with increasing pace ^- t , The morning light inspired him, though a storm r-"-'i-i Seemed in the west with rushing haste to form ; But still he hurried on. The thunder rolled Its booming sound, and heavy hail clouds told The utter fury of the tempest's sway ; But nought had power his progress to delay. Until he viewed the mantle Blanche had worn. On the earth's bosom laid. With ardor borne^ TA 1 "^ BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 145 ^^''>,^uM - i He followed then that token, and was led With varying hope, until her palfrey, dead. Laid in his path ; and on his eager view A low and peaceful village humbly through The tall pomegranates smiled. Perchance she there Had sought a refuge, to await his care. No — she was gone ; and disappointment claimed Each glowing vision he had. fondly framed. Time had passed on ; and in the galling chain Of lone captivity doomed to remain ^ur^^.* r Francis of Foix, amid the rayless gloom u i jv^ " Of his damp cell, where terror might assume ' ; Its dreariest sway. Not that one anxious fear Dwelt in his wandering thoughts : he stood too near The crown of France. It was for Blanche alone. Might not revenge, uncertain and unknown, Have had its secret triumph ? But a light Gleamed on that long uninterrupted night, Glittering beneath that low and vaulted door. Which cautiously was opened, and before ,., Him stood Navarre's proud Queen. " Learn that to die Thou art condemned I But grant me one reply. And thou shalt live, with liberty restored, iHUi \< -.. .M y^ '■i-"i §m '%' f> "■' . ■:\\ 146 • t. '"•^ ■■ if'''-' BLANCHE OF NAVAllRE. ... ' . , ■ ■■ ' ,■■■!•■ ■ -, .'i- "■ ■ ■ ■ ■•"■■1 ^ '■-.•. ■ I ■ And regal favors richly on thco poured." " Speak, then, the ransom. I will not reject Thine offer, if nought sullied can reflect On my untainted honor. Never yet Have I clung weakly, or with false regret, To this frail mortal being. Name thy price, And I will not with rashness sacrifice The life which God bestowed, and which 1 prize To yield with fair renown. , v.h-.v, . ^ - .....u: Her full dark eves ?^*M'*^^'" Dejection softened, as a transient shroud '* -" - To the bright sun hath been the tempest cloud." ' "' " Yes, Count of Foix, if thou wilt acquiesce * «-*• ■■ With what thy Queen asks from thee, and express, In solemn truth, thy thoughts: — Canst thou forget" Blanche of Navarre ? If so, each boding threat Which ha* > been uttered shall be silenced, and i: Thy rescue welcomed through the joyous land." " Blanche of Navarre forgotten I No — oh ! no. m^ Let thy fell vengeance triumph, and the blow ?»*? Of tyranny be struck — fulfil thy threat ; '- ? 4 But Blanche I will remember, nor forget i ^* * ^ When, in my spirit's last communings, I "■' '■ Y Implore my God's forgiveness, that so high ux i;^ BLANCHE OF NAVARIIE. 147 She raised my sleeping faith. So that I shrink -'^^ .,^{f^ ^f)i from thy tortures : no — upon the brink ,>;.rJ ;. rf^ "JjCl , *■* ■, \" - -^ .' ■' Of death and of eternity, I say ,,i ^s^mw. * \, Blanche of Navarre shall never lose the sway Which her ennobling virtue did obtain, " Whilst memory will with ebbing life remain." " Die, then ! — yes, die ! — thou shalt in torture di(» ! And I will watch if so thou canst defy ■%!^it'^^ ?• - ^jf ffr «, ■-mrf M * i. > , H JT My mercy on the scaffold. Not,within « Thy prison walls, with kindness sheltered in Their secret gloom, shalt thou bend to the stroke Which • ' ay triumph. Each word by thee spoke '<1 Hath wrought thee bitter death. Amid the crowd, .' And their insulting gaze, thou shalt be bowed, ' ' ' V' And thy heart's life drops flow. But fare thee well : I Since thou remembcrest Blanche, still Isabel ir^r; ;., ill Forgotten shall not be." She quickly closed? 1 i* -v^^ The heavy clanging door, and then reposed i :«ii ^ VD Her gleaming lamp upon the cold damp earth. d:ii^ &A Her eyes she covered, and gave utterance forth -^- '■ ' ^^ To what her heart consumed. She wept ! — that proud, Indignant woman sought for tears — aloud Her voice of sorrow raised. But soon it passed : * Unrringled hatred vanquished grief at last. ' v'^^: -■ " There is one thought which hath the power to wring A murmur from my lips — that I should bring V.j Y BLANCHE OF NAVARRE 149 Such ids the path 4- sorrow o er the sunnv Of her whose elevating virtue hath Reclaimed me from mine error, and that she, The faultless Princess of Navarre, should be ' • Defamed by lips which should in death have closed E'er they one taint of calumny reposed ,5, Upon her spotless fame. Nought shall restrain . My words with life. But, oh I should there remain One uncorrupted yet, when I am laid In the cold silence of the tomb's dark shade, ' Who will to Blanche in pity then impart — That no dread torture wrung her from my heart- That in the pangs of ignominious death, Her dear name lingered on my parting breath— That to a culprit's grave I bore the trust Of sacred faith, and sought my kindred dust. Debased — ^but yet triumphant. Martial fame May not record my now degraded name ; But my lance is untarnished still. Though I In galling chains must as a traitor die, Yet my renown will be avenged, for France Will wake the tyrants from their dreaming trance. With combat and with capture. But the prayer Which I last breathe, will her remembrance bear. ly I f ■■■ y / ^u ■* ■'.. /■ .•?: ! ' I 150 B1.ANCHE OF NAVARRE. 1 Blanche of Navarre I Blaneiie of Navarre I i bow '■I Unto a shameful death ; but, oh I mayest thou Hear that I die defending thy loved name, Thy taintless virtue, and unsullied fame." A. mingled murmur rose amid the crowd, W ^'W/r/M As the pale culprit in devotion bgwed. '*■ ^: ? ' The martyr-like serenity which o'er * *j i J^^ 1'^ i v?. His placid features* calm expression wore ^^ e? iv 71 The resignation of that, glorious faith f^^i* T- Which can with light illume the vale of death, ' And win in hope the rescued spirit*s place. • ♦ Even in the joy of .heaven, through the grace '' Of the Redeemer's mercy, who will guide i *^^' The humble penitent, who hath relied »- ^'i On His all-savivig, all-sufficient love, To win a refuge and a rest above. When, lo ! a tone of warlike clarions' swell Awoke a startling fear. Was it the knell Of that brave warrior ? — as if pageantry Would then have mocked the scaffold, so that he ^ Should more intensely feel. Oh ! no ; the near '- Approaching sound seemed respite, for the dear And welcomed accents of his native land ^_ M '*i •^' Hastily urged impetuous command '"'M^^-^>'i^\-''\^ i i^ 'Ui'- BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 151 w [.aU- * ■*.■, S ft-' ^+''>-. Fu> ( i -yi- he ..'J ir i » ■^ ir "■ k'^i I' * . v •'r.'i, ii V'. To hurry on. The far resounding clang Of trampling steeds upon the pavement rang. ^^'*' One moment of suspense — then on his breast Blanche of Navarre sunk in affrighted rest, Pale as a withering flower. The rushing crowd — "' The scaflfold, and the victim, and the loud Increasing outcry — all before her past ; ' *'*^ v.;;i« -• /* I But unrestrained, her folding arms she ctist '* ^^'-^ i [Around his ironed form, as there to lean '" In lefuge from the storm. The varying scene Presented now infuriated rage ' And useless effort, striving to assuage ';^^ *'^ '*' - The multitude's din voice. Their monarch, then, [inquired whence rose tumultuous feeling ; when, [With firm intrepid warmth, De Leyda spoke : : ' Oh ! Sovereign of Navarre, prevent this stroke |\Vith thine immediate word. Her gallant son, France now demands. Then be to justice won, Ind set him free." But, with her tangled hair, • Tnveiled, and floating on the momii.g air, ; -^ Appeared the maddened Isabel, who now ' 1*^ ' ''\ |\'ith her clenched hands smcte her contracted brow. [Strike! lingering traitor; wilt thou strike the blow, 1 t fre other force compels thee? Why thus so' ■X,v -;-iN 'w. :*5?- ■:mk. J , < r J' 1 1 .1 1 * 1 / 1 '■' > m i B^H^H r jH e O ^M ^ ^\ 152 M BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. Is thy queen's regal will so long delayed ? "rf*iy * King of Navarro, speak now — art thou a(raid )>:"[; • Of thine own subjects ? Answer. Let him die, With the resistance of his warriors nigh — , ?; ' Let me behold him writhe in agony, With Blanche beside him, and then I shall be p „, ^ , Rewarded and requited." Living fire , i: ; , Flashed from her eye's wild brilliance, to inspire A phrenzied terror, and the anxious tone ; ' Now, of De Leyda's voice might pleading own. I " Oh I no, our sire, in mercy yet refrain, Or war's dread devastation threatens Spain, For he will be avenged. Oh I set him free — Appease this discord of the soldiery. -i , Our monarch, set him free ; and oh I let not Thy name be sullied with so dark a blot, i , .,,t Bid him descend from that dread ?"affold's height, And his long sufferings generously requite. ; Let our fair Princess now to him be given ■"■ ■ , t t In promised union ; and the smiles of heaven Will beam upon thee. See, how tenderly a - fr ; He clasps her to his bosom. Set him free — ^ Let his arms be unchained, that he may fold Her in embrace by iron uncontrolled. ^, s */* v ^'.V*—' I' m- BLANCHE OP NAVARRE. 163 Refuse it not, or thou wilt so incense :nm^r t» 'jti I Thy gathered legions, that with hate intense »';'>-• {'- '«^* The frantic queen away. Their monarch then '" '^'j Betrayed no wish the stranger to condemn. "**- *'^* •' "Francis of Foix, from thy captivity, "'^'^"-^^ '^^^ o And galling chains, descend ; for thou art free. Soldiers, take back your leader, and with pride Welcome again the warrior to your side ; And let rejoicings be proclaimed this night, ' And, with the^ banquets revelry, requite The mournful terror of the tragic scene '^*^*'^ ' Which here was contemplated. But my queen Cannot receive thee, Blanche. De Leyda will Protection's kindly rites to thee fulfil." ? '^s- ■ - ,■<-' ' (^H M'm f- I Mr r-iil i.;^j, •-;»•! .^l^k 111 ■•! g ' tr u ¥rM 154 BLANCHE OF NAVARRl. M I ' ' i; im 'J ^Vifi,*.' 7 J The acclamations of the joyous crowd, Expressed in echoing shouts, attested loud Their unrestrained emotion ; and the throng Uin t- ■ In triumph moved exultingly along. ^^^^.jf ■*•■. ■ Francis of Foix, with teais, the sufferings heard f * Which Blanche for him sustained. Nought had deterred Her dreary pilgrimage ; lor she had been Without defence, through everv fearful scene. She had not faltered. Night's chill darkness could ^; l Not even daunt her. Through the bandit wood, j > Or by the chasm where the torrent swept „;..„",,, ' Its gushing music, or enchanted slept * jj ff-«"^ , ' Amid its starless gloom, where pine trees l)ung, |^,. , Fringed with rejected tears the stream had flung . ^^ From its impeded waves, as if the deep ,,-,,, , -v,^ And melancholy solitude could weep. ? -. j ^., She had the snowy Pyrenees traversed, ,. ,^^..,, ; v7 Amid their loneliest windings, where she first : . The vines of France might view, 'mid sunny vales, Their foliage murmuring with the south's sweet gales. She through the war- camp had proceeded, and, jf ^f . i Amid the legions of that martial land, ^^j^jji f^yia'fA'i t-t tV Had sought their monarch's presence, to implore, ii.t v?, ./' 1 1 y '.,*•• BLANCHE OP NAVARRB. 155 His potent interference, to restore '*J'- »>f^' »v> Francis of Foix ; and Gallia's sovereign, swayed . '. With warmly roused indignant feelings, bade.- , U^uTmd' His fiercest warriorf haste, to rescue, or 'u^fi^i^X Avenge their valiant leader, naming for ^tuKf"*) '^> ' J His life, the lives of many ; that, if slain, ■^^' -^:hii r'y '^r.in^ , ii)f^\t:;^-in vu'^i id Destructive war should wildly ravage Spain With desolating fury. His release And rescue had concluded final peace. »r>'/^ . ; . ? ct ,,«1*;^ Francis of Foix, his fair and noble bride, r-I ,/ > ,j,,v , t Mid cheering crowds, led to the altar's side.^'' <: «.. Navarre's cathedral's dark stupendous pile i'''# Raog with the joyous shouts ; each splendid aisle < fi v t In regal pride and gorgeous pomp displayed ifc ih^-\'i-i Its sovereign's pageantry. Blanche was arrayed ^'.» VV With that sweet emblem, purity, with which . ah^ ^*"- ' Her mind was sanctified, that, in its rich ^i «i .i,!^ t,^": i And priceless treasures, with devotion brought Faith's heavenly tribute in each fervent thought Which deep thanksgiving raised. Then from Navarre To his own mountain territory far, ; % He bore the lovely princess, with delight, To its retired peace. No sorrowing blight . f nii/ f. 'li I M .:v.-.#.. i'- ;,. 13 156 ■J ' m BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. H It ' ^^^ Dwult on their blended fate, which in the bondaoltMr »i Of virtue had been linked, and in the fond > lo lib.n Increasing tenderness which hath no fear o^i {itutny't ; To dim that confidence, which must endear /'k|«i4k>H2 ; * United sympathy. Hath love exiled t«)iJ) '• / • Embittering doubt ? — It hath been undefiled By erring weakness. Hath its strength been prized In that momentous hour when agonized - -. Man hath in sorrow wept? — Doth it endure rMt--* ); ; Through hopeless anguish ? — Then ■ s secure i In Virtue's bright reward. When tinged with guilt, It cannot watch the blood it cherished spilt uii/w ii Virtue alone, with its refining aid, ^ t^'ls:tltr^ihsf> Will soothe the sufferer through the gloomy shade Which death's dim twilight offers, and the prayer ,, Which faith in mercy hath long cherished. There Teach man, in hope, his spirit to resign '- >> r » .1; •' Upon that breast where love and virtue twine, iun'ii ■;,u . ^-i 1 .,, , ;!irV/ ►a^-'jft i:^. i *)){X(' 1/ i ^fi^-: ' '^ ized mrii iUf t/t>*y' i.". ruilt, KjwI:.! ■ i ade ■er-'-'^' here ']..;•'-; ;• ;•;•■ } ^^. fl t ift i o*^ ? /, «■: I .! ."« «i T ■ r • i * ■V THE DISAPPOINTED. il^ ,.;,,..:;.•..' ♦■•.^♦rt «&4fer,^ ,lii'ir«fc^. ** With cold and unremitting care, '^ ^ '^''^ The brightness of mine eye^ '^'^^^ ■^^ And with malicious haughtiness ^ itst'. / For ever pass me by. J*^"? ^ si lii • Oh I I have watched thine every look, And every wish and word ; But every effort hath been vain. To make myself preferred ; And it hath so entirely failed, Tliot now it is too l^^** • :■] • -!<■)•'■ K.i ■■ \4. It np 1 I i 5, .^-^> ■«■','« C/^ IS;t' li'W p: THK DISAPPOINTED* J.', ' 'j'l.r-i* Thine absence will be long, and I v" ' ' , Cannot thy coining wait ; For I have studied, certainly, s^^^j^i^ Vt, &<*,* Phrenology's best laws, And on my cranium is a bump ^J*,»(l . Which bids me never pause 4 On what I have determined, so That, obdurate as thou art, ;5^C t^^ ■ I now will show thee I retain The mastery of my heart. ^ *;. Av-t Go — thou mayst smile on others nowj^^tll- And I will mine bestow, 1 j^^^ Jied^ I Amid my votaries' flattering throngs, -^-^mM On some young gallant beau, . ,;:^. i?il'| * And I will never, all my h£e,imnhh'^ /Itl!^^ A widower seek to gain : ■kii rr^t'i to^.' ■\ . ^yfM vi4ti:* jt^ ov dimi . ft f miC ■ .;: - -,". r .■. \. li ■ . I ,^^f-^.-.''-f II. ■■■%w %i\^ [ \ M '■o,5r' W « ? f THE CHITBCH OF ST. EFSTACHE. -ft ^^^^$M^, On the Uth of December, 1838, the village of St. Eostache was invested by a military force under the immediate command of Sir John Colbome, and was al- most entirely destroyed. Its beautiful church, in which divine service had becu performed the preceding day, had been chosen by the rebels as a fortification, and was consumed, only leaving its shattered front, as a memorial of the once magnificent pile. -Vivh* ^," ■ - ^ »■■■■■; ,*i5'««*.;^»-.rl :>rc& > Bore the reflection of its shadowy gleam, i-p ■^*'' '^''- ^ The rich bright crimson of the morning sun |^7' *^^*-^* Through mists of vapor floated, and the breeze 'kn'^-M-^- Wafked the deep and solemn Sabbath bell | Wf^-yr{ K) Through the far rustling of the ancient trees ; ">^^i miA. And the full organ raised its pealing voice ^-^^^^4 fydT Through the resounding aisles, and chanted prayer D Swelled on the veil of incense, as it breathed ^ :I0 The mantling perfume of its fragrance there. v; s;'-' >■■■ ■IV f' I'M ■ H m- H ir H^ w JPIM^Bm^mK' * f ■■ , ^i IpT '// IK'* 'I 4 / ^^^H^F - ^' ■HIT' BE'[, f li 'f 1 " v H ^kI,;jJ -1 h B'BJ ■ ^':l i, '"■ H ' ■; >V ■ m' ti-j H'H^ 4'i^i ^^ ' 'iSHi WM> ' ';'|;]^H| KHn '!:;l|;^B mm' '■' 'll^lsB u^Bi i ) f <.■■;"? HH|' ' ■■il ■ '' i 1 " '4 ' > r 1 ''j JR^ \i # '^8 M '- Iffi ( vln ^^■; 1 ''^9 i-i ' .jlj 11 ^.1 ■9 160 THE CHURCH OF ST. EU&TACHE. '■j;'4ii'X O'er the long shadows of the fabric's height, As if it languished in departing rest With softened lingering radiance, where so soon That glittering spire would not reflect the ray, In silvery silence of the midnight moon. Through the dark forest trees the kindling flash That morning tinged the star-deserted sky With reddening lustre ; and the mingling crash Of clanging weapons, and the battle cry, Passed on the air ; and emanating glow, And frantic murmurs, and the fiery breath Of bursting shells, and sounds of rending woe Came from the scene of conflict and of death. Then the tall church was wrapt in glancing showers And wreathing flames ; and densely gathering smoke Ascended from the area, where the voice Of prayer had oft the spirit's fervor woke. And many lay in phrenzied anguish by The blood polluted altar, as the flush Of close resistless fire gained on them, and Clasped tue high columns with its hastening rush ; And the bright spire's irradiating glow m ui- With fervid streams of devastating flame Encircled with that spreading intense glowj^t>-.ff| ft% insbtm 9#r And hallowed shrine her parting beams had traced. ^■ei .:,tv/..l I 1 THE ST. AGNES LIGHT-HOUSE, OR, THE PARTING OF THE NORB. i Upon the deep ^o^j miimmi -Uy^^ Then is our parting, as the night-clouds sweep O'er its blue expanse, and one pensive star^ f rrf .- In solitary vigil, from afar vai^ ntiuim) mik. Looks on the sea, with inelancholy light ; '^ Ml But the dim vapors pass it, as too bright To shine upon this hour, for shadowy wreaths v r» . Encircle its pale radiance, and there breathes^ii^w^ ti Along the rippling waves, a voice of low And omen mystery, in their mournful flow. Borne from the fading land. A sad farewell 1 1>; Finds plaintive music in their gushing swell — A parting murmur from my native isle — Which its breeze wafts to me the lone exile. I must depart for ever : ne'er to tread The verdant sod, which danyply shrouds my deadp? >f> "J -(»/ vj,. i--* :r. . ■r When, through their boughs, the sorrowing night wind grieve*?, Seems floating on the ocean, as if still, With its faint moaning to renew the thrill With which each sound is fraught, and every tone Some lingering thought of gone-by hours must own " In its sweet murmur uttered, as each scene Comes back upon my view, where oft hath been vfiti tui¥^ My childhood's step, where Carisbrook looks o'er The misty bosom of the sea-swept shore. o (nm^ Beneath its ivyed porch how oft mine eye #^***^fei^il**'n^ Hath watched the shadows of the evening lie O'er the dim forests, where the silvery gleam Of the pale waters of fair Itchen's stream Rose through the vallies — where the scented leaves '^ Of home's dear cowslips bloomed amid the sheavi-s Of the rich whitening corn-fields. But why dwell Upon each scene to which I bid farewell — Which is no more for me ? Each tall cliff^: height I shall not trace through morning's first twilight. And now the beacon, o'er the ocean's breast Sends forth its fflHtering rays ; its lofty crest' .^-^--^^ !«iT !«■;■ ^^i' ' ■ 'i I ■ ( ',13 r*!' if m^ THE ./r. AGN£S LIGHT-HOUSfi. !»' n|- r \V^.h dazzling and revolving lustre strews The varying brilliance of resplendent hues ; > j Of evanescent brightness, o'er the flushM> W!|$v^li^ I'^jj #^ Of the red 8|yirkliiig waves, whose crimscacd Wush «/&i Is broken by the dark clouus sr. they float ^^"M^-M^ Through the dense air, and ilio dull s.mbird*8 note Its requiem wakes ; and now hi? he^Tt-bFeathed song The parting Eiariner pours forth along thn-^ 4^#*l^,si*i| The j^'cliobg waters. What impassioned tieg,'t&^«ii! tf. Long c{;en..:it;d hopes, and tender sympathies, ."Myyfc,»ow,l»e severed I ■ r~.?!)rf v; i Komt AjtAi t^;fr-' ■ 'i J^':#*?3*fe-^fc^^ '^ ''■'■■ Companion of my sorrows. Long hav€: we Been kindred mourners. Long hath Qspmei^t love. With its sincerity, accordance wove ^ iSi jttMk>|»;*^ ^^r Unto all other gTicf, for thou hast prized The orphan stranger : all^ save thee, despised, , Neglected, and abandoned. Thou hast beenf^f'Mrf: - The only friend mine early youth hath seen, And nought hath altered thee. Thoui hast notr ch^n^ed, Though every tie Jromme hjatKbeen estranged^ '-^is itoC When my dejected feelings have beon torn ■'. i.ci^v By chilling pride or cold insulting scot. a •^omi ion ilah How oft thv pity, Stoothingly e::ip*'easf>j srf>j{il won ?>»/ Hath lull .^ jfljn©. a^g^isk to ^|W: >^^ D9#4tt^ ihul a];:a y n THE &T. AGNES LIGHT-HOUSE. 165 H . rV How often hath the pteasure of thine hand I' Been clasped in mine» in stilled devotion, and 'i The solemn visions of each spirit fraught > ^'X With fervent prayer of hushed, but blended thought. 'T but I must now, bereft of friendship, go To languish in the exile's lonely woe. Oh I let my tears fall on thee, eW I mourn Far, far from thee. I never can return. To sink upon thy bosom ; and I hold Thee, as I would the cherished dead enfold. With passionate embrace. But now, farewell I The ocean parts us with its heaving swell. iJJ< s^^uiii^lr. Hear me. I go ; and o'er the distant wave)'* f>noI « fbuB The western land will yield me but a grave/-"^''^ t^'f'^ *«^ And no pale flowers, with melancholy bloom, ' ^ 3«io^* Will cfeck the tall grass o'er the strcmger's tomb,''-^'*^ ^^^ I may not even mingle with the dust «^ i^dlo ritfsH Of my departed kindred. No — >I must, il £ven in deaths be alienated, and Rest in the cold earth of a foreign land. Farewell ! farewell 1 thy native breeze will bear The halkrwetl in^ene , of thine uttered prayer, Whil^ iine will floa: along the azure deep, WheB rising stars their twiligV . vigil keep. UUIOiT! I %■■ '- -v I I Idd . THB ST. AGNES LIOHT-HOUSE. But, if in heaven iiccepted, blended there Will be its offering. Thus, we yet may share The silent spirit's still communion, though The blue Atlantic may between us flow. Farewell I farewell I and may God's blessing rest For ever with thee. O'er the ocean's breast. Each thought will be with thee. Till life is o'er We in this vale of conflict meet no more. r I Is it for this we (Cherish love intense ? I To part in such deep anguish ? Oh t from whence rftt W Springs such unbounied sorrow ? Why am I nc, .. Such a lone wanderer ? The waves float by, «>» w; But they heed not my tears ; the freshening breeze Comes with a moaning from the rippling seas„ But answereth not ^y sigh. My childhood's home Hath other inmates, while the snrge's foam; ^vitu^ tort 7ft From its last shadow bears me. But, farewell I I mourn mine exile on the billow's swell. ^ ^ly q^ .^H 'iiii't%d'i- ice (TT 't.,- - ! 1 Be t.i'i J«<7 '• r - J - \ ) *Vi-i''^ 11 ' m /.ndv. ht {JC ■> THE WOUNDED DEER. >ii/*'j4 •••J.AliisJ- QUiili r Written on Beelng. at the OoTemment Hoase, Sorel, anetirly ea]itilrMl deer fofiering with a brolien atttler»^^rqi)D^i^ ^^ H ^*'* ^' )'d'JB^d onb ',;iom h'}^s«t Unbound thou wilt' liot be, again to taste The pure cl^r dew-d'op of the desert waste. .' Thou art alone, amid the 1 )ve of those Who kindlj wish thee hei to fincl repose. Thou BTt no 8*r*nger to the gentle hand, Nor the endearing tones « i accents bland. Thou hast the blossoms of le flowery lawn To cull in peace; b.v> *ch ^ubceeding dawn Brings thee m> foe — uo unni ai^ked footsteps here ^ With sudden rustling can arouse thy fear, oil J itisiiii* iaoJ ■vu -U ../PT' it Imi THE WOUND DEER. 169 But thou wouldst rather own thy still retreat Of darkening foliage, and inhale the sweet Glad breezes of the forest. In the bound Of mountain liberty, thou wouldst be found Again, poor wounded deer. Perchance the bow Of the unerring Indian strike thee low. Then seek not, gentle favorite, to be free. Peaceful the shades which sweetly shelter thee, Amid bright roses feeding, r or repine That in such bowers captivity is thine. hH|3r f: ' M ■M'.^'i, THE OMEN HOSES. tAt« in the month of Norember. the faded roae-treet renewed their yerdure. It wai pronounced as an omen of death ; and the lovely blossoms did remsin until they decorated the corpse of a favorite boy, aged six years. i The radiant snow had fallen Upon the earth's dark breast ; The autumn flowers had vanished — Gone to their winter's rest. The icy chain had silenced The sweeping torrents' rush ; The pining streamlet slumbered In calm, unwakened hush ; The larch trees tassels lingered As the tokens grief endears, And the rain drops hung congealed Like monumental tears ; THI OMEN ROSKfl. 171 And yet around one cottage porch^ Where the wild vines drooped low. The rose tree's tender leaflets Were vernal 'mid the snow. The opening buds were wreathin,^ Twin clusters into bloom, And the autumn's chill breeze wafted The soft and rich perfume. But a warning voice came breathing — A low and solemn tone — It said, those flowers were wearing An omen of their own ; It said, death's hand was touching Each young and fragile leaf. And that a token mystery Unfolded unto grief — That they were things too lovely In bright and summer glow, Their beauty so to mingle Amid the winter snow. But it was thought those bodings Came from a lone mind's pain — That her prophetic warnings The sybil poured in vain. ■* !i*i #^ I I T U 172 ,V|,','.:- 'if.-:,- M THE OMEN ROSES. But a hectic bloom came feeding '^H' ii4tA On a young cheek's roseate hue, And a glittering star-like brightness ^^11 , Beamed in the eyes deep blue. vi?W" But, oh I that bloom was rifled 'mijii^j^ilf From stern death's sable wreath, *T And that bright eye's sparkling radiance Had something sad beneath. *^"^s oitr And those omen roses withered v?? ^ 1r*8'^ Upon the ice-c«^ld face, ^i^m -'i^r -A And the cherished boy, adorned, ' .1: i^? il Went to the grave's dark place. a#. Earth is a home of sorrowing, imi^ r ''^"j ^^ And bears no lasting flowers ; r- ^v.3.- So when aught lovely springeth up, b'u- We must not think it ours. »' «.•«! i J .:*^l'i/Ui-.;'iaAfl stiT • h\\ .*,im:f 'W'^Ar^?- ';.-.^r-U:v, ■;■;-, "i- ■'» • Im*■ .THE HAUNTED LUTE. ^'"^'^"^ ^ ' j-'-^"^ ibii?^ i%|fviV'' In souie work which recently fell into the hands of the authoress of the " Mourner')* Tribute," but of which she has forgotten the title, an instance is recorded of the di^xsolution of a dearly beloved wife, who, previous to her spirit leaving this world, expre&fsed a wish to bo allowed to hold some communion with her husband, after hei decease. She had been a lovely performer on the harp ; and, on the evening imrriediately sifter her death, the harp strings sounded sweetly, and there seemed a soft and balmy breath floating around liim. This was again repeated ; but on the third evening, the chords snapped violently. and the bereaved husband died at the same moment. True or not, the story is ,1 very romantic one, and is calculated to please any lover of the marvellous — the more so, that it i" averred that the harp, with its strings shivered, is still to be seen in the possession of some distinguished person in the north of England. ^lunU i't'U..Sf:'' > y'"-.-;) r 7/;^ji ->-*; viir Beneath the gloom, where yon tall linden trees Wave their pale blossoms in the balmy breeze, ' Shading the brightness of the sunny glow - ' ■ O'er the calm bosom of the streamlets flow, - Where, clearly imaged in its sleeping wave, Yon peaceful cottage, its low shadow gave — ; Where the white roses round the lattice twine. Amid the tendrils of the dark wild vine, ' ^^ Returning spring the flowers to bloom restore ; But those who trained them, view them now no more ; fi,- I ■ -I ■ ;f.>H f^tid'ff ''■]>\i h' : u. 174 THE HAUNTED LUTE. M nil I And in that silent dwelling once, a love Which rose misfortune's dreary gloom above, Was firmly cherished, and each blending thought Was with the impulse of affection fraught. ^^rV % ^ The storms of fate by them unheeded were, , Whilst each fond feeling it was theirs to share. The proud neglectful world on them had frowned ^ With its contemptuous scorn. Here had they found Unshaded happiness, to gild the hours, ^ , Amid the silence of their lonely bowers ; For as its smile had not been theirs to miss, Like the pale Jlowers the sun may never kissy Which, in the dimness of the stilly night, Unfcld those leaves they exile from the light, UnUed here each dear confiding joy. They deemed not death was hovering to destroy. Oft have they wandered by the rippling stream, Watching the first rays of the moon's mild beam. While braided lilies carelessly entwined Her raven tresses, waving unconfined. r:- But every passion was inten^jiy mute, ' l.tt- : When her light fingers touched her deep-toned lute, Or wheti iieir voices, in the mingling prayer, Would richly float upon the evening air; -^ ^'''' P''' ■■<(■'. \ I \ ■ ^#- THE HAUNTED LUTE. 175 >i ' I lute, But 3oon those sounds in anxious fear were hushed, And in its anguish, hope's fair blossoms crushed. Is there one louely thing to soothe our fate, d) t . ; Doth death not seem its culture to await ? ^ ^j .jj.,' iDoth he not love the blighted wreck to save, ,, ' And bring the cherished to an early grave ? And here, ere long, the warning voice they heard. In midnight sadness, of the omen bird, s. [And the blue meteor faintly tinged the sky IWith a dimmed circle. She was doomed to die ! [Then would the tears of deep regret oft flow, lAnd dew her hectic cheek's consumptive glow ; Ibut when it faded, and the palid hue . . - lOf tintless white told life was ebbing to |lts final close — when her soft voice no more fould to her lute's loved chords with fulness pour Itsmekncholy music — when she spoke, , t, 1 mournful accents, of that change — it woke his sad heart a tetUng thought must bind, lich for expression cannot utterance find. bd one still evening's dim and shadoWy hour, lis gleaming star-light glittered through the bower trelliced roses, 'mid tall myrtle's gloom, bfelt the moment of approaching doom N ./ i i f^-lk •* ,5'- ^.HiT .- y ♦■ ■.'-,> * I I .4- i ■ ■ --r : ii ■-' f VV; .# Lw B '■■■{ p^^^^^^B/ i ■t 1 '1 Wm^ .^ ' '■ I. I 1 i f 176 THE HAUNTED LUTE. Depress her spirit ; damp and heavy dew Streamed o'er her moistened brow, whose marble hue With her dark tresses shaded ; cold, serene, -»v» "^t^B And pure and passionless it looked ; scarce seen ^ The blue vein's throb, till as a blighted rose. It bore the tint of death's, own pale repose. But her full eye, with its fixed shadowy gaze, Dwelt upon him. " I feel that life decays," She slowly uttered ; " but weep not for me,- ^^1- f^'- When the chill tomb my place of rest will be ; | But, if permitted in the bliss above, :->> ■- i; ii?; ■ To own the influence of an earthly love, 'i i ^;i • My parted spirit will commune with thine, ; * .-^ ) United in the mystery of divine And blended prayer and thought — with thee to dwell In hallowed reve-^ling. But farewell. My fond, my own beloved. My faltering breath Expresses, nov^r the varying tone of death. *^ Oh ! thou vsrilt feel the lone and sorrowing blight, When thou wilt seek me in the morning light ^ • When I shall be whence I cannot return, i i't Yes, thou wilt then for thy departed mourn ; ^ . But this the last request I ask from thee . . ' / ' In the same grave that thou wilt rest with me, 3 !,■ ,,«. THE HAUNTED LUTE. .-a^ 177 May peace be thine — may God's own blessing calm Thee in affliction, and bestow the balm „ ; ^ s^ With which religion can its aid instil, : To yield resigned to His most holy will. ^,>j, , And now vouchsafe, redeeming mighty Lord, *, That Thy sustaining radiance may be poured Upon the vale I pass, where shadows lie, Darkening the strength of mortal agony. Which faith in Thee illumes. Oh I Jesus Christ, Thou Saviour, who for sin wert sacrified, j ^. ; Ransom that soul which doth Thy mercy wait. Thy all-sufficient love to expiate Transgressions I deplore. Oh I Lamb of God, Let the grave's pathway now by me be trod Saved, sanctified through Thee." Unconsciously Her dimmed eye now returned the look that he Upon her cast ; and his sad widowed heart Felt that, indeed. God only could impart Consoling hope to him. For she now slept In peaceful still repose. Not then he wept ; For long entranced, he o'er her calmly hung. Then, wakening in embittered anguish, flung Himself beside her. Nought on earth was left I m mi- r \ ( ;. 178 :« I THE HAUNTED LUTE. To soothe th*» mourner. There, of all bereft, An utter blank was now the world to him, ; ; v Deprived of her, and desolately dim Passed the long weary hours. Then did despair Urge that dread conflict reason may not share, , Which, like the stormy blast, nought can assuage, 1^ it hath wasted its tempestuous rage, ^.nd lulled itself. But is there grief like this ? One who hath known unmingled perfect bliss ? Then yield it to the grave. What can allay Such intense suffering, save devotion's sway ? \ s ^.^ m The silent evening came. Its night-born hour Brought the fulfilment of a mystic power; The lute-strings sounded, vrith a phantom touch. The low, rich melancholy tones, as such She had awakened ere the hour of death ; And a soft balmy spirit murmuring breath Around him floated, pensively to share ^ The offered incense of the mourner's prayer. ; And, at that moment, when all else was mute, ,; I The lonely music of that haunted lute, With omen melody, its plaintive strain ,1 In sorrow's tribute hushed. Then woke again, i^ i>.i'< . y. THE HAUNTED LUTE. 179 #' .(-:? The waning moon had in the silvery west Sunk in the paleness of declining rest, And in the blue and orb-deserted sky, Through wavy mist, strange visions glided by, As all the world in midnight silence slept, And noise-less dewdrops with the wretched wept * Unmarked and heavily, until the morn Renewed its kindling smiles. To the forlorn What solace hath its brightness ? In deep grief And ceaseless woe, can radiance give relief Unto affliction ? No — the darkening cloud Forms with the shadow of its mantling shroud A more congenial influence, when the ray Of gleaming splendor melts in tears away. <"» / *\: > ;i ' I r Once more the day had o'er the crimsoned deep Hushed the sweet stillness of its sun-set sleep. In its resplendent brilliance to di£fuse. O'er dense and slowly rising clouds, the hues Which fringed each vapor with their parting light. Ere veiled amid the chilling gloom of night. *' ' Then were the lute chords once more wildly swept, As the bereaved one in mute anguish wept. The mournful tones a dream-like music's plaint, In pining sadness — languishingly faint. ■%. I. ii « '' M ;■ 'h 180 |- u TKE HAUNTED LUTE. £JW,"' With sorrowing melody the phantom strain Awoke its melancholy voice again In thrilling murmur, and each omen lay In mysteif's grieving echo, died away The soft and balmy breath, its shadowy mist .;<: ,}t. In tribute wreaths of floating silence kissed »>> ' > Th^ haunted lute ; and now each answering string Was loudly touched. He then felt he could spring , From earth unfettered — broken was the chain Which linked life with the bitterness of pain ; - > \ For death's destroying angel hurried on, , ^ , ; f .^ With early doom, as each responsive tone ; > Poured, in a long vibration, its farewell : The chords were shivered — and the mystic spell For ever broken. As his spirit fled, Lulled to the sweet sleep of the quiet dead, . ^m* The prayer was heard which they so eft had breathed. That with the same death-flowers they might be wreathed. The minstrel phantom then forsook the lute irB^ In death-like silence its snapped chords weie mute ; And the grave, blended love nought could divide — In its repose they slumber, side by side, f ' ' .w. / . .-M;« \.. ..'. 'i>hi:fi-^.\i)-:i\ MiiL: !U ■!:? ' V- -.-. •>'';»,-'' >- >', ..-V A LAY OF LIBERTY. -% ' 7 r : -J, .>i'::»-, 1 ; 'f-^ -i +j tifH WRITTEN FOR THE SOREL VOLUNTEERS. ,,^,/ ■■j»r' •>V' >-^ We will be free I we will be free ! With life's last faltering gasp. We will be free I and until death, Resist the foeman's grasp. "'■"■ Who would consent, with fiv^adom's loss A servile life to save ? Woe be to him I the coward who Now dreads a freeman's grave. We will be free ! we will be free I Though force should bind each arm, Nor yet in chains out faith betray, Whilst our life-blood is warm. I?7, .; ■ [ J 1= « I f , \b%' v» A LAY OF LIBERTY. i We w Hi be free I we will be free ! Our struggle nought deter — ilk free as is the native breeze **'^hich England's banners stir. But it were sad, beneath the stroke Of rebel arms to die, Ere our loud clarion's voice had poured The tones of victory. But, welcome steel I and welcome fight I Death shall our conqueror be, Bi i nought to yield, whilst "God and Right' Coiimaiids us to be free ! . I ■* ■./-^■■' '-/5 ^l1 -|.r; \ ■W \ THE TOKEN i-'J >. iiS. A l)i * I Yes, they are faded I — every hue is i.^u Which tinged those flowers, as from the silent dead Passeth each trace of beauty's transient bloom, In the dim shadow of an early tomb. Yes, they are faded I — those sweet fragile flowers — Those sad memorials of remembered hours — Affection's tribute offering. How should they Unchanged be yet ? Thy love hath known decay. Did I not tell thee, when thou gavest me those, And culled each bright and newly-opening rose. That thou shouldst rather seek the blighted tree, The withered leaves, and cankered buds, for me ? And thou didst chide me, thus to deem thy love Could be by absence weakened. Memory strove Long with neglect, until consuming grief In hidden tears found passionate relief ; ' '! !iq;;t .-f rA W /\ //^///// '/ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) i.O MkWlA |2.5 1.1 l.-^l^ i& Photographic Sciences Corporation 4' ^ 1.25 IIU 1,6 6" ► 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 873-4503 .^. * ^ K^^ «■ \ vV ( I 184 THE TOKEN FLOWERS. And those pale flowers have in that sorrow's dew Been ever moistened, and each lingering hue Been treasured as an emblem of that trust Of faith as transient as their scattered dust. How have I been rewarded ? From that shore, To which affection its firm promise bore. Thou hast returned ; but with & foreign bride — An alien blossom smiling at thy side. Canst thou look on each fondly cherished rose. And not one shadow dim thy love's repose ? Canst thou gaze on my careworn, faded cheek, And no remembrance stifled anguish speak, As every tint hath vanished, and each vow. Solemnly pledged, been broken, which hath now Been to another plighted ? So the flower. Which breathes its solitary sweetness for an hour, Then languishes away, and leaves no trace But which the winds with passing sighs efface, Is still an emblem of that love which thou Didst with its token offer ; and that now Bears no memorial, save my tears — the power Which long hath nurtured each pale withered flower. \ IP Sif , 111 , TO THE MEMOBY or THE LATE REVEREND JOHN JACKSON, Rcctfur of Chritt Chvch, William Henry. He is gone to his rest— he is gone io his home — To man's last abode — the repose of the tomb. The cord hath been loosed, and the golden bowl broken — The mandate of death, and of judgment, been spoken. The tired wheel of life hath in weariness ceased, And the sufferer from sin and its sting is released — His spirit returned to the pure hand who gave it, In the hope that the God who created, would save it. He is gone to his rest—His last prayer hath ascended. And the incense of fiiith with its ofering was blended. He dwelt on the memory of Calvary's scene. Where the blood of the Saviour his ransom had been. ** Yes, corruption,'' he said, *' of my flesh will partake, But my soul will to heaven, in its glory, awake ; Though the worms of the dust will my body destroy. Yet repentance hath sanctified death unto joy. 'I •* 'IP, M*'| '■ W <- i I'm! i' K 1 I J i 'i hi ' ! 1 Ill .M-^j'rM: tm ■ic!i;. ;;:ii I im \ I 186 TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JOHN JACKSON. It is bat the clay which is laid in the grave, Where God's only Lamb hath descended to save, Then come Blessed Redeemer, the conflict is mine, . But the victory, o'er death and its terror^ is Thine." He is gone to the tomb, who so often was wont, On the infant's pale brow, from the baptismal font, \ The first covenant promise of God to renew. Whence redemption's bright rainbow may rise from its dew. He is gone to his rest, who so often hath spoken The vow of life's union^ the sanctified token | Of Christ's holy love for His Ghiirch, to inherit The wings of His mercy, the gift of the Spirit. He is gone to his rest, who so often hath prayed With the fidnt soul that trembled beneath death's dark shade — Who so often hath uttered tha^ '^irewell of earth, Which gives the departed to l.^..yenly birth. But now it is changed : he is gone to his rest — The dust to its dust — ^the eternity blessed ; For from heaven the voice said, ** The being restored — Henceforth blessed are the faithful who die in the Lord ;" And the sheaf was full ripe for the harvest and peace, And the soul sought from sorrow to win its release. He hath entered the joy which that voice hath expressed. £ven so^ saith the Spirit, from his labors to rest % For he had breathed impassioned love, But he had vainly hoped. 1 /M f i3i THE MINSTBBL'S HABP. The minstrel's harp was silent save The low fednt murmurings ; The mournful echo of his sighs Woke from the plaintive strings. T'. I! The minstrel gazed upon the chord, Broken beneath his touch, As if the magic of a spell Had seemed to fancy such. For from his tuneless lyre it fell A melancholy token— - For, like the chord of his lone harp, The minstrel's heart was broken. V:ii *» 188 ii THl MIK8TRBL 8 HARP. The chieftain's daughter scorned his prayer. And love's sweet roses drooped. The radiant wine-cup gleamed around. The banquet board was spread ; But o'er the minstrel's faded cheek A death-like hue was spread* His shadowy hand passed o'er the strings. With sadness in each tone ; A melody of touching grief His spirit's stifled moan. A sorrow breathing lay woke from That harp's low chords again, But the mantling anguish of his brow Dreamed o'er the Ufe^wrvng strain. In silence, long that minstrel's harp. Hung in the chieftain's hall, Save when the winds awoke its sigh With their ^olian call. ^ FIBE. The firs wUch deitroyed a contidenble portion of ^fVUliam Henry, In th« latamn of 1885* oommence^ daring the hoar of Toq^en. UdMtroyodMMno magnificent trees in the vicinity of the ancient cemetery: and atmidniglit, when the flames were almost entirely extingidihed, tlM head-boards Were itillbaning, with a low rustling noise among the long damp grass. A THRILLING ciy of devaatstiiig fire Rang as the anthem's swell resounded through The sun-lit aisle. The vesper melody Its ** ora mater" ceased ; the rushing throng Forth from the sanctuary burst ; the rising flames, With lurid splendor, in the distance gleamed, For m(my fabrics biased. The floating wreaths Seemed to invest the clear blue cloudless sky With glowing mists, and tall and lovely trees. With waving rich luxuriant foliage, fanned The breeze-uplifted showers of fire, which through The arrowy boughs ascended, where the tints Of brilliant autumn rested on the leaves Of high majestic lindens, and the elms Bright varying hues displayed. Those ancient trees ■■ );i ■ifi; i ♦" ^S .'.i I j'lli IQO VIIIB. I i Whiot ihadowy bnmoliM hid oft murmured with The voice of prayer which had iti requiem bretthed To lay in peace the dead) for they o'orhung The hallowed god wherein the lilent ilept In dreamleii dark repoie. The iweet ipring'i breath Oft thrilled their young budi, as they opened mid Their tender wreathi of pale groen verdure^ and The long of foreit birdi been warbled there» In tribute mugic» when the gun-light gniiled In early radiance through the trembling ghade* And often had the fierce gway of the gtorm Rocked on itg gweeping wingg, their gtately headg, And vivid lightning quivered mid the gloom Their aged cregtg o'eNpread, which now the rugh Of withering torrent dagped. The darting wavegf Which from the gathering volume rolled, bunt o'er* The wMte of ghrinking foliage, and the bright Irradiating gparkleg glanced upon The hot and fervid air, till, like a crimgoned veil 0*er the calm Riohelieu'g tide, reflected roge the flugh Of mantling degolation, ag the night Fell with impervioug migt. The reddening hue Illumined the darknegg with itg ceagelegg glare. And wide encircling fury, ag along The degert floatg the fire*win(9f ardent breath, ffm. 101 '4i rush ^avei) it o'er, It veil the flufh lue «• iti refiitleii and unrarying path, d melancholy lighti gleamed ladly o'er e dark lepulchral earth. Each nacred pile, Long consecratod to the hallowed dead, iPreionted how iti time-worn monument, Snwreathed with languid flamei, like meteora which hiio in the tempeit gky. The moaning graai IWaved in funereal murmur, ai the itrange [And lurid radiance through its bosom passed lOn like a gliding stream. The gloom voiced wind, IWith low and pining music, fanned each dim lAnd wasting glow, which seemed contending with [The rich damp moisture of that burial sod, Irhat venerated mould, whose verdure had Long been the tombs own shroud. The distant pines, lOn their tall branches caught the deepening hue, pith fringelike lustre, and the tranquil stars pmiled not with Heaven's pale silvery stiL vi^i, for The red suffusing tint blushed o'er them, and ■The moonlight's splendor seemed forgotten in iThe devastating brilliance which enwrapt The streaming fabrics in continued blaze, lO'er which the smoke condensed, ascended not But like a pall hung o'er the fearful scene. •^ H >*> r \ ■ \ ^ ' ZOOLOGY PEBSONIFIED, OR. MY OWN DESCRIPTION. Lavater says that every face And physiognomy Bears some resemblance to the race Of beast, or bird, or bee. But as for me, I'm in myself Quite a menagerie : What is imputed to all else. Unites and blends in me / My own description I will give, In nature's best array ; But flattery is not current ^ ith Zoological display. ^ ZOOLOOT PlRfONIVIID. 193 Some ladies, it it said, object To every painter's touch. And bring some argument to prove There yet is wanting much ; But in my own will not be found The least deficiency : Fm sure it doth excel all my Own self-complacency. I They say my head resembles much A coach upon its axle, From which my shoulders stick out, like The comers of a tack-sail. Then, in rotation, comes my hair. Which is as brown and dry As if some neighbourly old bear Had mn me a supply. > The contour of my fiice is like The ample bright full moon, But with expression — which must strike For that of a racoon. ^' I SKl> if &1!» i 194 ZOOLOGY piRfomriiD, Mj eye»t Vm told, for ever leem Like fear-congealed cockroaches ; But I am tempted to believe These are unjust reproaches. My mouth~-that is an oven quite. In which there is displayed A set of tusks, of which you would Be very much afiraid* ' As for Illy nose I do not know What to compare that to : I think I must that feature leave To be pourfrayed by you. I) But, then, I do possess a pair Of noble Midas ears, Though they are not in danger of His tell-tale barber's shears. My slender arms, the^ do not please : They quite as graceful are As goose's legs that ill at ease Are cramped up in a jar. 1 1 I 'k OR, MY OWN DI8CR1PTION. My hands, they oft deteribo them m A lort of monkey paws, From which my naili are itarting out, Like sharp and prickly claws. My feet are like the hoofi of some Old tardy elephant, Because a round, unweildy shape Hath nothing to enchant As to my form, they fain would prove That of aquatic kind. Which nature has, most luckily Amphibiously inclined. Beneath green trees I love to rest, And o*er Lavater pore, With natural history impressed On my mind's kindred lore. 195 Now if some my advice would take, They would a drum procure. And then of me a lion make On some excursive tour. [ti ' Mi: THE WOOD DUCK. n On the death of • tevorite wood duck, which had been decoyed, and ren some time in captivity. i I ^'lit*^^ t I Thou'rt gope^ sweet bird, thou'rt gone. No more foj thee Thy native wild will blossom pleasantly — No more wilt thou thy brilliant plumage lave In the calm stillness of the summer wave. Why didst thou leave thine own tall forest trees, Where thou wert free as is the mountain breeze ? Perchance thou wert, like me, a lonely thing, And none awaited thy returning wing ; And the din murmur of the waterfall Alone responded to thy plaintive call. Oh ! vain, indeed, the soft spring breezes blow, When the heart's canker withers all below. ' 1 1 r ■ THE WOOD DUCK. 197 ■.It, [an the bright sun, which renovates a flower, Sxhale the tears which own misfortune's power ? can the bud once broken from its stem lenew its fragrance with the dew-drop's gem ? )r can the spirit, which is doomed to mourn For parted hopes, when visioned joys return, jRecal the past ? Oh I no— it is in vain : [he heart once blighted, cannot break again. Lnd thou, lone wanderer, thou couldst not retrace le hidden refuge of thy covert place Imid the green reedc whispering, by the edge | Of flowery banks, where fern and mossy sedge, ind water lilies' pure white blossoms wreathed, lung floating o'er the stream — ^where music breathed ilong the shore, borne from the gleaming lake — lere the low ripple of its eddies wake thrill of melody, and faint winds stir le summer veil of fragile gossamer )'er roses' soft bloom mantled, and the bright lAnd rich tints of the opening flowers, when light lUnfolded from its morning sleep the hue IWhich night had cherished with its freshening dew, knd where the tassels of the mournful pines moan in the plaintive breeze, when day declines. m i i-'-y', n • '1 t ■ , " ".I .:;; ) '' ' ,'1 tm mm 'It' !'• ,1 1; ?! 'lif m m 198 1 1 THK WOOD DPCK. Thy pinions soared 'mid these, when thou wert free. Ere thou wert lured to thy captivity ; And from thy muffled rest, sweet timid bird, Thy lovely variegated plumes were stirred, ■ - When joyously wild choristers along The forest twilight poured their tribute song. Ere thou wert vainly tempted, and forsook The genial shelter of thy native brook ; And thou didst pinei in solitary grief, Till death unchained thee with unfelt relief. Long didst thou languish in thy wearying pain ; But it is past— thou wilt not grieve again. Thou'rt gone^weet bird ; and soon in peace will I Snap the frail chord of my sad destiny. No transient tear will ever fall for me. Shed with the mute regret I feel for thee. i v. t free, m m in: v\ A FABBWELL SONG, OB, BVBNING BBC0BD8. Farewell t farewell I companion Of many a sport and play. The billows soon will bear me Far, far from thee away. When on our tranquil river Thy lonely bark will be, And fiir from thee I'll wander. Oh I wilt thou think of me ? The willow trees are waving Their drooping foliage o'er; But our own song of evening The wave will hear no more. The moon's pale light is shining O'er its calm placid stream. With the water lily floating Beneath its silvery gleam. im i ml rijii IP i 200 g;>,..;^ Im '^* fcsai i lip.V 1 1 A FAMWELL a|9JgG. But £sire thee well, for ever I My path is o'er the sea ; When far away I wander, Each thought will be with thee. The tall green fern is whispering Beside the ftee rilFs flow, And the deep blue violet shadows Lay on its rest below ; The tender lambs are bleating Beside the moss| fold. And day-light'ft ray hath vanished Frrai its trace, of liquid gold ; The fidrthem beams are wandering O'er heaven's sapphire arch, And the low breeze murmur sighing Through boughs of tasselled larch ; The fire-fly showers are glancing The linden buds among, And the nightingale her lonely And early lay hath sung. Now, fare thee well, for ever I My path is. o'er the sea ; And these sweet evening records * In memory live with thee. ;» < Ata "Mark xxxvij -at Sft^J mt THE T41BLBT. HI ilUX;;-; .;#-. .'I infirm- Hf-H A tablet is raised M i^^ (liwc^-yard Af ^Iluree-Rinra, bcirMig IS^itnaipUm Mark the perfec^^ WMlH y»wW»r ^.»;y^t ; ff>|f,)|i^^ xxxtU. 37. f>f{ji ,;••;') ft .^; Where the dttf shadows 'itMide^'o^UietMt^^^'^^^^ ^^-^^^ ' Of the beloved and siiinted dewii|WrhD btoted '' ^' i^^*^ Have in the Lord defil&rted-M^hiBre tbecbitt Hath taken back its part df those irfaose ttr^it - In Jesus was setHire, for #hom the Ti^ ' jisiidD Of glorious faith illumed the darkened waf^'^-^^tiim K) Which death's dim mystery shrouded, and the fears Of moital agony dbseuted, When'^e^s ^-iears ''^n hn From watchful eyes h^ gushed; and (miye¥ bad stilled The yearning 'of the'lieart, iHiich yet ^as- filled ' • • '^ With visions of this earth— departiftg life- *^ * »ii ^uH Looked bhMthe aiigliish of his^^ntle^Hfe,^^ «f«»^ Hm t^i/M And on hiseh!Wreti^*grief. ' Thdt peiHkg^ kciU¥'*' rm') Might alienate, with its^^onflitlting power,' ^ U hUimau 'mVI m m ill iiii I vm i Iff'*'!'] .■?-'(;■ 202 THl ^ABLEl^ j^ I ( Some thought firom heaven ; luid he yet might cling To this frail being, till the sacred spring Which from the Rock of Ages hath its flow, Had tranquilized th^ tjde Qf humi^n woe ; But the reed shook not, as the spirit passed ; Its burthen was upon the Saviour cast ; Xh^ t^ndior plant for him its leaves had spread, And he wtis ransomed. Faith benignly shed Its radiance o'er him, and the mourner's woe Came with the triumph of its dimless glow, When fadi^ig ^twglJl.depfMr^d. 4j?mI J^i^bjfjf^ With its calm j^hcid. paleii^, moulders, nof^ Beneath the SjC^w^hich, trustingly serene, njf^ «| r^v In the tranquility Qf4?f|th,,l«Miibeen ,^, .^,^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^. Chastened with resignation,, which the look ' «^^ ,,.,., ; Of martyr-like endufa^ce ne,*er, forsooki ( am>m h' M ^■•A'/1I^| In meek assurance that the fiiithful, whOiLy. * Die in the Lbrd, are blessed. Mark h^relhe true And perfect, upright man<*robserve the just; (,{ . His end is peace, won through the holy trust Mantled beneath the ^adowbf the Rt>cW .. t // Which led his footsteps fortl| beside the flock; ^. !■■■:"',':[ :,'. ♦i. .' \ vS«"-C ' '^f ,hfiM -t?*ff W^s^.^,. , ■ •gijit^fcfliiw.-feai' • ■'-■■■ '.. : Uim^i ^-ftl 208 »« rr ■■:■-■■ 1 V:'/.^' ■m n iii-i s^ T «H 1 1 WhoM wish ot It^ efU^d IqU '^|e^« aervl^' fUriM n«?pr frallflcd. \ Youi^ii(iaraBii^sMitf^(|ime,,i iyAUiM Not aught, I think, to raise your name In her annals very much. r ■ '•■f <* O I yes, O I yes-— on one cold night, We were 9 little band, And wandering forth without moon-ligbt|^ Desired some stumps to stand I — v \ ■■ ACHIEVEMBNT8 OV A VOLUNTKRR CORPS. 2N)5 Yes, in the dark, took them for foes, And thought it very fine To bid them stand, unless they rose, That's one brave act, we think, to show tliat we were not. afiraid— ' ;^,^ In a lone wood to challenge so, Without a stronger aid ! m [f)'^} amf J Another galhmt d^ed ««ill^dl Was up at €(mtfik( td>^ttiir»* i ' : i ■ Y .'♦•t fil Bpti bnnrely^ thetev we.' strugglddl ibol^ And really deared tfai barg^ I ' 9oitfaatio«r de^dS) thtni|ihivery!fefw, Deserve yDunpnkbd a^ large*:'' if- al .. - ■ , .'.'i... -./ou f^fii I/if!/, ; '•■y.^^/fftg «^',i!j£i'*Ki |» ^tMs fffl; iiJ";li "■.r','!)iir THE INDIAN'S REFUSAL. An Indiftn, tm beiof tsked if he would mU the burial-plsca of hit uicMton, replied, " Shall I aay to the bones ot my ftatben, * Arise— «ad get into • ttraafa land ?• •• Ii. Shall I say to the bones of my fathers, ** Arise — To the land of the stranger begone ?" Shall the brig)|j( gold have power to scatter their dust, That the white man may reign here alone? -^ Yes, here, where the warriors have long laid in peace. In their soul-haunted valley they rest ; And to them shall I 'Sfty, ^ Now arise-— now depart-^ I have bartered the darth o*er your breast" ? And beneath this sepulchral, this tall ancient tree, Where often the quiver hath hung, >? n JJ: |J*» it And the bow hath been bent from beneath its dark shade,! As the moose from the forest hath sprung. And the young caraboo, in its swift, fleetest course, From their barbed arrows never could flee. No. The white man may cherish his glittering gold ; But the graves of my fathers are free; ; U , # THE INDIANS REVU8AL. S07 Where the eagle's long plume in the scalp-lock hath been By the hands of the warriors undone ; From the green prairie hills, or the dark solemn woods Where the blood track their pathway hath won. Here often around hatb tl^p death-song been raised, And lighted the funeral pile, Where the chiefs of the nations in tortures were bent, Their sufferings to meet with a smile. ^-t And here, too, they oft have the calumet wreathed. In token of peace and of redt. And the ivy's tough clasp and the bright creeping moss By the conqueror's footsteps been pressed. b Though the Delaware bands from their ambush are gone, And their strength from the forest is fled — Though the war-cry is hushed, yet the voices arise , Which for ages have been with the dead. No. The free winds of heaven, and dews of the moni, With the Great Spirit watch o'er their sleep ; T And while the Missouri's proud river shall flow, Its waves by their green mounds shall sweep Then cherish, pale stranger — go, cherish thy ^■ For their resting-place here yet shall be. Whilst the word of the Indian is steadfast and t The bones of the dead shall be free. V ' 1" ! ■ if i S" - r m\ iJ: I' V If! I'll '. '{: 9(\u wHi .>T '( I MEMOEIAIS OF WATERLOO. , .4* . On hearinf • wish expraised to rliit the field pf ilMigbter n^" ' .aUnf of tke enthoiiMtlc feeUng displayed bythto VrsTe ItmMMlttM'i it tht/ttaduMtbU \m,V- U«t on their " faugh a ballagh" being proaoiuKsed. I And dost tfaoa wish' to vteur l^e gory fieldi Where myriad numbers did to cotlrage yi^ ? ' But the pioud trtuDi!ph> on th^ eatrtb hath left A living trace^ from liieiiioryne'drbei^; And on thi6 plains the thought a rec(>rd feafes J In the low rustling of the peaceful sheaves^ And the renveinbranoe of the conflict shefd In the tall ponpi^s darkly tiny, rl od ;i ,ii^ 7, Though many douds have : ^ ^ aright ^tmsi Yet these memotiafe eah their istrength dfttlast* The dew niaiy n With its exulting. trndhsiinbtthriUiag crjr^ Urging the brsiVd Uk conqMor or to die ; With its resistbsis voider %t) lead the chfttge, 'Mid rising foes on suore >4|^H To hush the echo of each plaintive moan ; sM tmhi #' f Here it hath been that death its work hath done, - And with such desolation, victory won. hm^ d^»^» #fsifVVl Is it for this, then, that the festive hall i^i&l |K^lt> with the dazzling pall 1 m"^ Of joyous splendor, mock the sable view^^'^t.'^V^iis^i o?^'! The mourners take of glorious Waterloo? >\^«^ v^ixt^ And hath not Woman's heart been faithful here ^^H hith Even to tempt the helmet and the spear, i ^rfi flswT?f i To watch one waving plunne amid the fights' 'T^sii ifiiV/ And stand undaunted in affiection's might ? ^u &rfjf |*5i^J I Hath she not fallen here, and her light form h 01 ditVv' Bowed as the fragile lily in the storm. » (»$(# tv3^«lt yM^ Too lowly to resist, too frail to bear ,^4l «»4«l fes^C^'-^E**^ J The chilling blight of devastation there? ' ^\70l^>>»v #tH Thus may the rose its love-like beauty strew ?iii^I moll Amid the blood-dyed wreath of Waterloo, iy '^'^ His conquest hath secured ; and in the breast ^^£i^^ Of mourners who, still weep for those whose rest | Is on the record of the Belgian plain ; For glory* s shroud enwraps the mighty slain :'j ||ji// The wreath for them, which Wellington has twined. Can never be to memory's dust consigned, dJiBidW But must, with Britain's gratitude, Tenew .^.^y .ydT Its freshness from the sods of Waterloo. • ^ zd'^^md Hu> »fH In thtJse dad^i;Mll!'iA£tU]4iigi M ^ mmnmm K) Wilt thcmn^kil^ Wte^r^tkd iMt^pfttli^ra^ n s tW^k ct«i^^ «iid! wit/b«i^d iloiiwfi^ stw ofIT Which the ii^tid'tf d#tty>bd6kt(iMl5Plnrok6aitfimBr: ... The blossotl[4^#Me The strife o€ huinii! wiU— • Whes the Lo^'s ycas» batib ^tranmiiU^fRl tb^,30Jiili With His ^msii " Paiic5©rr^e^ s^ll I" ,^^4^ ^:j '■■■ ' '■ ■■• ' ' ' '■ ■' '' - • ^ ■■ Bloii'f • ' . , - ' ■■■■■■- ne r^utfti-^y /-^ '■--'^ n.3f.frvr, 1;f,.:^^ ,.:,. ^ i^^■^,^^i^,^l^ ,,^^ ''"life "'I ,.«..,.,:,, ^;;, ::'i;: I' .!„■'" Til r>i. '•JiivUSJ -mHi THE ONLY SON. h Of** •f I ' b'i f + -t-r Written on the death of a child four yean of ag«. " The grass withereth, the flower &deth, becaoae the Spirit of tlie Lord Uowetl upon it."-iiaiaA xlvi. 7. .,^„ . .,^ .|^^^ ^- . ,, ^ ^.^ , ^il'ff r^^? He lay In perfect beauty, and the setting sun Gleamed on his palid cheek. -';^^»iisi ^jjj ^mu. 4«;i As its rays struggled througlv.'$:(f1 The drooping branches of a withering elm, whose leaves Light shadows o'er him trembled, parted by The languid breeze, through which the sunlight, with A fainting smile, looked mournfully upon The slumberer*s early rest. Bright golden curls. Heavy with death dew, hung upon his brow, And his fair hands were clasped. Luxuriant flowen A joyless offering laid upon his shroud, Wet with the morning's tears. Death's icy touch %- ■Vv: THE ONLY 80M. SI m rihrLordUowet ;\ ttfl On the pale monument of faded life, With its chill coldness, had preserved the hue Of those frail emblems. He who rifles from The roseate cheek its tinge, and bears away The loveliest blossoms to his flowerless home, Whose beauty is untouched, where wasting strength Hath not yet thrown its shadow. But the grass Must wither, and the tenderest flower fade. When the Lord's spirit passeth o'er its bloom. His parted lips were vermeil with the hue Of smiling health, and his soft brown eyes, veiled '^l ed'i With their long lashes, seemed as if the dreams' i^am t ( Of transient sleep had their dark heavy fringe Mjlr-'^fff* Lulled there in weariness. His stilled repose m u^/vi Was not of those who dream. The soul-deserted shrine Hath no bright vision to illume its deep Eternal trance. No mournful voice hath power • To waken such. And he — the only son — The cherished of his mother — ^for the grave Laid there I She, in wild anguish, knelt ; And his sweet sisters, from her faded cheek. Kissed the sad tears away. He felt them not*- He who was ever wont to look upon . ,*st^y j^ ^ That mother with such mute affection when i' ;.'; 1,1,1 I ill lii:. , ':4 M 316 arttE QKLV SON. 'ijll ' V^J Her smile had vanished.. '?r>''^ < ^iiii j.TlifiiB the Bioraing ol Had brnme the green leaves in its sapless stem Down to the earth again » to be temeyfe^ )■■ ; : - With brighter Verdure ;».i ?- ^i^, jjija ^ttjiiif For- the flower muslt fadfe And languish suddeoly ffway» beieause jfl Ni^r . ) The Spirit of the Lord upott it blonveth^ atatd It must d«p8fi« as fleeting shado«w» o'er The dust cootintie not Bht they wsH m^^ im%?Mm^. "\ Fresh from the wintor of tfa^ tomH to dweUots^i y^^iU.. In fialdcdess §k^ and etetnal bloomt ; o idir ^i^V ii «:-if- ''^Mfwliff iiiMr aolayitS4aiii«yji^;«a.^^ if. -fr*^ .s;iiOi> .?»«rT::' !^' '• \ir hi? imiw imM THE MEETllTG' n • ; ■'i^'-fHI SUJ -f'V ■,/( H And hath mine eye looked once move oit The idol of each thought-^- On him who hath &o recklessly My heart with anguish frauglit;?' Mine ear hath once more beard the sound ,£. Their faintest tone rejoice; Ctf^ My hand hath once more feli the touK^h 4 #ifi^v With deep and eamesit pain ;r For, coldly, heartlessly bestowed^ imw>r t^l I cannot tears restrain.. I have looked u|iion him^to wvfek^i^ M^M^^ Each feeling most aeut0 ;i,j.ttk> ^^IM t^ And, with my smiles, aflfect thdt joy id' ii iij^n j Which must for be rnDte^f ^ "^f^^^^l^S^^i I will not perish as the flower Declines in evening's gloom &FM;. \ s ' ;■; ■'.■■ ) ■ ' ,■ ^' !i ' {■■'■■ - ■'-'••■ ',. .''■ .^ '■■;:', i n^^i I. J" ■'rl '!ii til 218 THE MEETING. t t ■ 1 1 I But in the sunshine of his smiles, Droop slowly to the tomb. The cankered leaves shall not decay. As withering one by one : I will sustain the crushing blight, Nor yet his presence shun. How weakly vain it is to breathe The language of the heart h^ la k!ii>» itA% To such as reck ndl of the strength % mii' Its deep drawn words impart. Vain is the sorrow which is wrung From woman's faithful trust ; And vain the tears she sheds upon -fe 'ntM^jB A blossom's scattered dust, iiuu^m^'^mu^ji^' Vain is the firm reliance which A-m\ yM On plighted vows we place, - ^ -4ji>4li /^ For we, in many a mournful eye,^ !stW# A death-lit radiance trace. 3tfK>3 Mt; Vain is the grief which rifles from'''ao©i#^irf 1 The fading cheek its bloom, ^ ii40# fli^ Until it blights the flower with i^J m rftiw ^k^^ The shadow of the tomb.* *oi ^^m M^ a3x:4i( /;4J .t? : > T.. '' u\ ^^.. a Tm .7..'.' !'■ ( ■ ' . -^' v.- .A SUNSET ON THE ST. LAWEENCE, *;^^fetf.4 om 4,li«^#-^ v# .* ' ■ 1. 1 -'- ■osv y ,i i t[ '>HIT Bright in its glory sinks the setting sun, Flinging its beams of lingering gladness o'er The spring's creation ; and the blue free wavet^ Of the proud mighty river now reflect upon .li imi^ky^ ui Their unchained bosom's deep and restless tide :>u^ K' The sunset's splendor ; but they mingle not H^u! The parting son-beam's radiance, which the mist \^- i'i ^liT M Of streak-sufi&ning vapor blendeth with - - • p a^ Its golden lustre; ;< and the distant choiii ' Of high blucu mountains mingle afl a traoe Of something visioned in the £ur dim clouds. The silvery: crescent, whirN now seemeth lilde m!}^ if JrW A faint, neglected,. melancholy stream osil^ nL Of pale forgotten light, unnoticed in 'rrm^if^ h\'^'flmi'^(^ Its placid stillness as we gaze upon oui^air The sunset's splendor, as the lofty spit« 'uud mc4 ^idiK Still glitterS' in its farewell gleam above '^^I'^tm^ ?/iii The fir-trees* heavy mass, their tranquil boughs 0^1 iliri, Are waving in the mantling purple's gloww.'. .1 a m 0V.-O Now distant echoes sweetly break upon i Jl le'o ih'aP^T The fervent tribute of ^reflective thought '4mi #lf tt|«iT To the. Almighty offered 'mid His woilksIrs# %ttji| oi SUV8IT ON THK «T. LAmnWHiB* I not, ■tT5 )U(ls list.tii'a" fj 'Trfti ^^^'W lii'. Iff! h' Sublimely bfauti THINE— ONLY THINE f' In the still hour of nighty When thought is mine — In sleep's passing visions^ Thine — only thine I When the cold pale moon-beatns Pensively shine, In the dim twilight hush, Thine — only thine ! i In the gay lighted hall, Where throngs combine ; In the sad lonely hour. Thine — only thine ! I'FBM When music's voice breathes like A spell divine. f'*mt'f pi I I I i > I 1:4 i i n 224 !i-ij THINE ONLY THINE ! >;.:u ' '»^*# * 'And thrills the changeless heart, , ,p|, -&v-i|^..;-^. Thine — only thuie I '-.r-- -^-^ ' "■ ' When plenBure's brightest flowers -^f^^v Around me twine ; t 1^r..,'i)^i In darkest solitude, 'M ^^1 Thine— only thine- I-i^i,-|llii' ;Vi^-M,'^ When tears of sorrow faU^'4 ^^1^^* ** ^ And hopes decline, ^^f h«i.i~^f 'v?'| My lip repeats the vow, « Thine-^-only thine I " o ^rf) «*«■*# \ \ , " ' ' : ' : dKid««50 ^^no'l({r jiaiW ' V. .,^ -..; ^^'i. ,d\vt ..A--« ■ '- ''.- .■ "■ ■ v^'iif , ', ; 'rv':! -::. Avjws>. r^-' ''fcv ^i<.^J-;;i? i«|!;i. \V'' ^tW^r^^'i. W y,' Learn his departure. Never to return w Mf^^S llil^ To dwell with those who for him long will yearn I ^^^*^: But thou art called from hence. Thine is the fate '*^ :^^ Which must from all of earth thus separate — »v^^ «MtdHO Thine is the labor which must count for nought ^ All save Christ Jesus. In and through Him sought,^ ^ The halo of thy path, salvation's ray, .#w ^**,i ^^^«« i^i Through shades of sorrow, can illume thy way. ^^^*^ i'iilr: iiir 226 THE DEPARTURE. h ^r ■ > 3 I Mi 4* rp. The offering of the new-created heart, Through God's dear Son, its tribute to impart. Thine is the treasure which the moth and rust Cannot corrupt, and thine the hallowed trust In faith abiding, sanctified and blessed. Tbine is the struggle for immortal rest. But never to return. Oh I there is aught Of touching sadness with that farewell fraught ; But It is S6l||||i it should not be so — Thy native land recals thee. Soon the flow , Of the blue western waves will bear thee hence On theit swift shadowy bosom's current, whence ^*^ -^ No parting sound will breathe a thrilling tone Of the far forest land. The ocean moan ^ , Will then beside thee murmur, and the deep fljfi 'fc^^> Curl its white billows with a moumfuMweep, gqp^ ifi Till thou art wafted to the flowery sod, ; j^n'^fc); tM nifsvi Where thy first prayer ascended to thy God,rfi;>^, ff^xj^^ ^'f And thy young voice was lifted in the praise ,^ {|jOi|^%!?' Of thine Almighty Father. And thy gaze .| imM^Ha^ Will dwell upon thy childhood's home once more ; And thy dear brother's welcome smile restore, }, {3 ^^s^; And thy fair beauteous land of wild romance Hii ^j^tfl H Will meet the rapture of thy kindling glance, y ^Ir^^iTiii i ■v.. THE DEPARTURE. 227 w>Wii mM Which with impassioned fervor will remain, .d- ;^ fibtf - Till each remembrance wanders back again hM «^w Iri W To wakening memory; and the magic dreams ?■ o r^xl ffl Of old forgotten legends o'er the stream's x^^^fi^h l^is lO Soft, silvery, rippling float. Their radiant waves H-amK) ^Trace the memorials of the heroes' graves, ..„;,i>i,'ig ■rm.^i'ff By which their melancholy music pines, a ^4 tlli ¥ / And in its tributary echo finds . - f- /^ r'-t^va^lf^ The mossy shore, where Ossian's harp lm strung, fW And his sweet lays to Erin's free winds sung if -m %^| a#. Of Fingal's battles and the sea-king's might, i4fi^H ©^1 And of the warriors whom unequal fight • *^ ; Had laid in Morven's vallies, or the grief !*>rfe^| ^^^t Which mourned so long o'er Atha's car-borne chief, I hnA When phantom visioned clouds moved in the traia . :» 'f^M Of war red meteoirs in the pale moon's wane, uri ofd^i 10 And thou wilt view the young and slender trees vmM llii Which in thy boyhood bent to every breeze, 'M,.^i,% y^W. But now with dark majestic foliage rise, ,. . jp^^^jg^^ jlifW To shade the azure of the brilliant skies, J^ -r&m Mi Which, in their blue and sunny brightness, smile ^wm^^t O'er the rich scenery of thy native isle, t i ^a^i^ mikp{f, Voices of parted hours once more will come i d«yoil1 Upon thine ear in gladness from thy home. *m^:*n ffr^fi^flT %,:\ t ! I m wm ' ifj I 'jiiji ' r. 'i V.:^> 'JLU Ff 228 THE DEPARTURE. U I rr '' J' «■ ii I << Erin-^go-bragh/' with its impassioned tone, Will wake the fervor which can but be knowK^t tfm llTt In her own silent vallies^ where the flow fiMi'^B^itsx^i^^ ^3' I Of her clear waves reflect the earliest glow : :»#^%*w1 J}^'> 10 Of sun-rise from the ocean's bosom, and .h. ipS'Hm Sok Where ancient ruins rise sublimely grand, 89«iif *Mil &^?'l^ ■ u m ' ii\ ■lAMll :n± With lofty shadows, as they struggle through The stately trees, whose gloomy avenue With gentle rinj^bves* notes a music wak^is As low as when the lulling wind forsakes The blighted bough, '> »«^ ass Now o'er the summer sea ■if'krhr'' May freshening gales awaken playfully, x^iv:i\x Ui^jjim- ^^^.^ And float amid thy sail's white bosoms ; and mfym AmiVi May every blessing bear thee to the land (tmiaadi^ «WV Of thine inheritance ; and may the Lbrd^ tsa^ l^w t^Tf *t< All thou wouldst ask of Him, to thee accord ;"hrmM' &»! May the Redeeming Spirit ever be 'H^ m /fAhiV With peace and mercy's radiant light with thee ; t %p«| tj^^ And may the love of Jesus with the grace i* ;*w t>m'dk Through Him obtained, make every resting place d^MV A joyous home to thee. Now, fare thee well I-~''i' ?ui| tf/' Though lingering sadness will around us dwell — • ^m^' Though many tears at thy departure flow — Yet, laborer in the Saviour's vineyard, go. SV'y, ;*ii^l;# :^- 9M' ff*^ air y^fi^ ^m '- ■ ICO- .>di?M'< .,,j irfv'i o vW.* Y' ■ -if THE MORNING WATCH. i.l m Originatiiig from a scene in " Peter Simple. lb VW;J, The midnight hour had long since past, .^^ The weary darkness gone, : r And a sentry from his lonely post '^ Looked out for rosy dawn, ,-:m^!f^-^Mm. When came advancing leisurely A small procession there, '* it^^uM^Uian He brought his arm down to the charge, ,*y i'*i#K*0 Demanding '* Who goes there ?" ^ ^ ^" «^ " Friend — ^friend," replied a tremulous voice, As faltering with wine, -'^-Hli^lpt «^f And one bent forth, as if he would -^ &Hi- Have breathed the countersign. . .s^m^:. But "Who goes there?" the soldier asked > ,„.^ Impatiently once moret .^,4i'Mmi- 'hp>A. " An officer, fii' — an officer fii' — ; iyi ^A0- Fu* — ^yes — ^fu' — on a door." i^..:^ii^.^^M:^s^^i The soldier gazed with eagerness ■ • ' #d[| ii'€ • Upon the officer. And then with archness said, " All's well— ««f^^r? Pass, officer ju on a door,'' • 1.^ , .,L.H !l:f ir J iih: .,!i if ,■'11' ' ' * ■ ^ 1. , *■ '' ' ' ■•^s;-;r?t. THE ROSE OF JERICHO. .';.' '^i^^ % *y.*\v:-n^\^ ' ■", 4Slt .; .^-r - The rose of Jericho is highly valued in many parts of Switzerland, on account of the prophetic properties it is supposed to possess on Christmas ere. When this solemn evening has arrived, the flower is taken from where it had been care- fully deposited, and is put into cold water ; the fother of the family reads thajt beautiful passage, commencing with " Thou who for us wast crucified, hav4 mercy upon us." It is during the reading of the Litany that the flower is ex- pected to bloom : and in proportion as it expands itself, and seems to drink in nourishment from the water, and awake to natural life and vigor, is its augury deemed propitious.— JVomtAtf Gtfmian(/<7. £cat4iBaa. ■ •. :!- ..'1*^^ In Switzerland's romantic vallies, where ' "^ ^ The fragrant wreaths of Alpine roses wear o> ^a^' Luxuriant blossoms, while the mountain's height f Rears the unsullied festoons of its white And mutely gathering glacier rified snows, u:;qmt-': Which lull t,ach echo on their still repose. Where the swift chamois fearlessly hath past O'er the deep chasm, where the drifting blast Hath shook the avalanche, and, with its speed, r The eddying torrent from the slumber freed ^ 'IMi. ^m •»*J^ '¥im •fm-;%. - THE ROSE OF JERICHO. 231 Of its hushed ice-spell. While the shadowy vine, nini't With its green clusters, and the warm sunshine, ' »- fljaff Dwell in the valley, and the golden grain *'>^3 fc)>Pow sz '* Bends to the reaper's sickle, while the rain -^moi "^i /^ Swells the young leaves whose tender buds beside The tall hills droop, and where the clefts divide, The soaring eaglets rest ; the slumbering stream Offers it gcn-lik^j tears with rainbow gleam^ While through the pastoral verdure of the low And sheltered plain, there glides the gentle flow Of lucid rills beside the beechen tree, Where swells the song of peasant liberty 1 i^ Free from oppression, and the pealing horn '^* • ^i^> ?>ni!^ May on the wind's mysterious voice be borne, 4j49i» '^i To wake the torrent and the sweeping flood, t W For which the streams of freedom's martyred blood Have been so lavished; where the patriot, Tell, ^ »i^|l Hath victory echoed, even through the dell > *|j^ #ff Of the pale snow-rift. Now upon the sod '* ?i^ r M i,* ,' :5 i :• if L'i4 ^. 11. «if.< im THE ROSE OF JEHfcnO. Been offered unto Thee. Oh ! Jesus save Us from the sting, the victory of the grave. Lord, in thy tender mercy hear Devotion offered thus. , ( Thou, who for us wast crucified, ^ Have mercy upon us." And the bright flowers invigorated bloom, - Revived in beauty from its transient tomb, And the green leaves expanded in the flow Of the refreshing water ; and its glow Wore its rich summer tint. Its prophecy Was then fulfilled, and firom each gazing Ojre It was removed. That fair auspicious rose Was once more folded in unseen i'epose. '•r*n; 'm 'I ;/*" ";.<"! •.J n ?; J^ .i -lim ah \{ : mm : ;' I, * at^W mit u^ rf*6Ciira«J ur-HjK o^, jj'v fttur.d J9?iw8 &a(Oif.J 10 -it} 0^ THE WISH. , ■t\^r^ ( i ',»«•;, f ,^*^ ,*■'.. ("('^ .^?'tv- Is thine affection yet for me, My loved — my cherished one, That thou didst shed a parting tear, And wept when I was gone ? l HiiM But waste thou not thine early tears They may not aught restore : In the loved circle of thy home I hold a place no more. l^^Ui^i: Soon will the soft spring breezes play The linden leaves among. How oft have we, beneath its shade, With heart-tuned gladness sung. But the dim evening's solemn hush May not my voice restore : In the loved circle of thy home I hold a place no more. "^if?>iJV--i i:(| ,V5V>. ;:j-vf :*^ • ^s I ;vi: i,, ■ ': J pit, i 236 .r % M'. 1 1 \'. • I ; II THE WISH. And, oh I how oft doth memory seek Each past thought to renew Of those sweet hours we've spent beneath The moon'^lit avenue, And dear remembrance of the look Which all of gladness wore ; ^5, But in the circle of thy home I hold a place no more. »» »''^fj^ «^ .:vM . The world hath charms, but not for me— f Mine is H 1 In the loved circle of thy home To hold a place once more. '^^^ ^^^^ f^*^ : moimn ^6for IP ion %M 'J tl '< • THINK OF ME. . rr Think, think of me, when through gay halls thou rovcst, When other fingers wake the chords thou lovest, ^^^ • |/ Then, in sweet fancy, wilt thou think thou hearest ^^^y The sad-toned voice, to memory's dream the dearest? ^^f^ Think, think of me, when the bright moon-beam shineth, And in its light the evening star declineth, ". /jj^ n^ifH When nought around thy heavy sigh repeateth, ^ ,,,^j^ iv And fancied forms thy musing spirit meeteth. 4,^ . <*■ Think, think of me, when voiceless prayer ascendeth, ^^yr^ For the lon^ heart whose silent sorrow blendeth, ;„jj „^ When Haltering hope its cherished smile delayeth,,'| Q^mj And when affection's fairest bloom decayeth. ..j. >i jj>,^„f^^^ Think, think of me, when woe its pc»ng imparteth, ,„,.^^*- And, like a shadow, fleeting joy departeth — ^^.^ ■•vmvs iti When all around the tint of sadness blighteth, , j„^ ;n^^' And with allurement grief alone uniteth. - • v>>-?'v» sHT Think, think of me, when every pleasure fadeth, ^^ j^^ji^ And memory's voice in solitude upbraideth, j. ,. . j r^^f^'i^ For the forsaken, who no longer weepeth, But in the grave in still oblivion sieepeth...j 7iii'f o;iv/ fj n*. ill 4iJ vttdi fjti^. m I| pWflill •J f <%?■?? l¥tiVt i* 1^1 i isi' ' WW* fin : WHEHE IS MY REST ? .A iW u- *v. \ Wh^rbj is my rest ? — oh I where may I recline «^^^^^ ^ My weary head, and say, " Yes, this is mine" ? ^■^^'^'^ The forest dove sleeps in her downy nestf,' "**'' '^'' ^* But earth for me hath no congenial rest. iia4*## Where is my home ?— oh I where may I repose, ^ ^^^^^^ When the dim flowers at heavy night-fall close ? * *'^^ ^^' The dew-drop hath a home within their breast ; ^"^ ^^'3^ v- But where may I in folded slumber rest ? * ^5«?^ &«i Where is my home ? The faded rose-leaves strewn" ^^'^^'^ By the chill autumn's voice, are wafted soon - - . lij -jt : Unto their refuge, and in shelter pressed^^ um^mk md^'f^ Beneath the mould. But, oh I where is my rest ? * '* ^ 7%}re soon will be my home, I there shall liiy J || To lavish upon me, . mk^ . I 'r I'M" W' :i'i, m fvi 1 ■ I! ' '«j*f-- ,iii :^:ii 240 THE NEGLECTED. II' 'i iX 1 ! ^ 4' When in mute eagerness I watch For aught of love from thee. And, mother, see, thy sweet ringdoves My lowest accents know. And thy canary's gentle strains Will at my bidding flow. Thy cherished rose-trees* tender buds, , . , , Expand in lingering bloom ; ') ^Q I bear away each drooping tiower fl* *?>*] When blight hath wrought its doom. Then, mother, fold me in thine arms. And clasp me to thy breast, And let thy youngest on thy heart In kind affection rest. As do the beautiful, the fair, The eldest and the bright. ., . , "^ I've been a stranger yet unto y The deep untold delight Of sinking there upon that home» .:. . ,^,u. Of childhood's earliest love. And I have with the pining grief ^" Of secret sorrow strove. But now thy cheek is pale and wan ;M4i And care is on thy brow ; i^J ; Mi m ll.ii m THE NEGLECTED. 241 dl ?i,i. And with affection's vigil I Will seek to cheer thee now. Say, doth it pain thee that thy loved Thy cherished so depart, And leave thy lone neglected one A comfort to impart — To briOg that tribute which in tears Can never be effaced, Nor in allurement^ a brightest smiles Its fading strength be traced ? When in the hour of worship thou Didst teach me how to pray, One thought unuttered on my lips Hath ever died away — That thou wouldst love me yet as those Who there beside me knelt. And only Him who was implored Knew what my spirit felt. But let me kiss those drops away, |' V/hich roll adown thy cheek ; . Forgive me, mother, that I dare Long stifled thoughts to speak. . But I beheld thee weep, and deemed I might the struggle calm, '■^. f;iM^~ •m : t i< il 242 THE NfiOLBCTfiD. ll And pour into the mother's wounds Her child's affection's balm* - And thou dost clasp me to thine arms, . ind ^Id me to thy breast, And welcome me with tenderness Upon its warmth to rest. Thou dost the kindest kiss bestow My lips have ever met. Oh I one such kiss rewards me for The depth of my regret. .'4.WJr*» ir^ilt-*^ •fu I mm.-tmm Si \' i f^!^^f',"--\'. d I iBiai- '■> t \ % ^^-■.■V-;y,.i. .'■■,^Kk-^„ li- m *. fc.V ?-v; i-rtfsfrT'rJ' -3"ft"^i- ; I l^t ^tiwAjt ytw-i' LIFE, ^JA^: Oh I what is life ? — it hath no joy for me : I would that I were mouldering in the dust With the forgotten dead. Say, what is life, when wearied of its pain, When the heart feels unmixed unchanging woe Silently feeding on its blighted hopes ? Then, what is life? Say, what is life, when it hath nought to win 'fe^**^ * #** ^ From kindred ties — when it is spared no gift From lone affection — when the withering heart Shrinks from itself? Oh I tell me not tiiat there is hope for all ; For I have none : it floats not o er my thoughts. But misery is mine — ^yes, earnest misery^* "^ i ' * And torturing grief rmn«^,*l^. Tears are for me — unmarked, unpitied tears ; For in the bitterest anguish do I weep. Till in the utter weariness of life, I would depart. Then what hath life but its overwhelming grief, That thou shouldst bid me live for f«t 1 -tfi>W >" 5 AUbuni; uviuni) 1:11 .uuVi Mm, 244 LIFE* 1 " « hi m 1 I »^\ M M^ 'OW It And with submissive silence linger for Fate's future joys . Is it to mock me ? For the desolate What is there here ? or hath the grave a smile To offer from its darkness ? No — oh I no — It cannot be. * - Why wouldst thou bind me with the fettering chain Of wretched hopelessness ? But I awake — The mist falls from mine eyes — I live not for t^j^j,. What once wa^ mine. ^ v^--^^. 5iail:fr3ij^:#f^.i»!il I live to praise, to glorify the God, The Father of all mercies, who ordained That this should be, and who hath given strength .^^^^r ; To bear His will. :>«jf^'^«^^ mM Upon a lovely blossom, which had clot ed ■ ,5-^W^ %«;^i /v' Its leaves in bright eternity. She lay '3^mffCs|*W^( Decked for the dark grave's perishing docay. Mr^M?4 «?#l' The tranquil shadow of her parted hair 1 % imt -m^'k^ Now waved hot with the mother's oflfered prayer ;'f*J^«3i^/. For the freed spirit had returned to God — n^^PVJ ^u^:hs^ The slumberer there ky shrouded for the sod — <*ii«f ^|f!!f Earth asked its own agai>:>. > > u-:jv^-!«Mm' » is^i,n The summer wind had hrec/hed noty and whose eye Had gazed not yet upon the azure sky — rt^3f ©ii' An infant flower whose ephemeral bliooi%; i^xi mim ms'^ Had but expanded for its early tomb. ; ij; j^ 'im*i^ « ii? K '" The tender branch which had been grafted in j^nB^l* 9vri The vine, whose nurture had sufficed to wi^if I^J^ jfj-jg;?? Its deathless verdure in that region where No blight can linger on the blossoms there. 1 kifi\l>&*riKvl; i'^i ,';-.i . THE SISTER'S BIER. 247 bade d pall) ig oar, >an. ^3r lose eye ' . f 1 btiiaB dHs A fragile reed broke ere it had been bru'.sed — A rescued dove ere tears had been infused Into the cup of sorrow. Ransomed here He laid upon the wreath-encircled bier On which his sister had reposed, which yet Was with the trace of recent anguish wet. And in the grave where the fresh, new turned sod Had not yet been by mourner's fobistep trod. They sought a resting place mt him whose spring Had faded thus e'er cankered by the sting Of sin and suffering. Let our thanks be poured Unto our God, for victory, through the Lord Christ Jesus, who the dwellers of the dust Awake to Him in an immortal trust. The tender dew of His bright mercy hath Laid on the silence of the slave's dark path. ■i!tm^. / •^J^];;-X':i\ ^Tf^' A'.l .tAiJ; lit 'vH***. n ■'ii m^^ hw'hffff f^eM^^ Wiih>^ L4i :^_ \-C h^-f't- nu ) ful.t (^at THE STEP-MOTHER. A CHINESE TALE. M '^ I;* I !■! I ! In the reign of Sweng Vang, th« guards of a castle found a man lying in a field who appeared t<> have been recently murdured. At a little distance, they found two brothers, whom they toolc into custody, as the probable murderers. As, however, the deceased had but one wound, which consequently gave rise to a surmise of but out; perpetrator, the question arose which had done the deed. Both the brothers were stedfast in uot accusing the other, — each declat- ing he was the assassin. The case was brought before the king. " To grant IKe to both," said the king, " would bo to show mercy to one murderer : to have both executed, where only one C4»n be guilty, would be cruel and againtit the law. Well, then, let the mother be called, and her decision be taken, for she knows her children best." So said—so done : the mother was informed of the king's command. "If." said the poor woman, bursting into tears, "if ' am compelled to choose. let the eldiest live." The king expressed his great sur rriae that the mother should not have chosen the youngest, for the youngest are ge- nerally cherished the most by mothers. " Yes," said slie, "he whose life I now save is not mine own offspring, but a son of my late husband's by his former marriage. I solemnly promised his father to treat him as my own son, and until now I have kept my word. I should now break my promise, where I, from maternal tenderness, to save the life of my youngest, to the detriment of the other. I feel that this sacrifice costs my heart." Cries and sobs here choked her utterance. The king pardoned them both. Amid the whispering rice The victim laid. A coldness, as of ice, ' ' Was on his brow. The gentle winds which swayed ( The murmurs of the tall banana's shade - vt THE STEF-MOTHBR. fl'Xii w in lying iu a listance, they le murderers, itly gave rise iiad done the -each declat- . " To graitt lerer : to have d agalnrt the iken, for she formed of the jrs, "if ' am great sur Mae ingest are ge- ose life 1 now by hiB former son, and until rhcre I, from [ment of the here choked lyed 4. 249 1} flit' iv*'f* ■'v* Fanned his pale cheek on which the faded hue Might not revive, though evening's heavy dew Bathed it with moisture, and the ocean wave The proud Pacific's water brought to lave Him with its freshness. But the weary strife For him had ceased, for he had passed from life t The long palm leaves might their luxuriance shed 0*er the still slumber of the lonely dead ; And the blue Kiam might its tribute bring From the far fountain of Us desert spring. To sound the requiem dirge for him whose tomb Had not been raised,* and whose untimely doom''^' ^^'' Had, like the blast borne in a calm lulled hour, ^^ ^ Come with the influence of the simoon's power, '^*^^**** Ere the hushed waste received the warning sign, '^^ ' ^"^^ When its dim sands through crimson hazes shine, And the tall cocoa's high arched clusters throw Their lofty shadows o'er the fervid gloW ' f^fi^M^' Ere its voice bends them. So had he been crushed ^^ Down to the earth, and then so swiftly gushed '<'^"" ^^*- The ebbing stream, 'that nis faint spirit passed Ere the dark plantain boughs had nightdrops cast * It is the custom in China to ndae the tom1> previous to dissolution. = \ ' ■«»'.-■ flip'-' li;," m T4IF. ST£P-MOTUftR. \ i From their dim foliage. Where the murderer no« Who had thus laid him there ? His placid brow Remained unruffled and unchanged, for two * Fond brothers there had liqgered. Grief may strew Some transient roseS) o'er its depth of woe With momentary «miles ; but what bestow Peace on the murderer f What can tranquilize The strength of his o'erwhekning agonies ? How can the gaze of such embittered guilt Dwell calmly on the blood which it hath spilt ? But they stood there, and bought not to evade \ The avenging hand upon them justly laid ; But each himself accused, and firmly in Affection's bond strove mutually to win Suspicion's darkest vengeance. ^' Lay not low My gentle brother — he gave not the blow : Let me the sufferer be. Revenge demands That life for life should answer, and my hands Are those which were in fatal haste imbrued In the warm vilt4,8tr©am. I, yes, Lyiewed . ^ cmt>il His writhing form when quivering anguish threw ^tr The coldness of the life forsaken hue." g{f j-uli V^f-^- i << Oh I no, unbind Am, for it is not so : / am the blood-stained. Let, then, let him go." ^S -^-, THE STEP-MOTHBR. 251 This was the might of strong fntemal love — ^Mv " This was affection^ even death above. ** To toke the life of both," ezolaimed the king, '% ^1 " Were with determined cruelty to bring ^ i*^}r '^f) Death unto one unjustly; and to give r( ■ Mercv to both, would bid a murderer live. '-^^r K' Seek ye their mother. She who closely twined ' " Their fate with hers can surer judgment find — « She who hath trained them, must the influence know I Which rage would hold o'er reason's ebbing flow.'*i*hfW And that unhappy mother was then brought )t>>v; .i'*ki Though the despair of frenzied anguish wrought A conflict which no language can express ^Krn'*^4*, From the deep fount of utter wretchedness. t With bursting sobs she faltered her reply — 't^hl ti/j .^^y^, " If I must choose, then, let the youngest die." i>M ttl ** And why so ?" asked the monarch. " He whose rest . Was lulled upon thy newly-widowed breast — ^ He who hath kissed thy tears of grief away, I 'fUQ-u--m^M. And ne'er forsook thee, whe • tue transient ray Bijf tr| if'^;i^i Of happiness was gone — ^he who hath clung ^*^'^* v-^mrM Alone to thee, and cheered thee with his young - And passionate affection — why dost thou Resolve to fling the dust upon Am brow ?' \i-iit t il! ' ^'''-S-- 252 THE STEP-MOTHER. 1 1 \' 1 1 II ¥ W^ " That he is mine," she bitterly replied, * * My only one — ^for I have nought beside. The eldest is not mine : he was the child Of him whose tomb is closed — the first who smiled Upon his father's face, who, when the thought Of death came o'er him, mournfully besought My anxious care for him. It lingered on His spirit's fading dreams, that with my son He would not share my love. I breathed the vow Which hath been kept most faithfully till now ;,}/ u 4 But, were my lips to doom him thus to die, ^i^lt iS* And on the judgment of my love rely. Maternal fondness would then triumph o'er The sacred promise I intently swore, wm cj»&^ #di ^ No, let him live, and let his father rest In the dark earth, with his sad last request '^i^^mj 'f^ As yet fulfilled." Here utterance was denied jw%ii5 With gushing tears. How fearfully was tried- How nobly was sustained — the rigid part, , ,| di^'^^t -■"If Assigning to herself a broken heart, j /j^*^^^/;' Sooner than break a promise which the grave Held in its bosom, her own child to save ! f V^ The king gazed on her, and then mildly said, ., ,,„j " Thou hast done well, and mercy sends thee aid. 4t)4|.r^| ■>> THE STEP-MOTHER. 253 Thy sons are pardoned I may they ever live As if they prized the blessing which I give. Take back the eldest of thy husband's line, For thou hast ransomed him by offering thine. Take back the youngest of thy bosom's love. Go to repose ; for as the frightened dove Seeks for its rest, so thy o'erburthened heart Will find it solace with its tears to part." ^' ;WWTO". «.'r* ..rt. i !.; '1 1 ■ : i The evening beauty of the starlit sky V| Gleamed on the bright pagoda, which the high ^^ And aromatic shrubs embowered. The breeze ^hook the myrrh fragrance from the balmy trees, When that rejoicing mother, in the shade . ; ,^ Of her low cabin home, once more surveyed Her rescued sons. Is not a mother's breast .|Ui(t A refuge for the weary and oppressed ? - \.^ Hath it not tenderness to welcome back The scorned of all beside, upon whose track ^^ Dwells the reproach of ignominious fate ? And mercy there contrition will await -r- * i Through long succeeding years. A mother's breast ! Oh I what a home is that for gentle rest ! ■v.^x^k And there the brothers gratefully reclined, ;*? On that fond bosom where such love was shrined* I HI SV. 'A I * it THE LONE CANARY. ^ ' On losing a canary, wMch had been received as a fift three days before, having prevlooflly pined for its maite. ' My gentle mourner, didst thoti pine ? My sweet canary bird, Didst thou iegf et that thoii hadst been From happier care transferred ? Didst thou rendetnber that hid voice Had lighter tones than mine, Whose pleasing song responded to The chirrupiing of thine ? Is Or didst thou grieve to be rettioved From that tall myrtle tree, Which, like a bower of foliage, spread Its glossy leaves o'er thee ? <-<*« ■■!'.4'-. THE LONE CANARY. 255 Or didst thou mourn for him, whose strain Thy tender bosom thrilled, With that sweet melody which is , In death's own silence stilled. The secret spring which bade thee pine For that remembered' tone, Hath lingered with thee, till thou hast With sorrow sought thine own. :ii ;#■««: M^ r'-L^h kky"- ^..■'.'V i nr>ii ^9'-0^OYi\Sf .-f^aO f>if]'/!Of«T- ».^ ■ t /L&> III .--1 • , ■■ft ^t m ' I , ;, -.'j--,- •' 1 ■■ ■V"'''"' ■■■ Th£R£ was a sound of woe» which seemed to waste Away the soul from which its anguish traced Its struggling agony. Oh I it was one Of earth's most desolate^ by whom that tone Of stifling grief was uttered. She might shed Sad, bitter tears, for they were for the dead — The idoi who the all of earth combined . , In the lone heart's deep sanctuary shrined. But, oh I can pictured woe, can language dwell On sorrow such as hers ? The coH dew fell From his pale brow ; the dim and settled glaze Obscured the brightness of his loving gaze Ere the truth dawned upon the one whose eye Had traced each suffering — who had lingered by shsif. m \ w THE FUNERAL, Ac. 267 ;il)! ite His couch with ceaseless vigil. When he pressed His white lips on her own, and faintly blessed Her he was soon to leave — and when his head Rested in failing strength — and when the dead Motionless lay, unfolding not the grasp Entwined so closely in its living clasp- When the dark eyes closed on that agonized And intense look, which in life idolized Had ever been — oh I then. Almighty God, Then was the strife to kiss Thy chastening rod. But the sweet lovely smile still lingered o'er The placid features, which in life they wore, As if his spirit was accepted, and Had sent its token from the future land ; For with the name of Jesus his last breath Had floated calmly through the vale of death. :^. ir,'!^ •yi^yt -" wusiii §Hrr^ ^4 .■'Ax* ••?.-;- ■ Pausing, and heavily, those footsteps fall, Which bear away the cherished dead ; the pall , Was thrown with melancholy rustling o'er ^^ ^yQ |^| The gleaming coffin, and the sword he wore v.irtr»R^ "^r^ Laid on the sable folds. This is the hour Of trying conflict, and the heart -^vTung power ^j, ^^^> ^^ Of blighting anguish ; and the mourner who •y^^.-;^- .^^1^ The utter misery of that moment knew — ' ' ' I >■*»(■■■ '■^- <«ll^j 268 THE FUNXRAL ■I ^>^A' I I' * J •s'l Without 01^ e earthly hope ; for she had been It Affianced unto soirow, and had seen ^ v A mother's love laid in the silent grave ^ &«tite mi ysM Of her far home, where Albion's Kik-'i *?es ware ; jft And listers' sweet affection, and the cat*} 'AI ; -J^i^lPK Of one dear brothei, left to moulder there. >4^ i jdw^lHti A stranger in a land where noi- one tie s^^* r)f&i^# Of kindred dwelt to biersd m sympathy, fn' '^ mf- $:h^ She hul no infant's kiss, wil*i i'a soft bidn?« tf ' iif's^^fett} The irdghty stniggling of her soul to f:alm* ^dt 7^3^ ^^k*!^' Bat leave ]>8r to her tears, and to her God i^s^^'>^^f^'^ Sh( with him soon will fest beneath the sod. ^uq m'.. Slowly and plaintively the requiem float»,t3l':f f«4f ia^e M^ Mournfully solemn are the funeral notes>l|i' odff '^31*^1^1 As the sad dirge's spirit grieving swell §te> fctf^ia^B fwll With the deep clarion and the parting kneL Their voices mingle, and the heavy snoW' ^rf #^^ tt«^ Wafts o'er its breast the dull drum's muffled woe, ^M^'^*^ Lulled on the wind. The deep) impi^s^ive tdfie 'tii'^i' Of manhood's grief was there. Not, riot i[ldii6 rf^^^% »lf ' Was the bereaved one*s sob : in the art^y » aij 3i<> frkVi Of glittering arms and honor's pageantiy, ?^f^^i$i'^t^ f: j The warrior's tear-drop fell ; fr e had b0e*i .|^#^^ ^ ' OP A VOLUNTEER OFFICER. A'i * 259 I ImU The soother pf affliction, where might leiit, ' ■ '^"^ -^^^ '^ In refuge, the oppressed. ^*r'*'' The orphan's cry '^^ ^^ And widow's moan would pass unanswered by *'^^'* ^"^ His silent tomb ; and when the dark damp mould Fell on the sounding lid, then utterance told Of sorrow till then hushed. Who may not weep To give such to the earth ? Who may not keep Record of such, and from the grave's lone place Recal a thought its shade can ne'er efface ?'r'^ .nmn^o^ And many wept ; and well might they lameiif ,' t*'*^^ *^%^' Deeply and fiaith&lly. Companions bent In bitter grief. But there were other tears — , ^^'"^ t'9''"^ w; Not shed by fHendship which the love dfyearff" ' ' "^ ^ Had fondly bound, nor gratitude's first claim — ■^j.^-^.f*^ No, they were alien tears ; for foemen came^' ^ '^'^- '^^. ^^r To weep around his burial place in woe. ' ;^? > Should foemen mourn to see the brave laid low ? — ,- To view the bright sword glittering o'er the breast Of the unconscious dead, borne to his rest By England's sons — the soldier's tribute paid By that proud legion who the war-worn blade HcVil evct sheathed in glory, and whose place ■ May wel* ^e known amid the burial trace :my^- 1;: 'j^r. '•^^ I 260 ' I THE VUVERALi *o. Of the renowned and mighty, who have sent Up from their dust a deathless monumeq^^ — , And these his martial bier suppprted ; yet The vanquished shed the tribute of regret. V>^i Ti"'.'* *? 'hrf. 'r;t\ Hush I bugle notes : the requiem hath been sung. ,^ ||^ . Float on, bright banner I thy folds have been flung .^^j, i^^y To the sepulchral breeze. With heavy tread, Companions, leave the mansions of the dead. ,^ *^^ ^^j^^j^.^^ g Fofemen, depart. The earth lays o'er his breast, |* ,*,;;' 1 The early dew hath soft tears far his rest^^^~. wi»^i,,^^ '" .*;?■'.'■ i Wave, dark dnes, wave, with glocmy murmuring wave O'er the sad stillness of the new-made grave. Mourner, look up, and gaze not on the sod,^ ifell I- "^'^ But be, in faith, submissive to (hy God. , ^^^fi-^^ -^ ' » I i. J".,t?-' »«?»*•;«■/ .■/•) i^f^. ■a; ti'm0^di^'^^^-'^-%'^'-^'^' '^'^^ ■ li :liMi ©li- ' i..,^.. -Vi .,^. .T^ :.J...^!__ THE MOURNER'S CONSOLATION. • I-. r«^i r«^l ir» ^^'i;*^' .^frfc* ..^•»i*«ft ** Come onto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and 1 will gire you Twt."—MatthetD xl. 28. ■ '^r''V •'-■■>- i". ■I**- "■*-:*■ \ ,'i-< W>:*. 4' ■ Weep, mourner, weep— 'jes, shed thy bitter tears. While from its fouQt the torrent gusheth free, f* ,,j^ jf^ { The Saviour's pity thy lone anguish cheers. Will He not still thy weary agony ? v,,,,^ ^ ^^ ^ Hast thou not cause for tears, bereaved one ? ' "| Where are the ties that thee to eaith may chain f Where— where is he thy love was poured upon ? . . . ^- The dust hath taken back its dust again. ^feteffg Jk Hast thou not seen the tomb its shadowy wings ,g. c?r aW Unfold o*er all of thine, and claim for death ^ _^ rtim 9^1? Those sorrow-undefiled, those sinless thit \ ^^^^ texfT Whose life had perished in their first-drawn breath B.j,,^^ Yes, mourner, weep* Thine are the tears of anguish-^ The gush of feelings deeply agonized — I > ■ \'. . 262 THE MOURNER'S CONSOLATION. I fm 9«apa'*^ Th« intense love) whose fervor may not languish, Though by the dead its strength cannot be prized. Weep, mourner, weep, that he hath been the shrine Of thr kiL' ! )•'. \„it's first worship. Now the sod Lays o'er the idol thou didst think was thine. Hath he not stood between thee and thy God ? Weep, mourner, weep, "^et thou art not alone : Thelre is a strength thy grief to sanctify. Though from this earth thy joy of life is gone, Yet sure the arm affliction to defy. Where is the Saviour ? Is He not for thee F''^^^^ Hath He not borne oiir sorrows ? and cfaiist thou Not cast on Him thy burthen ? Doth not He To the faint soul give rest ? The reed "mst bow When He hath bruised it ; but He wiW iWt strike '^ ' t The broken spirit, when the hope is given J» i^- Of peace through Him. Then, wherefore mourn so Kke ' A spirit exiled from the joys of Heaven ? ^^''^ " "' Weei . mouLiet, wc p ; but let thy sorrow b^ a no^L .^.^ The early mist which mercy's radiance ch^e^ts, ^ ^K'iuw That 'mid the gathc ed shfeaVes thy place may b¥ ff ^*'" Joyfully reaped, for ^^' ja hsfst sowti in tears. nt. '>i?M M ■ Tkl ::i| m$ lift'ML l^ii^ ^t..pa^.j%(iil^t^Vi') fJ'?r A-i' \ WJ^i' %, • 'V'V ;fl:'fej a/tr.; '•i>'>,,'5 ..iTWtt it^«iiJ..;i..lK/i:i, FAKEWELL TO MY HOME. il'^^ ' J./V •X *i enteretl Farewell I my home. And now I l^ave thee wkn a spirit tried '*.& ^^j Under the shadow of thy porch to dwell. i^^^^lQ Oh I thou wert mine in joy ; but now farewell ! '^^'^' '^^^'* Surely the flowers I cherished will now droop, 'h^- iini^%. And my tall elm's o'ershadowing branches stoop >fe 'siuCi Down to the earth : their buds will not expand f^te g aT With the cold nurture of a stranger's hand ; .-i^^diMW And the sweet music, by niy young birds sung, -X'^- The green getanlum's fragrant leaves among, '-*^^* ? 41) Is gone from thee. Well, well mayst thou be prized, '^U^ For in thy bosom I have realized 264 FAREWKI.L TO MY HOM£. The fairest dreams of hope. But I mcr-: go From thy loved roof — a wanderer. Who can know The changes of one moment ? But the chain Of fond affection cannot link again The broken fetters held by memory now, Of the devoted tenderness which thou ^^ Hast ever treasured. It is gone from thee, For my heart's i^ol Heaven hath claimed from me. I leave thee now, a lone, deserted shrine. And all within thee changed. What once was mine, Is not mine now. The stop that oft hath pressed Thy peaceful threshold, is gone to the rest)..^^, ^^. Of the deep, quiet grave ; and that sweet smile Which brightened all with hope, and could exile Aught of earth's doubting fear, is from thy hearth For ever vanished ; and our household mirth From thee hath passed. Now other voices sing Our songs of parted hours. How can I cling j^ ^^ . To a strange home ? I, like the drooping vine jj ftv^->(| Which o'er thee I first trained, neglected pine ^| rf*fW In griefs still loneliness, round thee — my home, ^, , u,rr Oh I there is one who hath his in the tomb, ^ ^ |i» But mine I have not yet, , |i^^ ji ;^/ ^^^^ ia I'i 5 FAREWELL TO MY HOMB. 266 u .i:..ix' *ft;' My wasting heart In the cold silence of his grave hath part. And longing to be there. Oh I what a void Id the young spirit's blighted love destroyed In its spring bloom of rapture. But farewell ! My pleasant home. Now none in thee may dwell Of all who with me smiled. We go forth hence ; And who can say there is not aught intense In that strange parting thrill ? as at my side My faithful dogs still watch the path I guide ^ Unto another home. We must depart, jj* |v)t?3**> I bear away the visions of a heart Still lingering here. And what a binding spell Death has dissolved I But, my loved home, farewell To thy familiar things, for now thy door ^^^^ . Hath closed on one it will receive no more, ^^^^jl^ J ' • f ■■■: '■■■■ .: , ^Mmm^^m^H'fl'^tm^i bim^M^; ^->^^:^•'f■^ f\\ u. U-.i li' V AFTES MCEIVING THE glcMSEN'if ^ ■■ •r^'js^^^^:^^ IN AFi-LicTiON. win i'^j"' f'*.rf'^,U« J^ Oh I it was as h yoiing aftd ha^py bride i ^Rnvi/^ J/^^r^^ That first, in sin*s humility, I knelt beside ^ '-^^^^M }{}■: That sacred altar of meek faith and trust, :^y'*' '''^ ^¥y And promise given, where no earthly rust i'''-^ ^^'iT Can enter and corrupt ; and I partook ^^ U! '^ ^21^ ^'^^'^ In trembling hope, for sin the reed then shook. Seeking that strength the Saviour can impart. To aid with energy the fednting heart, *' • My lips were moistened with the emblem flood Of His blessed body broken, and the blood Of Jesus crucified, poured forth to give Remission unto many who should live ^ ' In and through Him, whom He hath purified By His redeeming love, and sanctified a The sinner's penitence in him reposed With that deep grief to which He hath disclosed y^ t dl ii^ \i ■ ' :.^i^ i --..r : r .t THE SACRAMENT. His sure, unerring mercy — '* Urito Me Come ye who labor, and your rest shall be In everlasting joy." This cup He left, With His remembrance, when of Him bereft. And in His hallowed memory did I . I'^frnM^n^i, *^ Kneel at His altar ; and His agony jI "^^^ 4^tJt *^ Rose on my view — He who had come to take i^ii^^, „ • The burthen from the weary, not to break >'>' 'j*f ^ The reed which then was bruised — He who had been ^ For us a man of sorrows, and had seen i ^, , ^'■ The travail of His soul, when anguish drew Large drops of blood, when He, the Saviour, knew That He must drink the cup, and when the prayer Was offered to His Father, to prepare According to His will, and angels came From heaven to strengthen Him, He then the name Of His Great Father blessed and glorified — Him whom the world knew not, whose will was tried And now accomplished, ^rhen His chosen Son With His death struggle our deliverance won. And gained for man a holy rest above. With the last moaning of His dying love. Was it for me ? And was I fit to kneel Where laid those symbols ? — tokens to reveal ■n 'II \ X 1 r f\ I' ! i 1- n BiU I' 268 THE SACRAMENT. The body Woke for us, the blood which poured From t\ie deep wounded side, when oui blessed Lord Bowed unto death — His soul an offering made For our ains and transgressions. No : I stayed My weakness on His strength, and cast my sin All at the feet of Jesus, who, within i^ M^i^p- My spirit woke that thankfulness for all - '/ visfi 0#^^^^'^ The mercies God vouchsafed — the temporal a 'i%- v- ^a^ With the eternal blended. Now I go, i^iifdr ^im^l ^i?t A weeping mourner, and my voice of woe s^m a i;jj ti> ii Ascendeth unto Him. Oh I listen. Lord : > iytn^m ^rrt Let now my sorrow with my sins be poured >j| i ;;ii^r*ivl, Into thy breast of mercy ; for I trust 'i^h i^iu-ij^M ' :: . That no affliction cometh from the dust '■ S^^ ??> // But sent by Thee. And, with Thine own dear ^Son, >>A Hear me, our Father — let Thy will be done. '^ •;' mo/ • : - ..". . . .. . . .! , .., . '■J"' ^ ' ■ ■ ■' 'im^^-^^f'}^'^ r^m };f^'i% >h'!}ih.^U:fii'yy}p -r/rii mil. ' - ' ' . '■' ' - -. • '" . fi^ ' = -%'■ •■' ^mw \!^^^': rffhh ''farv- •jl'20*ii': ;^;jv';Ji. mli aii S-i ^;.\ /ni'fi ..-i^'tl-"'; V ■,"'^^'-Jr^ 'rr iL. -.ii^;- I ' ,'/ \ ■ Lord r •'' Son, y:;/, 'fl ■ \ \ ^.m ii% x^'fvjiw>ji;ii?% THE WILLOW. A willow, which had been planted as a sud memento ou the grare of a hat- band, three months afterwards presented half of its foliage entirely dead ; the other was in full vigor, covered with young leaves— a faithful token of tba •eparation which the widowed mourner laments. ir? WyrU'r. 'il.Siii.* K.v.(4 i,.\tfjk,l i ''■cho^oh j-"n'w '^;'ut? iirr Thou melancholy tree, " ?;iri i? i.tj -. How e^'ery leaf of thine - ; '^ Bears a sad record ! — thou that dost derive ^ ^- '• Thy nurture from the sod which mingles with ^^ The sacred ashes of the silent dead. -: Thy roots entwine around the mouldering clay ^ ■ Of him on whom my heart had poured the deep Idolatry of passionate affection, in the strength = ' ■- And intense fervor of an only love, >v|fVu ;iTs,v < • u Pervading every thought with vain excess Of fondly cherished feeling, which had anguish in Its very adoration ; for its fear would trace ''^*^ ' The shadow of the grave upon each look '^ •' Which seemed with sadness fraught. - x4 I '.ii'y \ -,( li 270 THE WILLOW. Oh ! I have gazed On his dark eyes' bright language, till my soul Seemod dreaming in the transport of its joy ; But the fair blossoms of my hope have sprung From hidden tears, whose secret fountain lay In the dim future hours. The snowy wreaths Of water-lilies, nourished by the stream, Are a sad emblem of their transient bloom. I did not think death could have veiled those eyes Till mine were closed. But I have lived to plant Thy moumfiil tribute o'er his narrow cell. And what a token art thou of 3ur fate I For part of thee hath perished. Did the words Wrung from mine anguish blight the leaves o'er which Their breath had wandered ? Was the tender sap Wasted benoath the burning moisture of My tears of agony ? Did they shrink from W ?r The widowed touch which placed thee here to droop In monumental woe, as something of this earth Still to call mine, invigorated from ' The mouldering relic of his dear remains ? Thou sad memorial, with thy branches which Have faded where the earliest sun-beams rise, ^*i»*v , i r " Ml, And those in shaded gloom are verdant as T • fJ Tl soul ung lay iths ►se eyes ) plant :r< /■\' *i,v:--^:i i ■ords ■ -^'Vi^ 5 o'er which der sap ^j^ t< i:, ! to droop rth THE WILLOW. 271 The spring's first tint. Thy new-borr foliage will I , Assume a darker hue, for it will be renewed / From the sepulchral mould ; and it may be That I shall rest with him, and mingle then With him in dust, where nought can alienate Or aught divide. Then will the breath be hushed Which waves thy leaves now with its mournful sigh — Then will the snow remain untrodden — o'er Our blended grave will no lone vigil keep The silent hour — the tender moss will not Be bruised with crushing steps. But when my spirit hath Burst from its bonds away, then wilt thou wave In solitary exile o'er the lonely tomb ; And the sad mystery of thy voice will grieve In murmuring requiem ; and the twilight st irs Will watch through thee ; and evening dews will fall With noiseless tears, and strew their glittering gems Upon our rest. Then will the mourner find h > Her last long home beneath thy tribute shade. J. STARKE AND CO., PRINTERS, MONTREAL. Mk^..