IRLF 
 
 MM 757 
 
THE 
 
 VISION OF CORTES, 
 
 OTIIKR POEMS. 
 
 BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, J*. 
 
 Charleston: 
 
 JAMES 8. DUROE8, 44 QTTE EN-STREET. 
 
 1829. 
 
t | * 
 

 TO 
 
 JAMES L,. PETIGRU, 
 
 This volume, the result of a few idle hours in 
 the intervals of business, is respectfully mayribed 
 
 fcy 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 912 
 
1 > ( " I v. . 
 
THE 
 
 VISION OF CORTES. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 If the lightning, in its wrath, 
 
 The waving boughs with fury ncathe, 
 Th nuimy trunk the ruin feels, 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 BTEOH 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following Poem was originally introduced 
 in one of larger dimensions on the subject of the 
 Incas, which I was wise enough to destroy. How 
 far I may have erred in permitting the following 
 fragment (for it is little more) to escape the same 
 fate, the reader, and not myself, will determiner 
 
THE 
 
 VISION OF CORTES. 
 
 1. 
 
 ONCE, and the gallant sword of Spain, 
 
 Oppos d the fierce invader, 
 Ere, in the Gothic(l) Roderick s reign* 
 
 Her own base son(2) bctray d her: 
 When freemen stood on hill and glade. 
 
 And blood gush d forth from fountains, 
 Where, gallant hearts, her ramparts made, 
 
 As firm as her own mountains! 
 And, conquerors of the tawnj Moor, 
 They seek new countries to explore; 
 Led by the luckless Genoese, 
 To lands, beyond undreampt-of-seas, 
 Lords of the soil at home, the brave, 
 With idle weapon*, crossM the wave, 
 Sanguine to reap in foreign lands, 
 Full guerdon for their steel-clad bands; 
 While high, to lead the way, they rear 
 The blessed cross, nor danger fcai d, 
 
8 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 While, base enthusiasts, it came, 
 A beacon light to death and flame. (3) 
 
 II. 
 
 The chieftain slumber d in his tent, 
 
 Thro* the deep midnight hour, 
 Enfeebled, for his strength was spent 
 
 In deeds of warlike power 
 The leader of the Spanish might, 
 
 Where sleep had stilly bound him, 
 Lay, ready nrni d for sudden fight, 
 
 But with no guard around him. 
 Twas he, that dared gainst free-born foe, 
 To win the wealth of Mexico! 
 On Chalco s height, Cholula s wall, 
 Ordain d not by his foe to fall, 
 The brave barbarian paused, to scan 
 The features of the giant man; 
 And, in his deeds of strength, his blade, 
 The lion-heart, that ne er afraid, 
 Lcap d onward; and where er he flew, 
 Bore unresisting Fate, to da 
 The savage purpose of a breast, 
 Where human feelings lay, reprcst, 
 Believed, as frighted back, he ran, 
 Some demon fill d the form of man. 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 
 III. 
 
 He had been toiling thro* the day 
 
 And, tho victory crown d him, 
 1 et, once its palm wos torn away, 
 
 As the fight thicken d round him 
 Onward, by Guatimozin(4) led, 
 
 Like gath iing clouds at even, 
 The children of the bright sun(o) sped, 
 
 To win the wealth of Heaven! 
 At once, the splendors of thy name, 
 Brave Cortes, darken d as they came; 
 One moment, sunk thy warriors back, 
 Before the torrent s thundering track; 
 One moment did thine eagle bend 
 His sunward gaze, r.nd downward tend; 
 And thou thy warrior steed o erthrown, 
 A victim, : mid the crowd alone, 
 Thy soldiers lost, and thine own blood, 
 Forth streaming, in impetuous flood, 
 Not even the chance remains to flee- 
 But that ic not a thought for thee.(6) 
 
 i 
 IV. 
 
 yow does their war-drum sound aJoud, 
 
 Upon their highest tower, 
 Since he, their god of war,(7) had bow d 
 
 The invader to their power. 
 
10 The Viswii of Cortes. 
 
 How rich the sacrifice must be, 
 Oh freedom, at thy altar shrine, 
 Where er thy blessed stars may shine, 
 Of tyrants instruments to thee! 
 Once more, the elated savage dream* 
 
 Of" life, laud, love and freedom; 
 And with the rush of mountain streams 
 Bids their young monarch lead era. 
 Exulting, came their numbers on, 
 To hail the triumph, more than won, 
 Since he, the Spanish chief, had bled, 
 And they, the Invincible, had fled! 
 He too, their nation s direst foe, 
 Whoso very presence augur d woe 
 Within their pow r ! what must be 
 The living throb within the veins 
 Of men, who long inured to chains, 
 Now strike at last for liberty. 
 The aspect of despair is cast, 
 The slave is free i free at last, 
 And like the unprisoned eagle, gaining 
 The lost ascent of clouds, where, straining 
 Each nervous pinion in the flight, 
 He bears him to the monarch light, 
 Freedom s own emblem, made for all, 
 Und/m d by cloud, unbent by thrall 
 The native light, so oft adored 
 In earlier hours, at last restored. 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 V. 
 
 Is this the sole reward of toil 
 
 The long tried toil of skill and power, 
 Arrested, in its marrh to spoil, 
 
 With the short conflict of an hour! 
 Is there no pride of nation none 
 
 Of all that chivalry, that stood, 
 Till life was lost, or triumph won, 
 
 While all the Guadalate ran blood! 
 Shall men, who drove tho sable Moor, 
 Forever, from their native shore, 
 Taught but to conquer or to die, 
 And in a school so fell and rife, 
 Forget their creed and backward fly? 
 That creed, which gives, in holy strife 
 A future for a present life; 
 And takes the cloud that dims our even, 
 To leave to truth, its own bright Heaven, 
 LnveiPd in its eternal light, 
 Before Mie true believer s sight 
 Where Houris gmile and raptures etrar, 
 To win the mortal coil away 
 Shall men thus taught to die, to dare 
 The worst of deaths, with hope to share 
 That heaven of heavens, which ever beama 
 Upon tae enthusiast s life of dreamt. 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Thus fly a savage race before, 
 
 AN hen Hruven itself upon them streams 
 
 Lose former fame, and win no more? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where are these thoughts to wring them now, 
 
 Where are the early hopes that fed them, 
 The Cross s light upon each blow, 
 
 That, like a tiro from heav n, once led them? 
 Dream they, before a conquering foe, 
 
 To fly successful, o er the waters, 
 Where, trembling with expecting glow, 
 
 Sit Spain s own sunny daughters? 
 DUdain wati in thn chieftain s eye. 
 Beyond the ire of battle high, 
 And, while his hoarse voice rung around, 
 More stirring than the trumpet s sound, 
 Bidding the brave again unito 
 In battle, with the unequal fight, 
 Upon his lip, scorn smiling played, 
 Derisive, of the tools he made; 
 And thus he spake, when, all in vain 
 He would renew the tight again. 
 "Now dastards, shall your flight bo dear, 
 That ye do battle, bo my care, 
 And if I fall, be yours to know 
 The stroke that fells me, lays ye low. ); 
 
The Vision oj Cortes. 13 
 
 Close by his Hide, forever near, 
 
 A boy, even to that chieftain dear, 
 
 Came as his page where foemen strike, 
 
 As in the courtly hall, alike. 
 
 Danger, nor toil, nor this last strait, * 
 
 This bosom twin could separate! 
 
 His feeling, time, nor change could dim, 
 
 Fear d by all else, yet loved by him, 
 
 To him he spoke "Boy, raise your lance, 
 
 God, send you good deliverance 
 
 This is a perilous hour for both, 
 
 Else now, our parting might be loth, 
 
 But, I remember me, your oath. 
 
 Drive your steel thro* your horse e neck, 
 
 There needs no spur, yet loose your check; 
 
 He ll leap the rank that girds us round, 
 
 And if he fail, repeat the wound 
 
 Then gain, if yet ye can, the sound. 
 
 There, ere these dastards may be seen, 
 
 Put fire unto the.brigantine,(8) 
 
 Or, guide her quickly from the shore, > 
 
 And seek your native land once more 
 
 My native land but not for me, 
 
 Without this day s cloud passes o er, 
 
 That native land again to see 
 
 Say not you have beheld them flj, 
 
 But, that youVc seen your chieftain die." 
 
14 The Vision of Corfe*. 
 
 VH. 
 
 He bows, but makes him no reply, 
 
 Then o er the heads of those surrounding, 
 His slight made jennet seems to fly, 
 
 Like deer o er western prairies bounding. 
 When, gudden from the forest s gloom, 
 
 Upon the broad savannah s breaking, 
 Compell d by inauspicious doom, 
 
 The traveller seeks a kinder homo, 
 The one, so loved in youth, forsaking. 
 Amid her enemies she springs, 
 Then sudden, as impell d by wings, 
 Convulsed by the fatal knife, 
 She leaps, and leaping, spends her life. 
 One glance the chieftain gives, and sees 
 The boy as free as southern breeze, 
 Unnoted, in the greater prize, 
 TVithin their grasp, before their eyes! 
 And, if perchance, his foemen by, 
 Beheld a tear drop nil his eye, 
 ? Twere less at this assurance known, 
 Than, that his followers were his own) 
 Compell d, as well as he, to make 
 A triumph of the very stake. 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 16 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He fights tho thickest of the fray 
 
 His steel hath broke their serried lance*, 
 And proudly now he stands at bay, 
 
 And not a foe advances. 
 "For country, freedom, monarch now, 
 
 On! Mexicans, nor cower 
 At one dark tyrant s vengeful blow, 
 
 Within your very power. 
 The temples of your Cods behold, 
 Rifled by bigot slaves, for gold; 
 Your monarchs, children of the sun, 
 Who gilds whatever he look* upon - 
 Lo! now, from rolling clouds of dun, 
 He rushes forth upon the skies, 
 To bid you to the *a> -fice. 
 Our fathers* dead their ample thrones, 
 Their graves, their palaces, their bones, 
 Whatever of sacred, good or grand, 
 Touch d by these slaves with impious hand~ 
 Strike for your dead if not to gain 
 Your freedom, strike and not in vain." 
 Their monarch speaks, and his, their cause, 
 Nor in the conflict do they pause, 
 But closing round the Spanish chief, 
 
 IllS HO HO. Of rkM/*UA 
 
16 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Yet still he strikes with giant blow, 
 The death of each adventurous foe; 
 Wild as the lion, circled round 
 By hunter s spear, he still is found, 
 Tho sinking neath repeated blows, 
 The sternest, savagest of foes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 One moment s pause he gains from fight, 
 
 A moment s glance he casts around hin } 
 Where, hidden from his followers sight, 
 
 The Mexicans surround him. 
 There is a triumph in his eye, 
 
 His lip exulting, curls in pride 
 And dares he dream of victory, 
 
 Without one warrior at his side? 
 Perchance, with high regard to fame, 
 And glorious memory deathless name, 
 He feels, that he, who bravely dies, 
 Surrounded by his enemies, 
 .In death, wins many victories! 
 But lo! what splendor dims the sight 
 
 Whence is that sky s unusual glory, 
 As when a volcau flames at night, 
 
 From some cloud-lifting promontory f 
 He speaks as in that curling tire 
 His soul hath won its fierce 
 
TJie Vision of Cortes. 17 
 
 And u stern joy upon his brow 
 Proclaims, oven death were triumph now. 
 
 X. 
 
 u Tia bravely done, ray trusty boy!" 
 The chieftain spoke unwonted joy, 
 Burst forth and kindled the dark eyo, 
 That witness d but his enemy, 
 With all a conqueror s exslacy! 
 "Oh! would yo seek your land, bravo menr 
 Why, seek it on that whirlwind, thon 
 For by my sword, your journey back. 
 Will find as perilous a track 
 There, in that bright, and eddying flame, 
 Your vessels went not as they came; 
 That blaze will lead to victory won 
 On! for the Cross and glory on." 
 Each eye was turned, where brightly rose 
 
 The cloud, that tiash d with sudden light, 
 While all the far horizon glows 
 
 With hues, tho dark, yot strangely bright; 
 A hideous glare on all around, 
 
 The yet ascending columns flew; 
 And Mexico in that hour found 
 
 Full many an omen direly true; 
 While, thro* the Spanish host, there went, 
 
 The enthusiast-spirit a voice of hcav n, 
 
18 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 And glad, as to a tournament, 
 
 The free bit to their iteeds was given. 
 "Ho! for the rescue, men of Spain, 
 Ho: tor the rescue, and regain 
 More than the brave can lose, and all 
 That still attends the warrior s fall, 
 Who proudly stems the opposing tide, 
 Your glory, and Hiitpania s pride!" 
 Thus o er the field the signal ran, 
 And with the sight and sound began 
 Each arm, and heart, and weapon true, 
 The glorious fray anew! 
 What can the savage chiefs oppose, 
 To battle of superior foes, 
 But rude, and ill-directed blows! 
 And Cortes name itself a hoet, 
 Regains the ground its owner lost 
 His giant form, conspicuous towering 
 Flies o er the field, like meteor lowering, 
 A light, whose brightest shapes, assume 
 A deeper fixedness of gloom! 
 What can arrest Aw path of blood, 
 Who, in his passion s fearful mood, 
 His very followers deem to be 
 Akin to the arch-enerav! 
 
The Vision of Cortes 19 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now is our time for triumph On! 
 
 Brave followers of the Cross, and be 
 The Heaven, ye seek for, more than won, 
 
 When thus we crush idolatry! 
 One triumph now, and future times, 
 
 With conquest perch d upon our brow. 
 Will half forget our many crimes, 
 
 In glancing o er our victory now!" 
 Tis Cortes speaks and on he loads, 
 The gallant to heroic deeds; 
 Superior skill, and more than all, 
 RccoverM from his sudden fall, 
 He rushes thro the retiring flood, 
 And wades, with charger, deep in blood. 
 But who is he that stands at bay, 
 Alone, and stems the advancing fray? 
 An Indian by his garb around 
 His brow, a golden fillet bound 
 Within, with many a gera, is set 
 A rich and sparkling coronet 
 Deserted by his trembling bands, 
 The royal Guatimozin stands, 
 And stems the current but what might, 
 Alone, and taught not well in fight, 
 
The Vision of Cortes, 
 
 Gainst veteran skill, can idly dare 
 Sustain the wide, unequal war! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The boy is at the Spaniard s side, 
 But all that warrior sees, is ho, 
 Who, firm amid the shrinking tide, 
 
 Would still be, as he has been free! 
 Curse on these slaves! twere shame to stain 
 
 My scymitar in such lowly blood, 
 But that my glutless soul can drain, 
 At every happy stroke, a flood!" 
 Thus from the savage soldier, fell 
 The grimly mutter d, sentence-knell 
 Not his to strike ignoble foe. 
 Till thousands, felt the single blow. 
 "Fall back and give them room to fly, 
 Tho there are still enough to die 
 And ye may keep your hands in play, 
 Till ye have hewn a wider way; 
 Then hem these lowly wretches in, 
 For me, there s braver spoil to win." 
 And with couch d lance and giant spring, 
 He battles with the Indian king, 
 One effort more, whose followers make, 
 The closing ranks of Spain, to break, 
 
Thr Vinon of Cortes. 21 
 
 Onn blow for liberty and life, 
 And all is o er, and h i*h d the strife! 
 The king i* on the field, his foe, 
 Above him, with descending blow; 
 Before the hapless monarch s eyes, 
 Swim round the crowd, and reel the skies. 
 But not with fate, like this, he dies! 
 The grim-brow d victor, to its sheath, 
 Retnrn d the blood-dvM steel of death 
 PausM for a moment, ere I e Dado 
 His followers Rtny the active blade, 
 Then turn d his eyes afar, where lay 
 The city walls, his destin d prey 
 Lcap d on his steed, and led the way. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The triumph is complete the foe, 
 
 Pouted, no longer seek the fight; 
 And thro the gates of Mexico, 
 
 They rush, as settles down the night! 
 Victors and vanquished and the din, 
 
 Shrieks of the dying, victor s cries, 
 With more than mortal turmoil, win 
 
 Ten thousand echoes from the skies. 
 Mad with the toil, the throng, the glare, 
 The glory, and the pomp of war*- 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Exulting in complete success, 
 The Spanish soldiers onward press 
 Among their foes, still numberless! 
 And ere the day is fully gone, 
 Mexico is lost and won! 
 
 XV. 
 
 What should succeed such victory ? 
 
 Why, wassailry, aud laughter, wine, 
 Shouts, songs from gallant chivalry, 
 
 And prayers at brute devotion s shrine. 
 Drunk with success the torches glare, 
 
 Now light the spacious walls, now throw, 
 Upon the silent river near, 
 
 A deadly and an awful glow. 
 The palace burns awake the cry 
 The palace burns the flames are high; 
 And each infuriate soldier, hands 
 Some ruddier, more vindictive brands; 
 Till in one awful blaze of light, 
 A rum in unnatural might, 
 It curls in billowy seas of fire, 
 Ascending in a smoky spire, 
 Till, toppling down, each heated wall 
 Is curved and bending to its fall 
 Tho catapult, and down it goes, 
 Heedless, over friends md foes; 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 23 
 
 A moment s silence and the rout, 
 Send up a mix d and giddy shout. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Will this appease the kindled souls, 
 
 Of those, who, mad with conquest, deem, 
 No land that blooms, no sea that rolls, 
 
 The proudest in enthusiast s dream,. 
 Tho bearing native dcmi-gods, 
 
 And born upon a lucky hour, 
 Can venture with the fearful odds, 
 
 Of their own wild, advent rous pow r! 
 The cry is forth the sleuth-hound wakes, 
 An appetite, that nothing slakes, 
 And what shall feed his fury s rage, 
 What, shall that appetite, assuage? 
 What, cool that fever in the brain: 
 Which reason seeks to calm, in vain 
 What, still that tempest in the breast, 
 That will not fly, and cannot rest? 
 Away for other victims bring 
 To sacrifice, a foe a King! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 They ve bound a monarch on the flame, 
 The iron, red-hot ribs are placed 
 
 Beneath hit form, whom crime, nor shame, 
 Nor human failing e er debased. 
 
24 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 And Cortes stands above him now 
 
 A demon * fury in his eye, 
 While calmness, on the monarch s brow. 
 
 Bespeaks a fearful apathy. 
 "A captive, and a nation s king! 
 If thou wouldst plume a freer wing, 
 Go, bid thy followers quickly bring, 
 The splendors of thy favour d land, 
 Without delay, with lavish hand 
 The gold, the wealth that decks your halls, 
 The solid silver of your walls, 
 At once pour forth to greet our eyes, 
 Or, thou shalt fall the sacrifice, 
 For, thut to idol gods thy knee, 
 Is bent in low idolatry, 
 And not to him by whose command, 
 We come to purify your land!" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There s a splendour neath yon cloud, 
 
 Ye may see the ray of light, 
 Like a spirit from its-shroud, 
 
 Bursting on the gazer s sight! 
 On the outer edge, like gold, 
 
 How it shadows still the dense, 
 And ruffm d vestment * tvn) ibid, 
 
 W ith u high magnificence. 
 
The Viswn of Cortes. 25 
 
 So on Guatimozin s brow, 
 
 Gleam d his scorn s unnatural glow. 
 
 Shining on his sullen mien, 
 
 Like th<! moon, with silver sheen, 
 
 On the snblc robe of night, 
 
 Edging it with wavy light 
 
 And his accents flow in scorn, 
 
 Tho upon the engine torn. 
 
 "Greedy adventurer, dar st thou say, 
 
 Thy Gods have sent thee forth to prey 
 
 With tiger lip, upon the brave, 
 
 W h< se land, by thee, is one wide grave, 
 
 \V here sleep her murderd sons, her king, 
 
 Each brave and generous living thing, 
 
 Till all around is dark and foul, 
 
 And made even fit for thee, to prowl, 
 
 As hcnds in kindred darkness, when at night, 
 
 They move, lit only by hell s sulph ry light! 
 
 Seek st thou the yellow ore, the spoil, 
 
 For which, thou st borne uncounted toil, 
 
 Worthy, in better cause, to claim, 
 
 More than thou hast, or cravest, fame? 
 
 Then know thy labour needless well 
 
 I knew, this furniture of hell, 
 
 Had been thy sole regard and when 
 
 t drew to head my gallant men, 
 
Tlie Vision of Cortes. 
 
 At the high city, ncath its wave, 
 Our coffers found a ready grave; 
 There with its yellow sands, our gold, 
 Thro distant nations shall be roll d, 
 Glad poverty, destroy disease, 
 And lend the needy, life and ease, 
 But never shall delight thine eye 
 With its rank, baneful luxury. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then grew the Spaniard s brow more deep, 
 
 More deadly in its swarthy hue; 
 And passions, tho they might not sleep, 
 
 Were silent to the view! 
 He would have hearken d not the tale 
 
 The spoil, so cherish d, sought for, lost: 
 And what to him would now avail, 
 
 The labour, blood and wealth it cost. 
 k Thou hast not dar d to spoil the shrines 
 Where all thy gold and silver shines; 
 That wealth to idols consecrate 
 Or^fly, ere yet it be too late, 
 And drag the river, gallant men, 
 And your reward shall meet ye then. 
 Thou savage, that hast cross d my path, 
 Hast won, and now shall leel my wrath; 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 27 
 
 It was thy lot, or good or ill, 
 To stay the progress of my will, 
 Protract my spoils, by idle war, 
 That could not win, and did but mar: 
 Now flhalt thou feel, to cross the pow r 
 Of triumph, in expectant hour, 
 Is but to win, or slow, or fast, 
 The vengeance that must come at laat." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Bound on the flame with look ns calm 
 
 As conscious peace and quiet bliss, 
 The monarch s robo, the victor s palm, 
 
 Were, men and nations, toys to this. 
 And not a shrinking start, nor sign, 
 
 Of mutterM anguish, hidden, deep, 
 Proclain.s that he, of all his line, 
 
 Hath been the first, with pain/ to weep. 
 As calmly as in peaceful bow r, 
 As proudly as in robe of pow r, 
 As haughtily a* victor, now 
 Is Guatimozin s royal brow. 
 Beside him, on a kindred bed, 
 Of burning steel, with faggots fed, 
 His fa YOU rite turns, in agony 
 Upon his chief, his dying eye, 
 
2S The Vision of Corte*. 
 
 As if to ask, from idle pride, 
 What it had heretofore , denied! 
 The monarch read his servant a thought, 
 And while his high-born features caught, 
 A part of that enthusiast flume 
 Devotion feels, but cannot name, 
 Rrbuk d him with a srailc, exclaiming 
 His mounting-spirit, nothing taming, 
 Of its renewed and holy powers 
 "Do I repose on flowers. "(9.) 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He died what boots it how, to name, 
 
 But, with the Spaniard, rest* the shame- 
 
 And if, as distant tales have said, 
 
 The martyr on his fiery bed, 
 
 Spoke forth a fearful prophecy, 
 
 Of fate, unto his enemy 
 
 Then, do I ween, the curse was sooth, 
 
 Since after-time, hath proved its truth, 
 
 And age on age hath puss d away, 
 
 And memory of the fatal fray, 
 
 Itself grown dark, and yet the bale 
 
 Of that deep prophecy and tale, 
 
 Hangs o er the race, the name, the land, 
 
 Of that fierce , base and murderous band. 
 
Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Nor, can their very nation break, 
 The fearful doom, and rise, and wake! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The monarch died his people fell 
 Beneath the fetters, ImkM too well; 
 And Freedom, led by Ignorance, 
 Tho seeking oil to burst the spell, 
 Ne er found complete deliverance. 
 In Mexico the victors rept, 
 A hated, fear d, unsought for guest, 
 On laurels, which, no longer white, 
 Shed purple blood-drops on the sight. 
 And silence reigns, where nought it 
 Ambition sleeps not men may cease 
 Their path of violence and blood, 
 But only want tho fretful mood, 
 Of greedy avarice, or the thirst 
 Of that supremacy accurst, 
 Which perils honest pride and name, 
 And finds, at best, a doubtful fame. 
 Does Cortes slumber in hia tent, 
 Now that the force of war is spent, 
 And freemen feel their chain* no more. 
 Or feeling, dare not, well deplore, 
 The IOM of birthright prized of yore 
 As if thy pure and sacred glow, 
 4 
 
30 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Freedom, was meant for things so low. 
 Say, does he slumber is his sleep 
 Quiet and grateful, as the deep 
 Refreshing slumbers of the brave. 
 Who spill their blood on land and wave, 
 Opposed to a despotic throne, 
 At Freedom s sacred call alone? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Tis the mid hour of night the lamp 
 
 Is burning on a table near, 
 Silence is o er the Spanish camp, 
 
 A silence of mysterious fear. 
 And Cortes sleeps upon a bed 
 
 Rough for a monarch, not for him, 
 Who oft-times found a peasant s shed, 
 
 Most meel for each athletic limb? 
 Or, on the roughest peak has lain 
 His giant bulk, and may again, 
 In far more quietude than now, 
 W r hen victory twines around his brow, 
 The wreath of triumph and of blood, 
 So sternly sought thro wild and flood. 
 No! by the dark and furrowy frown, 
 The lip compress d, and mutter d groan 
 The writhing of that sinewy frame 
 The sudden burst of well known name 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 31 
 
 From gnashing teeth, long taught to hide 
 
 The waking thought in garb of pride 
 
 The tossing of the giant limb 
 
 The aspect madden d, startling, grim 
 
 The close observer may behold, 
 
 What, seldom yet, the tongue hath told, 
 
 A story, from the lips apart, 
 
 The demon gnawing at the heart? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Fear hangs upon him like n spell 
 
 A deep, oppressive, deadly weight. 
 He speaks his tones are like the knell 
 
 The penal tones of fate! 
 lie starts cold dews are on his brow, 
 
 His hair s erect his eye-balls glare, 
 And strange, unmeaning accents flow 
 
 From his cold lips, to empty air! 
 A pray r is on his lips a pray r, 
 The first, perchance, heard ever there; 
 And audible, but half suppressed 
 Accents of fear are in his breast 
 He calls on Heav n on God on all 
 On whom he once disdain d to call! 
 On all whom, once, in victory s pride, 
 The impious wretch had dar d deride, 
 And corn d the very book, his bands, 
 
32 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Had vow d to bear in foreign land*, 
 The manual of the simple race, 
 Who, born not yet to light or grace 
 Ill-fortune render M to the sway, 
 Of savage, Ices refinM than they. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A spirit stands before him on the night, 
 Thut now, beneath its presence, grows to light - 
 Vapours surround it darkness wraps its brow, 
 And makes it into shadowy hugeness grow 
 While silence seems to stand, even visible, 
 As the dark soldier cowers beneath the spell. 
 And starts with shuddering horror to behold, 
 The Indian monarch now before him, cold 
 And chilling up his blood, into a dense 
 And creeping mass, of agony intense 
 He moves not speaks not ev ry muscle s boui 
 Beneath the dead weight of the presence rouni 
 His eye-balls starting from their sockets, scene 
 The only living agents in that dream, 
 Tho not a portion of his form, but finds 
 Some atom, of that terrible sight, that winds 
 Thro* ev ry pore and secret artery, 
 Making the curdling blood creep sluggishly 
 God! what a groan of living death now break; 
 From his broad chest, as slowly he awakes. 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 3tf 
 
 XXVI 
 
 He wakes, and in the dimness of that waking, 
 He deems the fearful dream and spectre, gone; 
 And laughs and trembles, ev ? ry fibre shaking 
 While, from his giant form, the long breath break- 
 Relieves the almost suffocating spell, i m g> 
 That wrought upon him like a pang of hell! 
 And should the fearless champion be overthrown, 
 By idle fears, and shadowy things unknown? 
 He is again himself and stands alone 
 At least so deems ho till his sight more clear, 
 Reveals the horrible visitant more near 
 Before him, standing in the garb he wore 
 Upon the bloody field, some hours before: 
 The light, the living light of life, was gone, 
 He stood, a form of life, but made of stone; 
 Moving no muscle, working no wand ring look 
 Or glance, by cv ry thing of life forsook 
 A ghastly whiteness o er his features spread, 
 Confirmed the fearful aspect of the dead 
 His sunken eye alone, had shook the soul, 
 And then so fixed, as if unmeant to roll 
 So glaz d, and glistening, as in that short time, 
 The worm had claim d iu own, and left its slime, 
 \nd foul d the god-head s promise of high sway, 
 With putrid taint, and loathsomeness, and clay! 
 
.34 The I lsion of Cortes. 
 
 Ynd, in that fearful moment of suspense, 
 Which lost, yet wrought to agony, each sense, 
 Upon the warrior s hand, like blistering Hume, 
 That drove and dried tho blood, as there it came 
 The spectre s long and bony finger fell 
 Jlemov d not thence, and resting as a spell 
 That bound the victim in its -x>il of fear, 
 And froze and burnt, alternate and severe 
 Transfix d by horror, as at first he stood, 
 The warrior gaz d, with thick and curdled blood, 
 Nor spoke, nor strove to speak, nor raisM the hand 
 So wont to fearful strife and fierce command, 
 Hut all impassive, near the Indian king, 
 He grows a cold, unrieaniog, living thing! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The monarch-spectre spoke not in his look, 
 There was a speech his stern lips never spoke, 
 Commanding, from the living warrior s frame, 
 As ductile neath its influence, and as tame, 
 As any worthless thing we may not name, 
 That he should follow and with silent tread, 
 He led the way, and swiftly onward sped, 
 Conqueror and victim now no more the bold 
 And desperate soldier, but a form as cold, 
 And unresisting, in its task of pain, 
 As if all life had fled from ev ry vein. 
 
The Vmon of Cortes. 35 
 
 Night clos d around thorn, as the city s walls 
 
 Grew into shticic behind their own footfalls 
 
 Only arousing Silence, for a pause, 
 
 In rapid dream, to spirit out the cause 
 
 Of interruption, in his dim abode, 
 
 Where sleep, fatigued, continual, throws the load 
 
 Of his o erburthen d frame, and, with his eyes, 
 
 Thousand in number, seeks for, and espies, 
 
 Among hin visions, shadowy histories! 
 
 They strode among the slaughtcr d men, who died, 
 
 The past day, both before and at their sido, 
 
 There, pil d in silent heaps, inanimate [fate 
 
 They fought like brutes, and won a wild-beast s 
 
 And as they strode, uncertainly, and still, 
 
 The moon uprose behind a grim-facM hill, 
 
 And look d, with strange smile on the fearful sight, 
 
 That grew more horrible beneath her light 
 
 Passions, not yet extinct, were still expressed 
 
 On lips, that tell the struggle of the breast, 
 
 The innate war with death, the foeman s strife, 
 
 The shrinking, shuddering, from the fatal knife, 
 
 And love of turbulent, but valued life 
 
 And Cortes shrunk, that never shrunk before 
 
 There lay a fav rite captain in his gore, 
 
 His tongue lapt o er his teeth, which in the last. 
 
 And fearful struggle, while bin spirit past, 
 
30 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Had torn it half in twain, and there it lay. 
 In dust and blood, that shouted yesterday, 
 In all the lull expressiveness arid glow 
 Of hearts, that see but happiness below. 
 And many faces saw they, that he knew, [dew, 
 Turn d upwards to the hcav ns glist ning with 
 That fell like sweet drops of an April rain, 
 Or. taintless pearls upon the crimson plain, 
 As if Micro had been mercy for the slain! 
 
 XXVHI. 
 
 Why does the Spaniard start? Before him lie? 
 The boy his fiiv rite page the sacrifice 
 To his ambition for his life and fame, 
 And here, till now, forgotten to his shame! 
 More pale and tender made by death, his cheek 
 Now wore a spirit s whiteness while a streak 
 Fine and quite pure,scarce trickling from the wound 
 Proclaimed the death, yet gentle, that he found. 
 No bruise, nor savage blow, from rugged knife, 
 Had taught the parting pangs of death, to life, 
 But tender-seeming, as himself, the blow 
 Was Kiich, as might not well have come from foe. 
 
 And what docs Cortes, at the sight 
 Of that devoted martyr boy 
 
 Can aught of triumph give delight, 
 In presence of that deep alloy? 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 37 
 
 Such high devotedness end truth, 
 Might sure have won a better lot; 
 
 Such firmness in unshaken youth, 
 And courage, love, and all forgot? 
 
 And ever thus, while time shall be, 
 Ambition, blinded by the sun, 
 
 Throughout its flight, can never see, 
 
 Aught but the orb it looks upon! 
 He wrung his hands in anguish clasp d his brow, 
 And to his face, came back the swarthy glow, 
 A native there revenge, and thirst of blood, 
 And all the fearful demon of his mood 
 Yrt, he knelt down, beside the delicate form, 
 That seem d a lily, broken by the storm, 
 Along with stronger ruins; and with hand 
 Of fond enquiry, sought to gather much 
 Of hope and comfort from the passionate touch, 
 Where the nerves trembled, free from all command. 
 And for a moment thought he, life was there, 
 And laugh d in his fierce joy but cold despair, 
 Followed the first expression of delight, 
 As moons are swallow d up, by cloud?, at night! 
 The savage soldier wept, or seem d to weep, 
 For once, with sudden, and impetuous sweep, 
 As if disdaining aught of sympathy, 
 He brush d his rough hand o er his wintry eye: 
 But yet, reluctant to depart, he stood 
 6 
 
38 T/tc Vision of Curies. 
 
 Awhile, beside the form, in musing mood, 
 Then hastily displacing the steel band 
 That held the boy s cap, underneath his hand, 
 Ho tore the cap aside long, streaming hair, 
 Iteveal d, too well, the dead girl sleeping there. 
 In peace, at last in peace, too lately known, 
 And only found, and felt, when ever gone. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He hastily strode on an if he sought 
 
 To lose the lingering traces of that thought, 
 
 Which, like the ocean, settling from a storm, 
 
 Hath still a fearful wildness on its form! 
 
 They reach d n plain before them, rose on high. 
 
 Dark Acapulco(lO) frowning to the sky, 
 
 Like mounting battlements, by demons set, 
 
 To reach the glorious heaven, they grieve for jet 
 
 But where is he, that chill and fearful guide? 
 
 No longer moves he by the Spaniard s side, 
 
 And, all alone upon the bloody plain, 
 
 Girt by the gloomy spirits of the slain, 
 
 Who wake the night winds from their ocean lair 
 
 To waft their shr.eks of agony or fear 
 
 He stands alone when past that spirit shade, 
 
 Nor rous d a bretth of air, nor shook a blade, 
 
 Or drop of dew from off the bended grass, 
 
 Sn Htlpnt mi/1 art -jiu /ion t\te\ hf* nnaat 
 
The Fi*t0n of Cortes. 39 
 
 And colder grew the spirit, in the breast 
 Of (hat fierce warrior, struggling, but represt 
 And fate-led, back his footsteps he retraced, 
 To that broad plair., with purple laurels grac d, 
 And, from among the dead, with gentle arm, 
 As if it trembled to displace one charm, 
 Of fearful, but sweet beauty given by death, 
 "Which seem d to sleep upon her lips like breath, 
 Nor froze the silk of one wind-shaken curl- 
 He rais d the lifeless form of that young girl, 
 And, with strange care, he bore her from the spot, 
 So mark d by death, with indiscriminate blot; 
 And laid her down upon the swardy bed, 
 Supporting on his arm, her drooping head, 
 While with a strange, unconsciousness of care, 
 His fingers waoder d idly in her hair, 
 As they had long been taught to wander there. 
 Thufl, at the morn, by anxious followers, found 
 The savage chief, re DOS d upan the ground 
 Nor srail d nor spoke but musingly, he bade, 
 By sign, that they should straight remove the maid, 
 From off the fatal field DOT sigh d to part, 
 With her, that hung, like life-Wood, round his heart. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And knew he now, in that tad hoar, 
 When death had pror d hw fearful 
 
40 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 . And Love, that conquers every foe, 
 Had sunk beneath his fatal blow, 
 How much the heart had been his own, 
 Won only, when forever gone. 
 A boyish joust in courtly Spain 
 A time he would not see again, 
 Tho pleasure then absorbed all pain 
 He felt the force of those dark eyes, 
 And, for the lover soon espies, 
 He hll d his own with mute replies. 
 What boots it now, to tell the tale, 
 Of hapless love, and hopeless wail 
 To chide the beggar Fortune, now, 
 That ecorn d the dream, and broke the vow; 
 Time, while it robs away each hope. 
 Can never, well with memory cope; 
 And love that scorns oblivion yet, 
 Can never, where it sigh d, forget. 
 Immur d in cold, conventual walls, 
 The tear of hidden maiden falls; 
 And not the regimen of pray r, 
 Nor ul) the deep seclusion there 
 And not the penance, creed, or vow, 
 ForcM on a heart that could but bow, 
 And perish neath the unerring blow, 
 Could thrust aside the pleasant pain, 
 That neither heart shall know again* 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 41 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Years had pass d by, and he, she lovM 
 
 By absence, and by time repiovM, 
 
 For men forget, where women sigh, 
 
 And rove, when fruiler spirits die 
 
 By high, adventure wrapt, and won, 
 
 Upon the distant seas had gone 
 
 And so had filPd the stirring time, 
 
 \Vith scenes, perchance, of blood and crime, 
 
 That, thought of her he left behind,- 
 
 Not often stole upon his mind. 
 
 No pleasant changes in her lot, 
 
 Had haply made him thus forgot 
 
 Alas! already, much too deal, 
 
 His name was ever in her ear, 
 
 For he had d^elt in fields of fight, 
 
 And kept his fame so oft in sight, 
 
 That the faint flame of early days, 
 
 Had burst into a mighty blaze 
 
 And love, with newer powers allied, 
 
 Beheld the hero s form with pride. 
 
 How could that innocent girl refrain, 
 
 From love of him, whom, all of Spain, 
 
 Beheld the first among the great 
 
 She lov d, admir d, and bow d to fate! 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 One hapless hour deem d happy then, 
 
 She found unbarr d, her prison-grate; 
 The keeper of that fearful den, 
 
 Withdrawn she did not hesitate! 
 A moment gave her freedom gav<?, 
 To he the rest of life, a slave; 
 For, what is slavery, but to be 
 
 Dependant for the spirit s life, 
 Upon the will of those not free! 
 
 She sought him out in fearful strife 
 A page s garb, her pass became, 
 And, with a ready change of name, 
 Suspected not, she won his ear, 
 His heart if heart could still be, where 
 Sat Pride, Ambition, Avarice 
 To the.e, must love bo sacrifice! 
 It was her fate, and so she bcw d, 
 And mingled with tiie menial crowd; 
 But ever, in the fearful hour, 
 When trumpets sound, and war-clouds IOWT. 
 However fierce did war betide, 
 That ready page was by his side; 
 And sealM without reprnarh, the vow, 
 Kept to the last, and caricel d now! 
 
The Vision of Cortes. 43 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 She died, a martyr to tho love, 
 Descended from, return d above; 
 Untainted in her purer form, 
 That, like the moonbeam in the storm, 
 Tho swallow d up, by clouds of ill, 
 Was a rich, precious moonbeam still! 
 
 Oh, never more 
 
 Shall blight of sorrow fall upon that hea^t 
 Nor, tear thro 1 that repressed eye-lid start, 
 Nor heart s affection from its birth-place part k 
 
 For all is o er 
 
 Of trial and long suffering, and the pain, [brain, 
 That, worse than all, hangs on the o erburthenM 
 Too much dependant on the spirit s choice, 
 
 To utter forth a voice! 
 A voice of reason, still to love, a foe, 
 Too sternly dashing out, with sights of wo, 
 
 And tones of truth, 
 
 The picture lines of youth! 
 She died for him she loved her greatest pride, 
 That, as for him she liv d, for him she died! 
 
 Make her young grave, 
 
 Sweet fancies, where the pleasant branches lave, 
 Their drooping tassels in some murmuring wave. 
 And ye, incredulous! believe not, faith, 
 
44 The Vision of Cortes. 
 
 Thus warmly kept through life, and prov d in (let 
 Avail d not, nor was valu d by the breast, 
 
 Whose spirit thus it bless d 
 No! he she perish d for the high-nurst fume 
 Perch d with an eaglet s pinion on his name 
 
 And sunny Spain 
 Valued his worth, and with his honours gave. 
 
 Neglect and shame,(ll) 
 Reward of all, who labour for the blind 
 
 His warped mind 
 SighM for the Indian valley, where the maid 
 
 His boyhood lov d, was laid 
 And, tho his pride of heart allow d no trace, 
 Of his soul s sorrow, to o crcloud his face, 
 
 He never smiPd again! 
 
CAIN. 
 
 A SCRIPTURE POEM. 
 
 "What is strength, without a doable share 
 
 Of wisdom? vat , unwieldy, burdensome, 
 Proudly secure, yet liable to fall, 
 By weakest subtleties," 
 
 SAMSON AOOKISTKI. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following IB the projected introduction to 
 a Poem of some length, upon the subject of Cain. 
 Its continuation depends entirely upon the recep 
 tion) which the present specimen, may meet with 
 from the public. The oart here gi?en, will form 
 the first book. 
 
CAIN. 
 
 SPIRIT, that to the mighty of old time-** 
 When men were giants, little less than Gods, 
 And sole omnipotent, to earth s known end, 
 Whether in arms, or in the sciences; 
 That taught the knowledge of the vast unseen, 
 And pruned the tree of thought, too free. 
 Luxuriant, in its first-born, wild excess 
 Didst lend the power, and living energy, 
 That made them, spite of rough discourtesy, 
 And rude adventure of the boorish time, 
 Give themselves to the spirit of true thought, 
 And in the mountains, or the bladed fields, 
 Or in the shadow of the desert, made, 
 Remote from the intrusion of the world, 
 A home for higher converse I implore, y^ 
 Celestial, thy proud aid and confidence, 
 That to ray theme so lofty, I impart 
 A something of the tone that should belong 
 To song adventurous: after him, who sang 
 
48 Cain. 
 
 Him, whose dim eyes, bent innerward, beheld 
 The God that was within him, blind beside 
 I may not tread unaided, nor attempt 
 The golden tenor of that holy harp, 
 That spake in the proud voice of prophecy, 
 And mingled with the mandate of the Lord, 
 Unearthly melodies, that gave the waste 
 Perceiving sense, and won the midnight car 
 Of silence down, upon th attentive world. 
 Spin*, the parent of secur d success, 
 Be with me now, and on my argument, 
 Simple, from thee majestic, be bestow d 
 The triumph thou didst shed on it of old! 
 
 The earth was now a garden summer had grain 
 The fields with yellow riches, and the trees, 
 Bent with their redden d off rings, to the ground. 
 A smile was over all the sky was till d 
 \\ ith a fair countenance, and on the earth, 
 A pleasant shade was cast, and the sweet beam 
 Of the young morning had embraced it all, 
 Till it grew palpable to touch and taste, 
 And gloried in its freshness and its calm. 
 Eden, with all its wealth, not ail den.ed 
 To ilie lone exiles, who had pitch d their tent*, 
 IV ith sorrowful hearts, not far remote the spot 
 They hud so blindly forfeited and lost 
 Repenting all too lute, of the deep crimo 
 
CViiii. 49 
 
 That, to succeeding ages must enure 
 In punishment, without the pleasant sin, 
 Which brought them down, the penalty, not their?, 
 Save in endurance. Eden, the lost, still rose, 
 While all was turbulent passion in their hearts, 
 Remorse and sobbing grief, deep, but not loud, 
 And lute Repentance, sorrowing o er the past, 
 In a sweet calm while Night, with sable plume, 
 Frown d black upon the wanderers, and spread 
 His wings between them, and the sweet heart-home, 
 Fair birthright, they had bargained off, for tears 
 As if to shut them from the long, last look, 
 That Innocence would cast upon its home, 
 Endcar d by all that youth can conjure up, 
 Y -t not surpassing what indulgent heav n, 
 Had, from the boundless measure of its wealth, 
 Portion d, in kindness, to the first born man! 
 Sweet earth! what other spot of earth shall be 
 Like that of childhood? where it first grew up, 
 And spoke its first entrancing melodies, 
 And pluin d as gently as the delicate leaf, 
 Ruffled by rude October. Where its sports 
 Were first familiar with the scene of play, 
 Its very trees remembered, and its leaves, 
 Familiar as cool garments, loosely thrown 
 Between it and the ever-piercing sun- 
 Poor tokens, which the heart may never bear 
 
50 Cain. 
 
 Along with it that in its lonely hours, 
 
 When all the past, like night -winds, slowly com* 
 
 Back to the recollection and the sight, 
 
 It has no tangible token, it may touch, 
 
 And feel its sympathy rejoin d by tone 
 
 Of some thing kindred as a wak ning string, 
 
 Of sweet harp-voicing, brings the madman hom< 
 
 To reason, and fair quietness, and peace. 
 
 And they have bade adieu a long adieu 
 And who can bid adieu, to all its joys, 
 Its home of childhood, and the cottage floor, 
 And the broad tree, that overhung with shade, 
 And canopied the bank, whereon the breeze, 
 Won by fresh odours of the innocent wild, 
 Came down and rested the sweet rude repast, 
 And fresh ripe fruits, spread out unconsciously, 
 Pluck d from the tree overhead, and simply plac d 
 Before the eye, creating appetite, 
 Uncharged by dainty preference, nor taught, 
 By coarse satiety, to seek for aught, 
 New, as provocative, but simply rude, 
 In no profusion, spread before the eye, 
 But, by the providential care of God, 
 Still un-decreasing, howsoe er consumed. 
 Oh! are all these forgotten can they lose 
 These blessings of their birthplace, and the joy? 
 Of that superior clime, so near the home, 
 
Cain. 51 
 
 And dwelling place of peace, and joy, and Hea? 
 Lose all the promise of the morn the dream, 
 Shed by the poppied tree, whose leaves bestowed 
 The couch, whereon, at noontide sultriness, 
 From the sharp, brazen arrows of the sun, 
 They alumber d thro the hour can they forget, 
 The all, that Age remembers of its youth, 
 Vet weep not? Did they weep the weary, lost, 
 The hco upon the desert, fearing much, 
 That in his uttermost extent of wrath, 
 He, they had so offended, had withdrawn 
 The hand of his protection, and no more 
 LookM on them as his children, nor bestow d 
 The presence they had pet at nought, but gave 
 Their fortunes to themselves, and they alone, 
 Upon a desart with no succour near- 
 Eden shut out from sight, and Night with brow, 
 Cloud-mantled, and with many storms enwrapt, 
 Between them, and their lately-lost abode 
 Before them, an impenetrable vast, 
 Unknown, and undiscovered, curs d and detd, 
 And fruitful only, from the dropping sweat 
 Of browt, accustotn d to a canopy 
 Of pleasant breezes, unfatiguing light, 
 Fair colours, not to dazzle, but delight, 
 And nothing ruder than a cherub s wing, 
 To fan the sunset tangles of the hair, 
 
5^ Cain. 
 
 Now doom d to droop with moisture, wrought by tc 
 From hard endurance, bitter felt fatigue, 
 As all unknown deep and excessive heat, 
 Chilling, and wintry breezes, and the wind, 
 That lifts the desert s sands, and kills the waste. 
 A fiery ocean, tempest-wing d and dread. 
 
 Oh ! did they weep ? Look on them, an they beud 
 The woman, with her hand above her eye, 
 And outstretched neck, and arm around the tall. 
 And manly form beside her. He, with hands, 
 Clasp d mournful on his breast, yet standing firm, 
 And tho with earnest look, yet seeming not 
 O er-anxious to discern the fading home, 
 That now shut dim and darkly in the East, 
 Seemed but a golden strip, lit by the sword 
 Of winged cherubim, put there to guard, 
 The dwelling, which their hearts still occupied. 
 
 She rests upon him, and the tears come forth. 
 At last to her relief the redden d eyes 
 Suffus d, he clasps her to his breast, and she, 
 Reprov d, by his look of tenderness, 
 Lifts the long hair, that on her shoulder hangs, 
 And wipes them into redness, and affects 
 A mournful smile, still sadder than her tears 
 Then, in a measured note of loneliness, 
 She spoke her sorrows, in his musing ear. 
 
Cain. 83 
 
 Afflicted, hut not wholly desolate, 
 Adam, one wealth we bore from Paradise; 
 Not stolen, but afforded to our lot, 
 Enough to keep in us the lo. e of life, 
 In all privation pleasant too, and well 
 Considered, to become the substitute, 
 For much of the vast happiness, we ve lost! 
 Hast thou regarded this, or, art thou fix d, 
 Determined that thy sorrows shall Imve way, 
 To keep thee in the practices of grief, 
 That thou mayV soon receive the benefit, 
 Awarded us in that dark prophecy, 
 Which spoke of death, and silence, and the grave- 
 Privation from all feeling, happiness, 
 Or anguish, or admixture of them both; 
 Annihilation for a season, still, 
 Worse than whole ages of confirmed pain. 
 Wilt thou not share with me this happiness? 
 Then wean thee from thy earnestness of grief, 
 And kindle up the altar left to us, 
 Of sacred friendship, and domestic love? 
 Dost thou not find thy every sense acute, 
 More comprehensive now? Is not thy fear 
 Extenuate thy hope, of what is yet 
 Unknown in nature, "harper than before - 
 And hast thou not a feeling les at large, 
 Directed to one point, and therefore strong; 
 7 
 
54 Cain. 
 
 Unwandering to the many, dear delights, 
 Of our own lost inheritage in Hcuv n. 
 
 To which, the man, then answering, thus replied 
 Oh! gracious kindness of the mighty power, 
 That we have so offended, thus to give, 
 His sanction to the feeling, we have brought 
 A native flowV of Eden, thus away 
 Domestic Love! I feel it in my heart, 
 I gather it from thy rich accent, Eve, 
 Tis strong in every object that I see- 
 It lives in every feeling of my frame 
 Tis of our life, a vital principle, 
 A part of our existence, fairest part! 
 The all of Eden, that we dare to claim 
 Yet sweet, as any flower in Eden nurst, 
 Or on tho borders of that sacred wave, 
 Where He walk d forth, at morning, to behold 
 That all in his creation, still was good. 
 Alas! that he should come, and we should fear 
 His holy presence, Eve! alas! alas! 
 Yet has his mercy blcss d us, tho denied 
 The home, where first he planted us, with care; 
 And the pure feeling of affection glows 
 Warm in my heart, and bids me not despond, 
 Since it assures us, he beholds us still; 
 And our first sin, our only sin, tho deep, 
 Has made us not the outcasts from his care, 
 
Catii. 5 
 
 Wo are from his abode of blessedness * 
 
 I nworthy longer to remain, or dwell 
 
 In j>lacc so holy, yet not all unfit 
 
 For his high charge and tender nourishment. 
 
 The Earth, that he has given us, to till, 
 
 And occupy at last, is not unkind 
 
 For, while stern Justice spoke the bitter curse*. 
 
 That made it barren in its stubbornness, 
 
 Mercy shed many tears, and softenM it! 
 
 To bear with sorrow, is to conquer it, 
 
 And patiently, tho sadly, on the morn, 
 
 1 will begin my duty, and implore 
 
 Our gracious Father so we call him still, 
 
 Albeit, unworthy children, earth to bless, 
 
 By making it productive to my hand 
 
 Meanwhile, as Day no longer holds his lamp, 
 
 And grief, and many tears have worn thee out. 
 
 This turfy bed, ia soft, and the green leave*, 
 
 Which I will stiew upon it, will avail 
 
 To make a couch, not all unmeet for us, 
 
 To our condition fit, not an it was, 
 
 Nor suited then to us, as we were then, 
 
 Yet more than just to our condition now. 
 
 Thus saying, from the pleasant hill-side, he 
 Gathered enough of bushes, to spread forth 
 The humble, not uncomfortable couch 
 Of the discarded children and abore . 
 
66 Cain. 
 
 Some larger leaves upon a bough he put, 
 To shelter from the dews, that the tirst time, 
 The heavenly people wept for their sad lot 
 Then on it, did he throw his manly frame, 
 And she beside him came, and laid her head 
 Upon his bosom God who all beheld, 
 Sent down his messenger of sleep, who spread 
 His mantle gently o er them, and watch d. 
 
 Thro the long night above them, till the morn. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 A season, told in flow rs, had pass d away, 
 And the high spirit, once again invok d, 
 Reveul d the picture of the infant time, 
 Before my rapt sense, wondering to perceive, 
 The circumstance, and beauty of its change. 
 I stood upon a pleasant spot of earth, 
 IMaikM, as before, with many incidents, 
 Strong feature, and development of point, 
 To fix my recollection, as the same, 
 Denoted as the outcast s exile place; 
 Hard by, the walls of adamantine fire, 
 That blaz d around their dwelling place, so late- 
 Lost Eden, to their children lost, thro them, 
 Till He restore them by his own Son s grace? 
 But ehe, that spot of exile, were unknown 
 So chcng d in that short season to my view, 
 Where barrenness had cursed it, and the blight 
 
Cain. 51 
 
 Of an unnatural parent, had foredoom d 
 Steiile defiance to the shaft or hand 
 IV a" now, thro man s good resolution, brought 
 Ohedient, and return d him sustenance, 
 Rich fruits, and much abundance. It was nowj 
 Near cv ning and the fierce light of the sun, 
 Was mellowM into softness, as he sunk 
 In Eden s bosom the rich, tinctured clouds, 
 Like cherubims, in garments finely wrought, 
 Of many colours, and fair seeming hues, 
 Came after, in attendance. All the sky 
 Was gay, with the profusion of fair forms; 
 Some large, and proud of excellence, supreme, 
 Above their fellows, in attendance, close, 
 From their great eminence while some afar. 
 In more reserved seeming, pressing on, 
 Modest, yet confident, and winning too, 
 Albeit, not quite so richly drest, nor full, 
 In such proportion of great size or shape, 
 Some delicate and faintly utter d hues. 
 All the Eastern sky, (save here and there, 
 A speck of purple, left as for a gift 
 Of fond memorial of the by-gone hours) 
 Secm d dark and gloomy, as it mourn d to lone 
 Its vigorous companion, and first spouse, 
 NOW won to the embraces of the west! 
 The Earth had grown into n deeper shade. 
 
58 Cain. 
 
 And pule specks gan to steal into the sky 
 Cautious, and dreading the absorbing sun 
 When lo! the man our father he, it was, 
 Returning to his homely dwelling place, 
 On yonder green slope, where the red light hangs. 
 As if reluctant to depart, tho callM, 
 Impatient, by the still up-glancing Pay. 
 Some fruits were in his hand some pleasant fruits- 
 Sweeter, because the sultry day had wrought 
 Tlio sweat from his broad forehead, as he toiPd 
 In that still petulant, and resisting soil! 
 Yet vere there smiles upon his sunburnt brow 
 Thut grew from the chcer d spirit, that within, 
 Even as the sun went down, had offer d up 
 Hisev ning pray r accepted for the form 
 Of God, stood ovrr gainst a pillcr d cloud, 
 And, \\ithalightni ig glance, shot out from thence, 
 SmilM on him approbation, mix d with rule 
 Thus mercy tempers .Justice and, yet more, 
 To warm the wakeful hope, that leapt within 
 The heart of that lone man, an angel stood, 
 Beside him, as he left his place of toil, 
 On his way home, and gave him of new fruits, 
 1 nknown to him before, and pleasant herbs, 
 And taught him, of their use and appliance, 
 Culture, and mode of preparation, all, 
 Simply and sweetly, by which Adam knew, 
 
Cain. 69 
 
 The God he had offended was his God 
 And he, not all unworthy to receive 
 His care, or favour, doubted of, before, 
 By conscious weakness so that Adam came, 
 To his low cottage, on that swardy waste, 
 And the deep gloom of his embrowned cheek. 
 Like a sad sky of cloud, impending rain, 
 Lit up by sudden sunshine, bursting through, 
 Was mixM with tenderness and happy smiles. 
 He stood by his low cot, and she was there, 
 The one of his affections dcom d to share 
 Their punishment, and with a pleasant look 
 Of calm, she met him from his labour come; 
 Rejoicing. In her arms, she gently bore 
 A pair of chubby infants, hale and flush 
 Of health, who lay and nestled at her breast, 
 Inhaling thence, their nourishment and life. 
 Brown labour had infused into her frame, 
 A hardiness that mingled in with much 
 Of her first sweetness of aspect, not lost, 
 In her sad downfal; and a winning grace 
 Shone in the calm and patience of her look 
 Happy, that from their cottage, discontent, 
 Driven out, by sweet reliance upon God, 
 Had fled the little valley where they dwelt! 
 * * 
 
 The boys, were boys no longer. They had grown, 
 
()0 Cain. 
 
 In that beneficent clime, that could not be 
 
 Klsr than Hygeian, bounding clone upon 
 
 The lost abode of purity and bliss, 
 
 Up into fair proportion, and much grace 
 
 Vigour Herculean, and a pleasant case 
 
 Of limb and outward seeming, not unmeet 
 
 To glad the eye, and satisfy the nice, 
 
 And close observances of curious taste. 
 
 Manliness stood, a native, on the brow 
 
 Of him, the first born. In his dark eye shone 
 
 Much character stern fixedness and pride 
 
 A restlessness of that, which bound him down, 
 
 As other men, in seeming ignorance, 
 
 Yet wiser than the rest of earth beside. 
 
 He lov d not, that his toil should only win 
 The bread of life; and marvelM that his thought, 
 So searching, and far wandering, .should return 
 \Vithout discovery. IIo look d beyond 
 His own horizon, bounded to a span, 
 Arid long d for other regions, unknown lands, 
 Deeming imprisonment, the close confine, 
 Of his first birth-place. Thus, with thought like (hi 
 And dreams, that won him from himself, away, 
 What wonder he should leave the compass d field. 
 Appointed to his labours. Thus, at eve, 
 As from the place of toil, returning home. 
 He spoke at last, with weary heart and sad. 
 
Cain. 61 
 
 To his old father, in respectful word, 
 l-mk d with a rugged earnestness, that gave 
 Assurance of determination, made 
 In cool reflection, therefore worthy note! 
 
 I know not well, my father, if my thought, 
 Be wrong in this, hut that it is my thought, 
 Unforced, and of his own accord, from God, 
 I may not question. I was never made 
 To grovel in the earth, and dig for food, 
 With heart so wrought like mine, that ever ppring* 
 I pward to hoav n, and gathering from its flight, 
 A newer vigour, till it onward soars, 
 From star to star, and thro each bright abode, 
 Imagined in rich dreams, that seldom fly, 
 Discovers its true birth place. It is mine, 
 I feel it in my soul, that it is mine 
 Else, why this anxiousness to soar above 
 This dull dim earth, this barren dwelling place, 
 Accursed, even by our toil, accurs d 
 And more than curs d by him who gave it us, 
 Accursed be it then, as tis accurs d. 
 
 But Adam, all impatient, stay d his speech, 
 With interruption brief 
 
 Accursed not 
 
 Earth! be thou blessed, even with our tears, 
 And labour. Hear not, Oh God, this boy 
 Spare him, for ignorant and vain, bis pray r 
 8 
 
62 CViin. 
 
 la wrung from childish spirit, that is clipt 
 In its observance, and beyond the time, 
 Sees not thy glorious Providence and will! 
 Kneel, impious boy, kneel Abel kneel with mo, 
 And let thy humble pray r undo thy rash, 
 And ill-advised temper; that thou may st 
 Stand before Heaven, nor feel thy idle curse, 
 Come multiplied, untemper d on thy head, 
 That cali d it down, on that which given* us life* 
 Hut for our labour, which improves the good, 
 By teaching us its value. 
 
 I will kneel, 
 
 My father with you now, returned the boy, 
 And offer up my pray r for every good, 
 It may be, that you would he thankful for: 
 And chiefly for the blessing, which has made, 
 Spite of your destiny that rugged fate, 
 Which I ajn free to say, I covet not, 
 So well content. I would it were my lot, 
 To own a spirit, so much like to thine, 
 Thav, whatsoe er its own adventure, wrong, 
 And wantonly-enforced suffering, 
 I might put down my head, and in the dust, 
 Lift the fine ashes from our clay-built hearth, 
 And wrap me in a cloud of it, and cry 
 For other punishment; and smile p.nd pray, 
 To find the pray r accepted, and new pain 
 Sent down to gratify the humble hi- art!* 
 
Cam. 6& 
 
 but for a wrong which I have never done, 
 I may not seek forgiveness. I have stood 
 Upon yon mountain, by the evening light, 
 IV here thou art now to offer sacrifice, 
 And if I pray d, I pray d not for myself, 
 For I had nought to pray for. But I piay d. 
 That Ue, the almighty, powerful, severe, 
 Inflexible in judgment, should not hold 
 The cloudy front of his full countenance, 
 Upon you and my mother, and the young boj 
 That stands beside you, with enclasped hands, 
 And eye of upturned tenderness, and calm 
 I pray d that you might feel, as now you feel3 
 Contented with your lot, and not like me, 
 Be doom d to inborn conflict with the soul, 
 Too proud to own allegiance, or bow down 
 For privilege to labour and to sweat, 
 For bread, whose sweetest sustenance is tears; 
 And meat of lambs, that cry with plaintive tone, 
 More sad and tender than your saddest pray r, 
 "When you do rob them from the piteous dam, 
 Whose bleatings 611 the tent, e en while the feast, 
 At her poor heart s expeoce, is going on. 
 What I have pray d for then, I ll pray for now-* 
 Your happiness, my mother s, brother s, mine, 
 Whatever that happiness may be. Tis well 
 That we should thus, conciliate the power, 
 
04 Cain. 
 
 Since tis the pow r alone that bids us pray, 
 To whom we can oppose, nor force nor guile, 
 Nor arbitration strong but all submit, 
 In quietude and meekness mercy comes 
 Alone from power, my father bids me say 
 We ask no mercy, where we see no power, 
 And own no crime, where punishment is none, 
 Or else defiance strong, we offer up, 
 In token of our hardihood of heart, 
 And utter shamelessncss and scorn kneel down 
 Abel, my brother, we will kneel and pray. 
 
 Thus saying, knelt he, by his brother s side, 
 And Adam bow d his head awhile they prayM 
 Aloud. Adam, unto his tirst-born, at the close, 
 Thus, his fond thought deliver d. 
 
 Cain, my sou, 
 
 The air is tainted thou abideat in 
 Nor is that purer, that encircles us, 
 And thus we need the incense, to remove 
 And purify our evil dwelling-place. 
 Bad spirits are about us, day and night, 
 Watching our guardlussness, and still alert 
 In momentary absence, to entrap, 
 And rob us of our future heritage 
 Therefore the name of God should be a spell, 
 Borne with us in our solitude his word 
 A sacred garment, wrapt about, 
 
Cain. G5 
 
 Our else unguarded loins; nnd gentle thoughts, 
 
 And purity and faith should fill our heart??, 
 
 To fit us lor the company of Cod, 
 
 And the pure angels, that we sometimes meet, 
 
 Beside us, in the forest such as he 
 
 That sent thy mother roots, by Abel s hand, 
 
 When she was sick, which wrought her health again. 
 
 Forbear thy thoughts, rny son thy evil thoughts, 
 
 For pride is evil, and the proud in licait, 
 
 Bow down in shame, unless they guard themselves. 
 
 Let us upon our awpy the winds of eve, 
 
 That wait upon, and usher in the night, 
 
 Arc bringing us the perfume of the flow rs, 
 
 That grow in Eden and the song of birds 
 
 Ye hear my boys, that lonely one, that seems 
 
 To sing apatt, from all the merry ones 
 
 Now, do ye hear the melancholy strain? 
 
 O! ever thus, that gentle-toned, sad bird, 
 
 Would, sound at night, the warning note, that shut 
 
 The delicate young flow rs, and warn d us two, 
 
 Thy mother and myself, to seek the shade 
 
 Of our o er-canopied, secluded bow r. 
 
 I cannot now, so far forget my wont 
 
 Tho long, since it was taught to meet my car, 
 
 And tell me of my duties but even now, 
 
 With that sweet song, i shut the day-light out, 
 
 And woo the cheering sleep, and dream of Eden. 
 
ASHLEY RIVER. 
 
 "The 
 
 Heaves, darkly boiling from below 
 To him, there s muaic in in flow, 
 For there he latent, and he Hands, 
 With fixed rye, and clasped hut da " 
 
 J. W. SIMM out 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 I have, in the following Poem, rather indulged 
 in my own mental and personal associations, than 
 in any effort to give a local picture. Many pas 
 sages, however, which might have had that effect, 
 have been, for obvious reasons, expunged for the 
 present. At some future day they may be res 
 tored. 
 
ASHLEY RIVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Flatter me not, with visions like to these 
 Too well, my friend, you know the pow rto please/ 
 The winning accent, and the friendly tone, 
 Make me all yours, when I am scarce my own! 
 And, when desponding trampled by some new 
 And stern atflirtion; staring on my view 
 "When weary even with life, this narrow life, 
 Where all is bitterness, and much is strife, 
 I fain would pause, nor battle for my breath, 
 But seek, and find, some peace, at last, in death--* 
 You come with friendly smile, and gaily dress, 
 Some newer phantom up, of happiness; 
 Paint fairy prospects, green, and flushty with light/ 
 And hide tho frost and winter from my sight; 
 Arouse the dying spark of hope, anew, 
 And dress the night, with moonlight and with dew 
 You win me back to struggle, and to gain 
 Some newer agony, to crush ray brain/ 
 
70 Ashley River. 
 
 Some blight unlookM for, and, the more severe, 
 As you have made me dream, that none was near. 
 
 II. 
 
 How little do they know the crowd, the throng, 
 The curse, and madness, that abides with soug! 
 That fatal destiny, which bids us turn, 
 To where, the altars of the Muses, burn; 
 Commands us, light our torches, at a flame, 
 From which, nor waimth, nor lustre can we claim, 
 And, when wo dream, our fires are kindled quite, 
 Obscures the blaze, and tramples it from sight! 
 And thou, even them, who best can st comprehend 
 The Poet s nature, as thou art his friend 
 Thou, who hast taught me, that, not all unknown, 
 My song has been, though, known to thee, alone, 
 Even thou, art all unmeet to learn the pain. 
 When the heart watches o er the slumbering brain, 
 Beholds the mad, unquiet of that hour, 
 When Fancy s spectres own redoubled pow r, 
 And rouses up her train of shadowy forms, 
 To shake tbo sleep of agony, with storms, 
 Or, keep the abject Muse awake, and weep, 
 When all the world is happy, and asleep! 
 What hopes are his, who dare explore the lyre 
 What smoky clouds assail his waywurd fire 
 What dreams incite, of glory, or of gain, 
 
Jlshley River. 71 
 
 To fly, at last, and leave him hut to pain? 
 Now taught by Friendship, and now won by praise, 
 The laurel swells before his falcon gaze 
 Glory invites him, with enticing eye, 
 And blue-vein d charms, to tread her starry sky- 
 Fame seeks his couch by night, and weaves the dew- 
 Undoubted sentence, of the future year, 
 And thro the mists of coming time, reveals 
 The bay-crown d statue, till his vision reels, 
 And he awakes with raptures all hia own, 
 To find his dream, a dream his statue, gone! 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet, must I sing the destiny which gave, 
 The pow r of song, and made me all its slave, 
 Still drives me on, pursuing and pursued, 
 Alternate won, the wooer and the wooed. 
 Doom d me to find in every change or shade, 
 Some fearful Tyrant that must be obey d 
 Bade roc but live on sunshine, yet on high, 
 Hung with a pitchy mantle, all the sky 
 And fill d, with strange influences, the cloud, 
 And wrapt in dust, and gloom, and heat, the crow 
 And when my heart was delicate, and frail, 
 Ordain d, it should depart before the gale, 
 Unfitted all, to combat with the breeze, 
 let doom d to struggle with the rebel seas 
 
72 Ashley River. 
 
 Sent it abroad, all rudderless, to strain, ~ 
 For the far port, it may not reach again! / 
 Wrought by that fatal doom, from whence, the dow> 
 Of song first came, a wild, and tearful pow r, 
 The unrelenting toil is still my own, ; 
 
 To tread the weary wilderness, alone . 
 To shrink, with sensitive tenderness, from lift, 
 And find in man, the harbinger of strife; / 
 Feel every breath, as fatal to the bloom, 
 Of that rich flow r, we leave upon our tomb, 
 And dread with strange inquietude and bile, 
 The bad man s sneer, the cold man s scorn or smile. 
 Yet will I sing and tho with song, there be, 
 But little pride, and far less sympathy 
 Tin) Fame, for which the Minstrel s heart beats 
 If seen at all, is ouly seen to fly [high, 
 
 And jealousy, and biiter malice, stand 
 Ready to crush, with rais d, united hand, 
 And song be one dark struggle to attain, 
 The shallow meed, that life can seldom gain- 
 Yet will I sing and tho the day be far, 
 When mine, shall be the glory of a star, 
 Still to beam on in splendour, to the last, 
 When thou, and 1, my friend, and all are past-* 
 *Tis a proud destiny, that dares to die, 
 For the far gloom of Immortality! 
 
Ashley River. 73 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lo! from the horizon s verge, declining day, 
 
 CaMs his rod shadow o er the rippling bay; 
 
 On high, the dark wave leaps, ere light he gone, 
 
 To hail one smile from the departing sun; 
 
 While in the dark blue vault, the fleecy rack, 
 
 Of thronging clouds, attending on his track, 
 
 Form, in a gorgeous canopy of light, 
 
 Each hue that s lovely, and each ray that s bright ! 
 
 Blandishing ministers , more sweetly pure, 
 
 As we, their lustre better can endure, 
 
 Than him, their monarch whence alone,they claim 
 
 Their heav n of hue, and more than world of flame 
 
 Still to the last, though lost to mortal eyes, 
 
 He leaves behind, his garniture of dyes; 
 
 And the stars glow, and the pale moon appears 
 
 In the blue vault, and all his light, is theirs. 
 
 V. 
 
 Here, as the day declines, the lonely heart, 
 May sigh to lose its being s richest part 
 Those glories of the aerial world, which seem 
 To wild-eyed Fancy, HeavVs own op ning gleam, 
 While, from the silvery vestment of the sky, 
 Eternal splendours burst upon the eye, 
 Revealing, shaded 1 by a mystic veil, 
 
74 dshley River. 
 
 The wonders, drearopt of, in enthusiast s tale 
 Those 1 1 unsieut glimmerings, where, devotion sees 
 The long-lost garden, and the living trees 
 Rich bow rs, whose maidens, wooing to their arms, 
 Soft a their homes, eternal as their charms, 
 Sing those enticing airs, which, like the tree, 
 That blooms forever, in fair Araby, [boughs, 
 Tempts the young Pilgrim, slumbering neath its 
 To leave his duties, and forget his vows; 
 Discard the affections of his native shore, 
 .\nd deem his journey done, his labours, o er. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yes wrapt in mists of darkness, which pervade 
 
 Even Fancy s own domain of light and siiade, 
 
 Even now, these glories vanish from the sky, 
 
 And leave the soul of Solitude, to sigh! 
 
 Sigh, that even, these, the last on earth to cheer, 
 
 So brightly dark, so languishingly clear 
 
 Whose mellow d tints,, dispooed in tasteful pride, 
 
 The deep and light, with equal pow r, divide; 
 
 So well arranged to soothe the soul of grief, 
 
 And lend it sympathy, if not relief, 
 
 Should thus so soon depart, and leave no trace 
 
 Of morning glory, or of ev ning grace. 
 
 Beautiful Ashley! when I firnt ossuy d, 
 
 The lyre s rude song, as on thy banks, I stray d, 
 
jlshlcy River. 75 
 
 How came young Hope, with gentle smiles supplied, 
 To bless my dreams, p.nd wander by my side! 
 How, o er the past, did playful Memory run, 
 And sweet the joys, from recollection, won! 
 The swift ascent to manhood s warmer glow, 
 That youth, repining, ever deems too slow 
 The flowVs that deck d the wayside, as I came, 
 And, as a first discoverer, dar d to name 
 The kindred heart, that smiPd, when others frown d, 
 And she, the loveliest of the circle round, 
 Whose sudden glance, like stars of shooting flame, 
 Brought melancholy gladness, where they came 
 These, when the ascent was gain d, young Memory 
 
 brought, 
 
 As fadeless records, to the book of thought 
 To these, gay Hope, a winged wanderer, threw 
 A future world more bright but not BO true! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here on these banks, my roving thought portrays, 
 Anew, the scenes of long-forgotten days; 
 Not those, forsooth, wherein I bore apart, 
 What s dear to Fancy s foreign to the heart 
 But where my young Imagination rove*, 
 To those glad walks and brave and arching groves. 
 Where Nature, wild, and stag-eyed, as at first, 
 Upon the tenant of the forest burst; 
 
70 Jlshley River. 
 
 Reveal d the shady tract, and fertile lawn, 
 Where kepi the hill-fox, or reposed the fawn- 
 Taught him the neighbouring forest-depths to scan 
 Its wildest labyrinth and maziest plan, 
 Untrod by any lord, save him, who gave 
 Freedom to all, nor made the brute his slave; 
 Nor slew with wanton hand nor idly bent, 
 His springy yew in careless lavishment, 
 But moderate still in want, that slew no prey, 
 Save, what that want, instructed him to &lay! 
 There, where the savage dwelt in native pride, 
 And scurn d the world, or knew no world besid* 
 The wild and desert loneliness of place, 
 At once the grave, and dwelling of his race, 
 In simple, rude, ungraciousness of life, 
 Yet full of hospitality and strife; 
 Ready to war, as ready to obey, 
 The dictate of the prophet and his sway 
 Slave to the passion, which, himself, he made, 
 And wrought the Tyranny, himself obey d * 
 Piactia dto draw the bow, and spring at dawn 
 To meet the grey-eyed Day upon the lawn, 
 Begin his journey, ere the blush of day, 
 Nor, for the gloom of ev ning s shade, delay 
 Assiduous to explore, intent to view, 
 The march of earth,, and prove its courses true, 
 From the grey bark, depict his journey a track, 
 
.fahley River. 77 
 
 Nor find a need to pause or turn him back 
 Careless of danger, ready to endure, 
 Rich in the employ, which keeps him ever poor , 
 Too much in love with Heav n s fresh airs, to creep 
 Beneath a cell, when the broad tempests sweep 
 Their mighty wings across the wide expanse, 
 At once their own, and mind s inheritance 
 Taught from his cradle, bravely to resign 
 
 \ The life, which pain forbids him to repine; 
 
 i Bound to the stake, to emulate his sire, 
 Triumph thro life, and triumphing, expire: 
 
 ! With a proud song of vengeance satisfied, 
 I/eera his life nobly spent, who bravely died. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The day is past the glories of their prime, 
 The morning freshness of the infant time, 
 tls gone with the proud Savage, and no trace 
 Tlemai.is of forest shade and simple race. 
 How dark the destiny, that swept away, 
 Men wild, but gentle, innocent as they, 
 Till not the slightest trophy do we claim, 
 But that, which tells their fortune, in our shame. 
 And this broad stream, thiff Poet-stream, no more 
 Rolls back their tones of vigor to the shore, 
 Where, by the hamlet side, the Indian maid, 
 4t ev ning stood beneath the old tree fl shade. 
 
*8 Ashley River. 
 
 vSurveying her boy-lover, as in view, 
 lie urged the arrowy prow o! his canoe, 
 Across the leaping waters, that between, 
 His heart and idol, rear d their living green. 
 How dark to Fancy seems the picture left 
 To him, of the old solitude bereft 
 The silent, solemn sweetness of the waste, 
 With the rude birch canoe upon its breast, 
 And the slant sunbeam gilding all the way, 
 MarkM by his prow upon the parting spray, 
 That, now in jagged, dull confusion tails, 
 On dens of brick, and miserable walls, 
 Dimming with gloomy shadows the pure stream, 
 That once was rich and redolent with the beam 
 Sent from the sunlit forest, where the breeze 
 At ev ning, threw his weary limbs at ease, 
 Or, with light pinion, curfd the streaming sea, 
 With a strange music of festivity. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "Now what is here to meet the gazer s eye, 
 Let science, and the march of mind, reply 
 Why Lucas mills, the team boat and the quay, 
 W here cockney sportsmen crowd, at break i day. 
 With double-barrellM gun, perchance to shoot, 
 In case they meet with s< me unlicenc d brute. 
 Thus nothing wild escapes the modern rage. 
 
Rivct\ 7& 
 
 A hundred years before the bygone age 
 Our lathers shot the wild-men, and their sons, 
 A more improved and better race of Huns, 
 Slio.it do\vn the wild-fowl, with percussion guns. 
 And lo! the dirty wood boat, with a crew 
 Of fowls for market eggs and bufter too 
 With, now and then, a something to retrieve, 
 The loss of that, I must confess I grieve-^ 
 In the rough negro boat-horn, heard by night, 
 When the wind s wanton, and the moon is bright, 
 And the stars watch above the sleeping sea, 
 Winding, alone, upon the Corigarcq. 
 
 X. 
 
 Few years have pass d, sweet river and no more, 
 
 The playful boy that wander d by thy shore, 
 
 In many a prank and gambol, onco again, 
 
 I watch thy waters leaping to the main! 
 
 Time hath brought change, upon his rapid wing, . 
 
 And life s dull seasons, are no longer spring - 
 
 The young associates of my early day, 
 
 Are dead, or scattered widely, far away r 
 
 Some are in foreign lands, ordainM to toil, 
 
 For life or wealth, upon a niggurd soil; 
 
 The vSea hath one I loved, and wild storms sweep 
 
 O er a proud form now bleaching in tho deep, 
 
 That in the athletic gamo Ivns link d with rninc-r- 
 
81) dshley River. 
 
 The first I loved, the last I shall repine, 
 For no affection like that first strong yoke, 
 Shall life have pow r to knit, as death has broke! 
 And I, the last, less lov d, and youngest one, 
 Doom d from the first, in life, to move alone; 
 Scorn d for the weakness, which became, at length, 
 More than the pride, and all the pow r of strength; 
 Whose passions ever roused, untaught to bend, 
 Confirm d the doubtful shook the steadiest friend 
 Unused to kindness, so, that, when it spoke, 
 A world 1 knew not, o er my bosom broke, 
 And all the tears that pride had stay d so long, 
 Frozen by bitterness, restrained by wrong, 
 With cataract might thro their dark prisons swept, 
 Kach rock o erborne that held them, and I wept. 
 I had not wept in sorrow had not shed 
 One tear of anguish, when I watch d the bed, 
 Where, lay affection s earliest idol, dead! 
 Coldness butsteel d me, firmer to despise, 
 Unkindness loosed, still more, all human ties, 
 And taught me, tho the child of nature, still, 
 That I was free to love or hate, at will! 
 That Nature was the kindest bul beguil d, 
 Too long, by man believing, when he smil d, 
 That truth was in the blandishment, I gave 
 My heart, to each deceit, still more, a slave, 
 *Till torn at length, by frequent wrong, I grew, 
 
. Ishley Hirer. 81 
 
 Tho born to love, a stern, proud hater too, 
 Vnd every stream of natuie, in my soul, 
 Scal d with eternal snows, refused to roll! 
 Love burst the fountain Love, whose magic breath. 
 Can cheer the shade, and soothe the pain of death 
 Whose rosy hand, pervading earth s wide gloom, 
 Plants the young flow r of rapture on the tomb 
 To the far pole, where endless winters sway, 
 Imparts a sun, that compensates the day; 
 And thro* the night, whose matchless beams appear, 
 Warming, o er snowy peaks, the polar year 
 Love broke the ice-bound regions of my heart, 
 And bade his day appear, his night depart! 
 
 XL 
 
 Sweet waters of my youth! I ve tried the song, 
 With early themes, but used to sorrow long, 
 They mingle with strange discords, and repeat 
 Aught but the notes, my lonely heart deems sweet. 
 Fond recollections, swelling with thy wave, 
 How different now, from what my boyhood gave 
 Tears have cmbitter d the pure streams of truth, 
 And robb d the bloom and promises of youth! 
 Lo! in dim visions, on the wafry wild, [smilM 
 Now dark with clouds, where nought but sunbeam 
 Behold the Past, with all its innocent wealth, 
 Its grateful store of luxury and health: 
 
HJ .Ishley River, 
 
 ilapturo wild bounding, whose delirious dreams, 
 Warm, frr>m the Persian * land of tloxv rs and beams. 
 In fairy pictured hues, o er boyhood throng, 
 Waking him up to luxury and song 
 Bright skies appear in sunniness and glow, 
 With fairy radiance, o er the world below, 
 And all that s rich in nature, strong in joy, 
 Shines without tarnish, beams without alloy. 
 There comes a darker picturing, with these, 
 Like hell-born monster s over sunlit seas, 
 Where halcyon quiet broods, on gossamer wing, 
 And nierniuiciU wake, in coral groves, to sing. 
 Tis the dark features of the present, cast, 
 To cloud the future and destroy the past; 
 Obscure each glory of my early day, 
 And blight my soul, and, tear its hope away! 
 Tinge over waters, wild and fresh before 
 Skies whose rich brightness, won me to adore 
 Scenes whose extremes! loneliness was dear, 
 With gloom ajid sorrow, blackness and despair! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Imago of sadness sadness of the heart, 
 I weep to watch, yet tremble to depart, 
 Sadden the more 1 see thy leaping swell, - 
 Vet feel my sadness, when I say, farewell 
 I werp not in thy change tbou art the same, 
 
JSJ Jshlcy Kivcr. 
 
 As when at first, I learned to lisp thy name. 
 And thy full waters roll d, P:> now, along, 
 All purely, deeply, vigorously strong, 
 And not, that bursting full upon my view, 
 I ve found that false, which Fancy swore was true- 
 Not that the athlete died at sea, and lay, 
 Where Mexico still roll* his tideless hay, 
 And se:t-hirds spread, and sea-nymphs watch his 
 
 grave, 
 
 And the cold, midnight winds, his requiem rave; 
 Nor, that in distant regions, there are some, 
 Whom Hope oft hrings, and Truth delays to come. 
 To bless the weary eyes that wake at home 
 Not these, not all tho man to Fortune bear, 
 Each human engine, that may claim a tear 
 Tho blear-eyed Hatred, ready to devise 
 The rack for that, it never can despise 
 Tho Malice slander, and tbo Folly bring, 
 And lend to higher agony, its sting 
 Till now, I wept not nor could these impart, 
 That woman softness to the bursting heart, 
 Demanding tears, from eyes, that could not weep, 
 Whose streams were silent, a* their tides were deep. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "The unibrgotten music of sad dr*AnM." 
 
 OLD PLAT. 
 
 It 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following collection) forms but a very small 
 portion of the fugitive pieces, which have been 
 gathering on my hands for the laut two years. I 
 have scarcely any thing to offer in their behalf. 
 In common with the preceding pages, they have 
 grown out of hours, which the reader may, or may 
 not, consider thrown away. They appear, gen 
 erally, as originally written I huve neither the 
 disposition to improve, nor the courage to destroy 
 them. 
 
APRIL. 
 
 April Month it is the time 
 When the merry hirds do chime, 
 Airy wood-notes, wild and free, 
 In secluded bow r and tree 
 IVaking up in sunny gear 
 The attendants of the year, 
 ^Vhatso cr they chance to be, 
 In green dress and livery. 
 Roving wind, whose rosy mouth, 
 OdourM by the sunny south, 
 Presses, as it onward flies, 
 Beds of many luxuries. 
 Skimming o er, as it doth pass, 
 Pearly dew on bladcd grass 
 budding flow rs, that ope to gain 
 Some sweet homage from his train, 
 And, with blushing lips, inclose 
 Riches of Arabian rose. 
 Season of fantastic change, 
 Sweet, familiar, wild and strange 
 
April. 
 
 Time of promise, when the leal, 
 Has its tear, but not of grief 
 When the winds, by nature coy, 
 Do both cold and heat alloy, 
 Nor to either, will dispense 
 Their delighting preference 
 Season, when the earth puts forth 
 All the wealth that she is worth, 
 When the tree, all flush of fruit, 
 Clothes himself in motley suit, 
 And the waters, woods and sky, 
 Hear the summer s first-born cry 
 Pleasant sound, that speaks of time, 
 When all nature s early prime, 
 Had no shadow, knew no chill, 
 To o ertop the sunny hill, 
 Where, kind spirits came to bless 
 Young creation s loveliness! 
 
 April Month what doth it bring 
 In the promise of the spring 
 Rich profusion, not to pall 
 But to bless and honor all! 
 Fruits to tempt the urchin s eye 
 To the summer drawing nigh, 
 When with heart, whose beat is mirth 
 Leaps he o er the laughing earth 
 
April. 
 
 And his look ia full of haste, 
 And his lips speak fresher taste, 
 And the smile of victory, 
 Twinkles in his roguish eye 
 Looks he now, with spirit deep, 
 Where the mocker s young ones keep, 
 Happy to secure the spoil, 
 Meet reward for all his toil! 
 
 Tis the season of the year, 
 When the fairies first appear, 
 Tn the cowslip and the rose, 
 Dancing, ere iheir petals close, 
 To the music of the breeze, 
 Sweetest of all melodies, 
 Ncatli the moon s ascending blazo, 
 That trims the forest with her rays, 
 And, in melancholy mood, 
 Silver-laces all the flood! 
 Then they sport, and who but they 
 Happy in such infant play,. 
 Tossing, in their random rout, 
 Flow rs, and leaves, and fruits about! 
 Now upon a lily s breast 
 Seeming, in a mimic rest, 
 Om reposes, glad to bo 
 Absent from her company, 
 
90 April. 
 
 For she there can dream of him 
 \Vhose departure keeps her dim. 
 
 Tis hy sentence of their king, 
 That, until the Lily spring 
 From the green and velvet ground. 
 Her boy-lover must he bound 
 In the bosom of a tree, 
 Hidden from their harmony 
 Cruel Oberon, to part 
 Sun and fiow r heart and heart! 
 But they soon shall meet again, 
 For the gentle wind and rain. 
 Have beer, busy ail the night, 
 Bringing summer s train to light 
 And the fairy maid shall hear 
 Preampt-of language, in her ear. 
 
 Now she dreams that he is free 
 
 Underneath the green bay-tree, 
 
 That beside her lifts his boughs, 
 
 That receive the lover s vows 
 
 lie so oft has heard them spoken 
 
 And so often seen them broken, 
 
 Much he wonders, men should give them- 
 
 Women, credulous, believe ..hem. 
 
 She wakes, and joy is in her eye 
 
April. 91 
 
 On the ground, she doth espy . 
 
 That same flow r, whose first appearing, 
 
 Brings, to her, the time of cheering 
 
 And she laughs, for by her side 
 
 Stands he, in his boyish pride 
 
 And the happy people round, 
 
 Glad to see the boy unbound, 
 
 Leap in gay festivity, 
 
 From green bush and budding trecf 
 
 Now upon a moon beam riding, 
 
 \Vith the star of eve abiding, 
 
 They attend her single motion, 
 
 As she passes o er the ocean 
 
 Bent for hidden islands, where 
 
 Mortal barks can never steer 
 
 All is rapture in their flight 
 
 Melody and speaking light. 
 
 There they gather, void of care, 
 
 From the happy world, so near, 
 
 Glowing heaven, leaping sea, 
 
 Thoughts of untouch d harmony! 
 
 Many a shell is wound to night, 
 
 Many a mermaid s bow r is bright, 
 
 As her lover leaps to sight, 
 
 On a moonbeam, in a flow r 
 
 Leaping to her sea-wrought bow r. 
 
 ID the wild and witching houi, 
 
92 April. 
 
 Stars are filled with newer pow r, 
 
 Heavenly odour in the shower! 
 
 Happy race! that may explore 
 
 Sounding sea and hidden shore 
 
 Fill the sky with leaping forma, 
 
 Win from stars, and suns, and storms 
 
 \Vho so happy in the sky, 
 
 And its home of purity 
 
 "VVho so happy in the air, 
 
 V( ith the sad, heart-music there 
 
 IV ho that skims the ocean dwells 
 
 ]Mid the notes of thousand shells 
 
 Far beyond the storm-God s pewV, 
 
 In the wave wu&h d coral bow r 
 
 As the race, thus let to pierce 
 
 All the secret universe, 
 
 And, before the time is given, 
 
 IV ii the happiness of heaven! 
 
 April Mouth! throughout the year, 
 
 "\Vliat with thec, can well compare 
 
 TVheie thedu), whose dewy sweetness, 
 
 And the night, whose touching iieetuesft, 
 
 And the s*ky, whose purer splendor, 
 
 And the iiovv r, whose petal tender, 
 
 Charming, kow^xcVr they be, 
 
 April Mouth! cau mate with thee? 
 
NIGHT-WATCHING. 
 
 iMy heart has been a wanderer It has sigh d 
 For the far converse of the wilderness, 
 And sought, on Fancy s wings, the fairy grove, 
 Whose leaves are chords for music, turn d to tone, 
 E en by the rudeness of the Zephyr-Gdd, 
 Whose wing detach d them from the delicate stem, 
 Singing their death-song falling: It has been 
 Pent up in cities, till it burst the bonds, 
 The cold bonds of society, and sprung 
 On mid-day wing, to re-assert its own, 
 Unbounded, eagle- world of Immortality! 
 
 The city is around me but its din 
 Is hueh d to silence what a god is sleep, 
 That can so chain the faculties of men, 
 The buiy crowd, so turbulent erewhile, 
 Some three hours hence, and now so sternly still, 
 It teems some eastern city of the Dead! 
 
 Where is the artizan whose hammer clink d 
 On the fire-darting anvil, thro the day ? 
 12 
 
94 Night-Watching. 
 
 The pedlar, who was vaunting o er his wares, 
 His worldly wealth about him rich withal ? 
 The tradesman conning o er his daily sales 
 TVith eager eye, and scent upon the watch, 
 Not to be over-bargain d? where the youth, 
 Eager for honor and distinction, won 
 By noisy declamation in the crowd, 
 About the forum? all are sunk in sleep! 
 Sleep, the restorer of the sick man s pulse, 
 Bringor of pleasant dreams and airy thoughts, 
 That while away the fever d toils of earthy 
 And give a bounding impulse to the blood, 
 Distemper d by the noise-oppressed brain! 
 Thou second part of life that art a death 
 Refitting for a newer start in life, 
 And nerving with a freshness, all but me! 
 
 In vain, I look upon the pensive Night, 
 That hangs her silver crescent on tl.e sky, 
 Gather d on fleecy folds, that edge the blue, 
 Of her vast, wild, pavilion d canopy, 
 And wears it, as a warrior does his shield, 
 Unstain d by dark device, or mortal dint, 
 And pure and spotless, as a vestal s heart, 
 Upon the hour she gives herself to God! 
 There is no breath to waken up the leaf, 
 That sits within my window all is still 
 
Wight- Watching. 95 
 
 And how oppressive grows that *t illness now! 
 I cannot sleep a spirit in the air, 
 Tho with the day s fatigue, my form ia faint, 
 Keeps me from slumber. Thought, undying thought, 
 That dost pervade life s farthest wilderness, 
 Why may I not repose, with those, who take 
 The freshness of her slumbers: why within, 
 My restless soul, still sounds the silvery chord, 
 That thrills forever sensibly with life, 
 Reminding me, untiring of the claim 
 It bears to immortality the life, 
 That is for ever present in my dreams, 
 That bears me, with a meaning impulse on, 
 Spite of the rough adventure of the time, 
 The jostle of far-lighted emulation, 
 To look beyond myself, and fondly dare 
 Converse with high intelligence, and power 
 Beyond man s frail existence. 
 
 Do the stars 
 
 Break forth, with fuller energy, to me, 
 
 That thus I wake to watch them? Is the moon 
 
 Peculiar in her gaze to-night ? Her glanco 
 
 Rests on my very couch, and by my side, 
 
 Swelling the drapery with long shady waves 
 
 Fantastically wrought by fancy s art, 
 
 To mate and people all the dreaming hour! 
 
96 Wight- Watching. 
 
 And now a silvery train is drawn afar, 
 Like a faint thread, upon the utmost verge 
 Of the horizon, as if it would unite 
 The earth I wake on, and the heaven I watch. 
 It is the star of my nativity 
 What wonder I should wake, to watch it then, 
 With a deep fixedness a strong anxiety, 
 To gather from its seeming, all my hope 
 Ambition s peril titter gods than men, 
 Which lives unto the peril of the life 
 Which is my mortal being wearing away 
 Consuming as a night-lamp, dim, untrimm d, 
 The frame and sinews, of the wither d form, 
 The lowly boor had laugh d at Lo! afar, 
 It shoots along and sheds in its lone flight 
 A rich and tremulous lustre. Does it wake 
 In sympathy with me, alone, among 
 Its starry train of rich intelligences, 
 As I, among my fellows of the earth? 
 Ilestless, alike and does ambition dwell 
 So high above the mortal part of life? 
 I ve heard it said, ere this, in ancient time, 
 When gods were on the earth, in guise of men, 
 And men in action, rivall d the high gods, 
 That t-vas the quality of heaven, and so 
 Became transmitted to the humbler race, 
 With whom they lightly mingled, and to whom, 
 
Night- Watchiilg. *>7 
 
 They gave such sad inheritance of pride, 
 High reaching, fierce desire, unbounded want, 
 Love of far rule, undying thirst of praise, 
 And power, and hope, and searching after sway, 
 Thro peril and foul circumstance, and blood 
 Heedless, that pain, and death were in the gift, 
 Tho coupled with high honor fatal death, 
 That saps the springs ot life, of love, of peace. 
 Eats out the heart with a concealed fire, 
 And leaves the desolate wreck, blasted, as tis, 
 By the fierce-fires of Spirit, overthrown, 
 E en by the pitiless breath of wind, it scorns! 
 
 Oh! what is Fame, that I should darken youth 
 
 The fresh attire of Morning the gay sun, 
 
 Of my young destiny, that scem d so fair, 
 
 With watching thro thc night the sweet, long night. 
 
 That fills my eyes with gentle drops, to see 
 
 Sweet, tho they flow from out the fount of tears, 
 
 Upon my heart, like dew upon the flow r, 
 
 In Ciermon s valley! Doth to it belong, 
 
 Acknowledgment mong men, in words, whose tone. 
 
 Like music, ministers unto the spirit, 
 
 Whose watchfulness is madness? No, alas! 
 
 Nor Time himself, shall venture to retrieve, 
 
 The hlb that I have lost! Yet, be this told, 
 
 In after years, when, at my fireside blaze, 
 
US JVtjgAt- Watching. 
 
 No chair shall be in waiting for my form, 
 No eye, to smile at my unlook d approach, 
 No welcome, mine however he hath fail d 
 To gain a planet s fix d sway in the sky, 
 Mong the high fires that he so oil hath watch d, 
 The star still burnt within him, and the ray 
 Shone o er him, with a splendor, that he sougJ 
 Most nobly, tho perchance, he reachM it no 
 
THE LOST PLEIAD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Not in the sky, 
 
 Where it was seen 
 
 Nor, on the white tops of the glistering wave 
 
 Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep 
 
 However green, 
 
 In its enamell d caves of mystery 
 
 Shall the bright watcher have 
 
 \ place nor once again proud station keep! 
 
 II. 
 
 Gone, gone! 
 
 O! never more, to cheer 
 
 The mariner, who hold his course alone, 
 
 On the Atlantic, thro the weary night, 
 
 When the waves turn to wa chers, and do sleep 
 
 Shall it appear 
 
 With the sweet fixedness of certain light, 
 
 Shining upon the shut eye of the blue deep? 
 
100 The lost Pleiad. 
 
 III. 
 
 O! when the shepherd on Chaldea * hills, 
 
 Watching his flocks, 
 
 Looks forth, in vain for thy first light to come, 
 
 Warning him home 
 
 From his deep sleep, among the sky-kiss d rocks 
 
 How shall he wake, when dewy silence fills 
 
 The scene, to wonder at. the weight of night, 
 
 Without the one strong beam, whose blessed light, 
 
 As to the wandering child, his native rills, 
 
 Was natural to his sight! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Vain, vain! 
 
 O! less than vain, shall he look forth 
 
 The sailor from his barque 
 
 (Howe er the North, 
 
 Doth raise his certain lamp, when tempests lower 
 
 To catch the light of the lost star again 
 
 The weary hour, 
 
 To him, shall be more weary, when the dark 
 
 Displays not the lost planet on her tower. 
 
 V. 
 
 And lone 
 
 Where its first splendor, shone 
 
The lost Pleiad. 101 
 
 Shall be that pleasant company of sta:s: 
 
 How should they know that death, 
 
 The happy glory of the immortal, mars, 
 
 When like the Earth, and all its common breath, 
 
 Extinguished are the pare beams of the sky, 
 
 Fallen from on high 
 
 And their concerted springs of harmony 
 
 Snapt rudely, and all pleasant music, gone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A strain a mellow strain, 
 Of parting music, fill d the earth And sky^- 
 The stars lamenting, in unborrowed pain, 
 That one of the selectest one s, must die 
 The brightest of their train! 
 Alas! it is the destiny 
 The dearest hope is that which first is lost, 
 The tendorest /lower is soonest nipt by frosts- 
 Arc not the flhortest-lrved, the loveliest 
 And like tke wandering orb thtt leares the sky, 
 Look they not brigfrtest, when nbout to fly, 
 The desolate spot they blest? 
 
SUMMER If XGHT- W 1 JU l>. 
 
 How soothingly, to close the sultry day, 
 Comes the soft breeze from oft the murmuring wuve 
 That break away in music and 1 feel, 
 As a new spirit were within my veins, 
 And a new life in nature. My hot frame, 
 Awakes, from the deep weariness, that fell 
 Upon me, like a cloud. A newer nerve 
 Braces my unwearied eye-lids, and I gaze, 
 And feel the gentle whisperings of night, 
 Lifting the hair upon my moisten d brows, 
 AB if a spirit faun d me. Slowly, at fits, 
 The wind ascends my lattice, and climbs in, 
 And swells the shrinking drapery of my couchjj 
 Then melts away around me, Now it comes, 
 Again, and with a perfume in its wake, 
 Gathered from spicy gardens. Some fair maid, 
 Knows not, who robs her roses of their sweets, 
 "When, at the morn, she finds them drooping low 
 From their nocturnal amours. Is it not, 
 A gentle providence, that thus provides. 
 
Summer Night- Wind. 103 
 
 With odour, like to this, the unfavored one, 
 Who else, had never known it. Pleasant breeze, 
 Misfortune well may love thee thou hast fled 
 From gayer regions lofty palaces, 
 Fair groves, and gardens of nice excellence, 
 To wanton with the lonely. It is meet 
 That he should leave his couch to welcome thee, 
 Thou art most lavish, and thou should st not steal 
 Thro a close lattice, with but half thy train, 
 When he would gather all of thee, and feel 
 Thy energies around him. Thou art sweet 
 And comest, with a mournful whispering, 
 That speaketh a glad music to the heart, 
 Jarr d by long restlessness, and out of tone, 
 From the distemper d and oppressive heat, 
 Of the long day in summer. I will sleep, 
 Beneath my window: Thou meanwhile, wilt come, 
 And fan thy wings above my throbbing brow, 
 And put aside the tangles of my hair, 
 "With a mysterious kindness. And I know, 
 That when thou bringest me the breath of flowers, 
 Thoif It bear away my sighs, and bring them back, 
 Laden with comforters, from fairy groves, 
 That fling away their loveliness to thee r 
 That they may win thee to the same embrace. 
 Thou dost bestow upon me, as I sleep. 
 
THE STARS. 
 
 "Look, wretched one, upon the stream that rolleth by the 
 dwelling of thine old age, and thou vill behold the very stars 
 that have shone on thoe in thy boyhood. 1 * 
 
 Let me look on the stars. They bring me back, 
 With strange persuasiveness, to the old time, 
 And pleasant houra of boy hood. All returns, 
 That I had long forgotten. Scarce a scene, 
 Of childish prank or merriment, but comes, 
 With all the freshness of the infant year, 
 As twere an atom of some yesterday. 
 The green, remembered at the winter night, 
 For the encounter of the rapid ball 
 The marble play, the hoop, the top and kite, 
 Each, in its regular season, has its time 
 In the revival of my boyhood, then! 
 And, as the yeais flew by as I became 
 Warmer, and more devoted fix d and strong 
 Growing in the affections, when 1 ceased 
 To grow in stature or proportion then, 
 
The Stars. 105 
 
 When life, in all its freshness, darted by, 
 
 And voices grew into a spell, that hung, 
 
 Thro the dim hours of night, about the heart, 
 
 Making it tremble strangely and blue eyes, 
 
 Were stars, that had a power over us, 
 
 As fated, dimly at nativity 
 
 And older men, were monitors, too dull 
 
 For passionate youth and reason, and all excellence 
 
 (Bating the honied sentences of lips, 
 
 That may have vied with coral, nnd have won) 
 
 Were to be gathered from one source alone, 
 
 Whoso thought and word were inspiration, life 
 
 That we had bartered life, itself, to lose! 
 
 And that hcart-madnrss that belongs to youth, 
 
 That spell upon affection thut deep light, 
 
 Which makes all other objects dark, or fills, 
 
 Absorbs, or crushes out each other light, 
 
 Is on us, as a dream, that binds us down, 
 
 And takes our reason from us: When all these, 
 
 Have been with us, and carried us away, 
 
 To strange conceits of future happiness, 
 
 But to be thought on, as delusions nil, 
 
 Yet such delusions as we still must love 
 
 When these have parted from us when the sky, 
 
 Hath lost the charm of its etherial blue, 
 
 And the nights lore their freshness, and the trees, 
 
 No longer hare a welcome sound for love 
 
100 The Star*. 
 
 And the moon wanes into a paler bright 
 
 And all the poetry that shook the leaves. 
 
 And all the perfume that was on the flower*, 
 
 Sweetness upon the winds, light in the sky. 
 
 The green of the carpetted vale, the dew, 
 
 That morning hangs on the enamel d moss 
 
 The hill-side, the acclivity, the plain 
 
 (Sweeter that Solitude was sleeping there) 
 
 Arc gone, as the last hope of misery 
 
 When the one dream of thy deluded life, 
 
 Hath left thee, to awaken not to see 
 
 The pleasant morning, hut the gloomy night, 
 
 When sight hecornes a weariness, and Hope, 
 
 No longer gathers from its barren path, 
 
 One flow r of promise when disease is nigh, 
 
 And all thy bones are racking, and thy thought, 
 
 Is offoul, nauseous, ineffectual drugs, 
 
 Which thou will take, altho thou know st in vain 
 
 And not a hand is nigh to quench thy thirst, 
 
 With one poor cup of water and thy thought 
 
 Is of the fading sky, and the bright sun, 
 
 Which thou art losing and the sable pall, 
 
 And melancholy carriage, and of those, 
 
 Who but acquire thee now, when thou art lost, 
 
 And only weep for that, which thou dost leave 
 
 And thou hast bid adieu to earthly things, 
 
 Fought thro the last, long struggle with thyself, 
 
The Stars. 107 
 
 Of resignation to extremes! death) 
 And ortcrM up thy pray r of penitence, 
 Doubtful of its acceptance, yet prepared, 
 As well as thy condition will admit, 
 For the last change in thy unhappy life 
 Look, if thou canst, from thy closed lattice forth, 
 And take thy farewell of .the calm blue sky; 
 And if the melancholy stars be there. 
 Then will the current of thy thoughts, flow back, 
 To the fair practice of thy innocent childhood, 
 And, if thou hast been wretched, thou will weep 
 Over thy recollectionsand thy tears, 
 Shall be, as a svfeet pray r, vent up to lleav n 
 
 
 
STANZAS TO IDA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sweet Ida, now upon the oca, 
 
 And far from land) and darting on, 
 I feel how much I lose in thee, 
 
 And cheerless, watch the sun go down. 
 He seta behind the distant shore, 
 
 Which I have left, and where thou art; 
 And all is dark, my path before 
 
 I lose my light, I leave my heart? 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou may st not watch, when I am gone 
 
 Thou will not weep my absence now 
 Thou art not, like myself, alone, 
 
 And hast no chill d or aching brow. 
 Many will watch thy weary hours, 
 
 And, should disease, with venom d breath. 
 Enter thy gay and happy bow rs, 
 Will chase away, and conquer, death. 
 
Stanzas to Ida. 
 
 III. 
 
 For me, alas! what hopes arise, 
 
 What prayers ascend, to bless my fate 
 Shall mine be calm and breezy skies, 
 
 Or, docs the stroke of wo, await! 
 I sit upon the bounding bark, 
 
 And strike my lyre of wo, to thee 
 The clouds come down, the night is dark, 
 
 And, moans aloud, the sullen sea! 
 
 IV. 
 
 According, with my loneliness, 
 
 How sweet its .nurmura are, to me! 
 The voice of storms, the sea s distress, 
 
 Than music s song, unless with thee! 
 0! could I send my thought abroad,- 
 
 To touch thy soul, or meet thine ear, 
 Thou dst see those passions all outlaw d, 
 
 That winds now mock) and waters hear. 
 
 V. 
 
 On, with the broken lyre, and heart, 
 Thou bark of destiny, away 
 
 Swift as thy shooting prow can part, 
 The whistling winds and mounting spray 
 14 
 
110 Stanzas to Ida. 
 
 Ah! little reck at thou,in thy flight, 
 The song I pour upon the sea; 
 
 And thou wilt hail the morning s light, 
 Anil I oh, Ida, aught but thee. 
 
DIRGE OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 The leaves, 
 
 The pleasant and green leaves, that hung 
 
 Abroad, in the gay summer winds, are dead 
 
 And earth receives 
 
 The last of their brown honors, idly strung, 
 
 On the old stems, to which, they fondly clung, 
 
 Within her bed 
 
 I marvel that their last dirge be not said! 
 
 The breeze, shall sing it, as he leaves the main, 
 
 To scour the plain; 
 
 And goes to rest among he tall, old trees; 
 
 How will he sigh, with pain, 
 
 To find his evening couch of luxuries 
 
 Wither d upon the ground, where he hath lain. 
 
 Oh! then, 
 
 With a deep mournfulness, and plaintive fall, 
 
 Shall he lament, 
 
 That they are cast awa; , beyond his call, 
 
 And he not present at their burial 
 
112 Dirge of the Leaves. 
 
 Nor, to prevent 
 
 The eager frost from coming down that gleu. 
 
 Thus sings he, in his grief, 
 The last lament above the wither d leaf: 
 *O? never more, 
 
 Unburied honors of the pilgrim year, 
 Shall ye in all your morning dress of greeu 
 Appear! 
 
 The summer time is o er, 
 That we have seen 
 And all your early loveliness, how brief! 
 I shall forget ye on some other shore, 
 .But o er your fruitless, melancholy bier, 
 I leave my tear. 
 
 Away! 
 
 After that brief lament he spreads his wmgg, 
 
 The licensed rover of far Indian seas 
 
 Now, that the hidden charm that led astray, 
 
 No longer clings, 
 
 With blossoming odor, wooing his wild flight; 
 
 And to the sunset dwelling of the day, 
 
 With the sad form of Night, 
 
 Speeds on his way that melancholy breeze! 
 
THE LAST I:EAr. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the last of all the leaves, that Spring in rick 
 
 array, 
 Had sent, in plenitude of power, to woo his young 
 
 bride, May 
 When the Sun, at morning rose and shone, without 
 
 a single cloud, 
 And the pale cold Moon, at night, alone, walk d 
 
 consciously and proud; 
 It hung upon a pleasant tree,that now, was stripp d 
 
 and bare, 
 And it of all its family, the last, and saddest 
 
 there 
 Thus sung it, in a mournful tone, while winds were 
 
 sighing by, 
 And the cold, November nights came down, neatli 
 
 a bleak and wintry sky. 
 
 II. 
 
 -I am the last of all my race I ve seen my breth 
 ren Cade 
 
Jll The Last Leof. 
 
 The bright ones, I no longer trace, that once these 
 boughs array d: 
 
 There wasa spirit in the air, upon the gentle morn, 
 
 When I, and all my brethren there, in dewy green 
 were born, 
 
 That shook its fragrant wings around, till light 
 from every bough, 
 
 StreamM o er the green and mantled ground, that 
 ia so lonely now 
 
 And summer leaves, and summer birds, com 
 mingling, fill d the sky, 
 
 So bright ye saw, and deem ye not, twas cruel 
 they should die? 
 
 III. 
 
 "Theirs, were the sunny hours they grew, when 
 mocker-mimics throng, 
 
 Our green and mantling branches through, to war 
 ble forth each song; 
 
 And many a shining insect came, and many a bird, 
 whose note, 
 
 Of morning vigor, nought could tame, on evening 
 airs to float, 
 
 When thro our forms at eventide, the icy moon 
 beams come, 
 
 And fairy shapes are seen to glide, when human 
 sounds are dumb, 
 
The Last Leaf. J15 
 
 Singing those mournful madrigals, too fine for 
 
 mortal ear, 
 But which, at whispering intervals, it was our lot 
 
 to hear. 
 
 IV. 
 "Mine was the fate to see them bloom, in fellowship 
 
 and pride 
 Mine was the eye, beheld their tomb would, with 
 
 them, I had died! 
 For, not a bird, now comes to make his shelter in 
 
 my boughs, 
 And gentle lovers now forsake the spot that heard 
 
 their vows 
 The roving Zephyrs too, that came, with roset 
 
 breath and bloom, 
 Now scorch me with a blast of flame, or chill me 
 
 o er with gloom; 
 And sad, I watch, in lonesomeness, the dark 
 
 ground bleak and bare, 
 Or, strew d with shapes I love not less, than when 
 
 they comrades were. 
 
 V. 
 
 "Oh! soon hall come the darker hours, and I 
 
 shall be with them, 
 The green-eyed leaves, the rose-lipped flowers, 
 
 long shaken from each stem 
 
116 The Last Leaf. 
 
 Last night, a Tempest shook around, the branches 
 o er my head, 
 
 And whirl d my brethren from the ground, that 
 long since had been dead 
 
 And well I knew, the boding came, to warn me to 
 prepare, 
 
 A fellowship with them to claim, beyond all chan 
 ges here, 
 
 And all the streams of life withdraw, and colder 
 I become, 
 
 No breeze shall woo, no sun shall thaw, and now" 
 the leaf was dumb! 
 
 VI. 
 
 That night, a Tempest shook the wood, the mut 
 tering sky was dread, 
 
 And he, who heard that last leaf sing, well knew 
 that it was dead 
 
 Yet, came he at the morning s dawn, and stood 
 beneath the tree, 
 
 And look d,in vain, for it was gone, that latest leaf 
 to see; 
 
 But in the tree there was a bird, at intervals that 
 sung, 
 
 And mournful, were the notes he heard, from that 
 strange warbler s tongue, 
 
The Last Leaf. 117 
 
 And much he mused upon the strain, in after sea 
 sons long 
 The leaf shall meet its race again, the burden 
 
 of that song 
 
MORNING IN THE FOREST 
 
 I. 
 
 The forest hath a sweet and mournful tale, 
 In its green foliage, and whispering breeze, 
 
 That sighing, with a wild, unearthly gale, 
 Maketh soft music with the tall old trees; 
 
 A solemn blending of the passing hour, 
 
 With gentle themes and accents of strange pow r. 
 
 II. 
 
 And morning comes among them, with a still, 
 And gliding mystery, on the breaking grey, 
 
 Of the fresh East; and the low murmuring rill, 
 Is strongest heard as ushering in the day, 
 
 Who, mounted on his chariot of fire, [spire. 
 
 Makes the tall forest glow with many a burning 
 
 III. 
 
 This is a spot if there hath ever been, 
 
 As ancient ballads tell, in legends sooth, 
 Such forms as are not earthly, earthward seen, 
 
Morning in the Forest. 119 
 
 With shapes of light, and terms of endless youth, 
 Then do I ween, that this should be the spot, 
 Where they should come and yet, I see thorn not! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And fancy hath been with me, to deceive 
 The sterner reason of my sense, and show 
 
 To youthful expectation, forms that live, 
 Buf in the fttiry Ian4 of eld I trow; 
 
 For here they come not, the I hnv bowM down, 
 
 From ev ning till the grey-eyed morn came on. 
 
 V. 
 And sure no fitter spot had ftttry so*ght, 
 
 To pnrtnu Urr light gambol in thr grass, 
 Glowing like gorgeous cutyttlry, tnwroflght, 
 
 Doth the poor hand of humble art surpass 
 Nature, hath sure boa* laboring here, to spread, 
 Meet couch, and puiple, for poctk bod. 
 
 ir. 
 
 And I will Uy me down* *fKS if fije^e come 
 Wo fnirf to delight m% with her 0n^, 
 
 There is a marvd in the retiring gtourt, 
 
 That will, m-miwr-Fnnry fl tho^glit, prolong 
 
 A spiritual pretovtte, AM- nbro*d, 
 
 His work* around mo I havo been with Cod 
 
STAXfZJLS TO IDA. 
 I. 
 
 To leave thee, when my hope is gone, 
 
 Might well demand a tear, 
 Did I not know, that there are none, 
 
 Who would esteem it dear : 
 This mournful thought to memory clings. 
 
 That all its hopes may be, 
 Like healing pow r, in sealM-up springs, 
 
 That none may find or see! 
 
 ! 
 II. 
 
 A bird is on the bough at night, 
 
 And mournful is its tone; 
 It tells, that ere the morning s light) 
 
 It shall be left alone! 
 That the young mate, whose purple wing, 
 
 Had with it, skim d the seas, 
 Is in the sky, a dibtaut thing, 
 
 And sporting on the breeze. 
 
Stanzas to Ida. 121 
 
 Hi. 
 
 That lone one, left behind, to make 
 
 Its fortune, tried in vain, 
 Will ne er by bow r, or covered lake, 
 
 Find that young wing again! 
 On tallest pine-tree pcrchM, it looki, 
 
 When morning s glance is fair, 
 And inongst the leaves, and in the brooks, 
 
 To find its shadow there! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Across the deaert, it has braced 
 
 Its sad wing, tc pursue 
 The fitful shadow, seldom traced, 
 
 But ever held in view. 
 Ere morning s buskins brush the dews r 
 
 It journiea on its flight; 
 Where will it gather food, or choose 
 
 Its resting place, by night! 
 
 V. 
 
 The lone one sat within a tree, 
 
 A pleasant tree, I ween, 
 For, there the breeze came wooingly, 
 
 Among the branches green; 
 And from a stream, that ran below, 
 
122 Stanzas to Ida, 
 
 Came up a pleasant sound; 
 Like voices, long forbid to flow, 
 Now glad to be unbound ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Thy heart is weary, not thy wing- 
 
 Why dost thou not pursue 
 O er earth and sea, the kindred thing 
 
 To which thy birth-plume grew! 
 Thy plumage will have lost ita grace, 
 
 Thine eye its* sunny light, 
 Unless thou tak -t thy morning race, 
 
 And mak jt tb/ bow r at nigkt. 
 
 . 
 
 VII. 
 "The world has many forests, leaves 
 
 Innumerable, shroud 
 Thy form; the eye, that fvr tm e grieves 
 
 Will look not in the crowd: 
 Ascending, in the far blue sphere, 
 
 The highest in thy spring, 
 Go up! the bright, blue heaven is there, 
 
 And meet thy kindred wing. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All day hath it the ocean funn d. 
 On pinion weariless, 
 
Stanzas to Ida. 123 
 
 And now, as it doth seek the land, 
 
 Do tliou be there, to bless! 
 Its spirit, like tbiue ewn, will sek 
 
 The ev ning sun s descent, 
 \nd when thy winj grows weary, weak, 
 
 Thou shall Ue still un*p*mt! 
 
 IX. 
 
 And if thy fortune baffle thee, 
 
 And thou shalt find it not, 
 Be glad, for that thy destiny, 
 
 Hath so decreed thy lot. 
 For disappointment shall bo hush d, 
 
 And thou no more be sad, 
 And the weary spirit, once so cruah d 
 
 Shall yet be more than glad!" 
 
 X. 
 
 Thus spoke the spirit of that brook- 
 In accents to my ear, 
 
 But vainly, might my bosom, look 
 For tones of comfort there! 
 
 How worse than idle is the strain, 
 That offers peace to one, 
 
 Whom words shall never cheat again 
 Whom words have led undone! 
 
124 Stanzas to Ida. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Give me, if comfort thou would st giv5 5 
 
 Dull spirit, from thy store 
 Again, in innocence, to live, 
 
 My hours of childhood o er 
 Take from me sight, and sense, and speech, 
 
 All beings that have breath, 
 What I have ever learnt, untcach 
 
 Ay, spirit give me death! 
 
TO THE SAME. 
 
 I 
 Dear phantom of my midnight hour, 
 
 That haunt st my couch, and fill s! my sleep, 
 With hopes, that long have lost their pow r, 
 
 And love, whose buried form, I weep! 
 Before my eye thou Btand st alone. 
 
 And on my soul thy looks arise, 
 So strong, I sometimes think, I ve flown, 
 
 To join thee, in thy native skies; 
 But, that amidst those thoughts of heav n, 
 
 The tear has stolen into my eye. 
 And I have thus been coldly driven, 
 
 Back to the earth, I cannot fly! 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet spirit, when that earth is still, 
 
 And all the busy hum of men 
 Is hush d in slumber, dost thou fill 
 
 My chamber, with thy presence, then? 
 Tell me, yet tell me not, I dream 
 
 Tis sweet to think that thou art near, 
 16 
 
126 Stanzas to Ida. 
 
 And that my hours of watching teem, 
 With converse, once, and still so dear: 
 
 Let me still think, as I have thought, 
 That thou sit st by my couch at night, 
 
 And weav st the visions, kindly wrought, 
 To soothe my heart, to bless my sight. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh! dearer, spirit, as thou ait, 
 
 Thus all immortal, (therefore dead, 
 Forever, to my watchful heart) 
 
 Than all the living world thou st tied 
 The love thou et cherish d, caunot d* - 
 
 Alas! that broken hearts should beat! 
 While Hope, though crush d by Memory, 
 
 Builds up his altar of deceit 
 Altho assured thou art no more, 
 
 He still uproars hia grateful shrine, 
 And vows, that on that dreamless shore, 
 
 Thy heart shall meet again with mine! 
 
TO THE SAME. 
 
 I. 
 
 To thee, howe cr in early days, 
 I struck the willing notes of praise, 
 
 Nor grudged the grateful strain, 
 I dare not now attune one song, 
 To love, remembered, 0! how long, 
 
 Thro, happiness and pain! 
 
 II. 
 
 Thine old dominion o er my heart, 
 Thou null mointain Bt in every part, 
 
 As firmly as before; 
 
 Yet, ah! the dream of hope which came, 
 Of old, to warm it into flame, 
 
 Shall never warm it more! 
 
 i 
 
 III. 
 
 Should not the dream, the fear, the pain, 
 The dread of love s unhappy reign, 
 
 Be o ei 4 , when Hope has n>d; 
 When thou art lost with all the charm?, 
 
128 Stanzas to Ida. 
 
 That wooed me to thy snowy ar 
 And memory lives instead! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas! my destiny, is still 
 
 A greater tyrant than my will, 
 
 Since love remains alor.e 
 And o er my heart, and in my brain, 
 Exerts a wild and weary reign, 
 
 And will not now begone. 
 
 V. 
 
 Fond wretch! that like a pilgrim, 
 Return d in age from foreign lands, 
 
 Within his ruin d dome; 
 And stirs the ashes with his cane, 
 In hope to find, once more the fane, 
 
 That mark dhis childhood s home! 
 
 VI. 
 
 A greater luin even than they, 
 For none of those, of yesterday, 
 
 Who circled him around, 
 Are there, to greet him with a tear, 
 And say, his heart is buried, where 
 
 Yori hillock breaks the ground! 
 
Stanzas to Ida 129 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thus love within my lonely heart, 
 Stirs the sad ruins in each part, 
 
 And from his search, discerns 
 That Hope is buried long, and cold 
 What truth and time, too late, unfold, 
 
 And lore, too early, learns t 
 
STAWZAS. 
 
 1. 
 
 Cold, in its solitary cell, 
 
 My heart reposes, lapt in tears; 
 Or, rises, for awhile, to tell 
 
 How slow, the chain of being, wears; 
 Impatient of the long delay, 
 
 And fill d with deep and restless thirst, 
 Why does it linger thus a>yay, 
 
 Nor spurn the chain at once, and burst. 
 Thus fro/.en in its onward course, 
 
 And chilPd with early, fatal blight, 
 Even love s own power, hath lost its force, 
 
 And beauty, were a shade to sight. 
 
 ii. 
 
 To be, is not a pain so deep, 
 But being thus! and not to be, 
 
 Conies on me, with a snail-like creep, 
 That must not cine be taught by mo! 
 
 Ah would it were, that we could urge 
 
Stanzas. 131 
 
 The stern and tedious time along, 
 As barks, upon the restless surge, 
 
 Driven, with a tide, unmatched, and strong. 
 Oh, not for me, the crime in thought 
 
 Yet twere a boon I ma/ not fear 
 Twere suie, that howsoe er unsought, 
 
 Death were not shrunk from, were he nearl 
 
TO THTRZA. 
 
 I. 
 Forgive me, if my looks are sad, 
 
 When them art free from aught like wo, 
 I would be, if I could be glad, 
 
 And thou, alone, can st make me so. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lot but thy cheek be pale awhile, 
 
 And dim thine eye, and cloud thy mien, 
 
 And let thy lip forbear to smile, 
 And be as sad, as I have been! 
 
SONNETS.* 
 
 Come down, ye dark brow d ministers of thought, 
 
 Ye that are of the mountains, and do tend 
 Upon the morning, when with clouds overwrought, 
 
 Her brow d*th blacken in the storms, tht t blend, 
 With her strong pinions lifting her along, 
 
 From her screner beauties, into gloom. 
 Descend, ye dark indwellers with the strong, 
 Fe of the magic mystery and song, 
 
 Whose voice is on the ice-crags of the Swiss, 
 Where Freedom built her aerie, and the bloom 
 Of her untramrnell d freshness, sent abroad 
 Life on the nations, till they ownM the God! 
 
 There is a spirit that belong! to this 
 Him of the lyre and spell, that worships ye unaw d! 
 
 *Under thu bead, will b found aotne two or three piece* 
 in the dramatic blank, belonging, originally to a couple of 
 Tragedies, which in my twenty hrst year, I committed to the 
 flames. How the passages quoted, were preserved from the 
 fate of their companions, 1 am unable to say. They fell, at 
 a later period, under my view, and with some little altera 
 tions, are DOW published. 
 
 17 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 Oh! sable-vested Night! how dost thou bring 
 Strange fancies to my soul peopling the hour 
 Of vacancy anu midnight) with a pow r 
 Of mystery and thought, to which I cling, 
 With an enthusiast s worship, and my heart 
 Drinks in the enchantment of thy solemn spells, 
 Till I become, of thy own world, a part 
 And all my thought, at reason s rule rebels. 
 Each sound that only jars the Zephyr s pinion, 
 To me, has something, in that strange, sweet time, 
 Wrought by some minstrel-god, in his dominion 
 Of spell and song, and fresh, and morning clime 
 And when I wake, my cheek and eye s dim light, 
 Proclaim, \ have been wandering all the night! 
 
 Can I not lay me down, at once, and die? 
 Oh! there is peace within the quiet grave! 
 
 No hopes to cheat, no aspirations high, 
 No heart to throb, no unguish d brain to rave 
 
 ( shall not shudder at the approaching ill, 
 As the young leaf, which doth anticipate, 
 The corning of the cold, which is its fate, 
 
 \nd shrinks, without a murmur, to its will. 
 
 Dreams shall not win me unto happiness, 
 
 To crush me, when I waken up, the more; 
 Nor shall the visions, that once came, to bless, 
 Hear different features,then from what they wow; 
 
Sonnets. 135 
 
 The breeze may whistle o er my grave, in vin, 
 I must feel pleasure, when removed from pain. 
 
 Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead - 
 Let not fools scoff above me, and proclaim. 
 That I had, vainly, struggled after fame, 
 
 Till tho good oil of my young life was shed; 
 
 And 1 became a mockery, and fell 
 
 Into the yellow leaf, before my fime; 
 A sacrr^e, even in my earliest prime, 
 
 To that, which thir.n d the heav os, and peopled bell! 
 
 I feel my spirit fed upon my irir., 
 
 As a disease within me, that still grows, 
 As I incline unto my last repose, 
 
 A vulturous, and all undying worm 
 
 Let fools not mock me, when I am no more 
 
 And yet I ask no friendship, to deplore! 
 
 Ambition owns no friend yet be tliou tnine 
 I have not much to win thcc, yet if song, 
 However humble, may a name prolong,. 
 
 My lay shall seek to give a life to thine! 
 
 Let this reward thee for thy kindly thought 
 Tis all I ask of thee thus, when my yearF 
 
 Are ripen d to their full, or early wrought, 
 To a short term of being, and ray tears, 
 
 Haply for me, are staid and 1, at rest, 
 
136 Sonnets. 
 
 Think of me kindly when men utter things, 
 Which wrong my name and to it darkly clings, 
 Shadowing its purity do thou attest, 
 Mine eye was on the sun I could not bend 
 To the dull clouds, when I might still ascend! 
 
 To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life 
 The fair sky shall wane from me the bright sun 
 Shall lend no heat to cheer me and the breeze, 
 That comes so winningly about me now, 
 Shall only stir the long grass on my grave. 
 The moon will rest upon me, in her walks, 
 And I, that loved to watch her, will not Bee, 
 One glance of the sweet picture of her smile. 
 
 To-morrow let me tell it thee to day 
 Take this small token, to the gaze of her 
 Whose name thou here behold st. I ve written on t 
 Some magical lines. Do thou observe the face 
 With which she reads them and if she shed no tear, 
 It will be well, thou canst not tell me so! 
 
 The barque is ready, for your carriage hence, 
 My friend and you are now about to tread 
 The English shore aga n. Alas! I sigh, 
 When aught diverts my thought to my own landi 
 For in my heart a labor lies conceai d. 
 
Sonnets. 137 
 
 That is not the less irksome. I ve had dreams, 
 Eustace and, tho I would not be a boy, 
 They ve had much weight upon me, and I feel 
 A strong forecast, that I shall never more, 
 Be, on the English shore, a visitor. 
 I have a sister Eustace, you will find 
 At Sheffield bid her be of cheer, I pray, 
 For I am well. Be sure and send her this 
 Tis a small token, but to her enough 
 Since, tis the giver s thought, and not his gift) 
 The token carries with it. Be her friend, 
 As you have been her brother s he, I feel, 
 Will need nor hate, nor friendship from you more. 
 
 Ay, I have heard enough 
 
 Ye men of Rome, yet not as Rome has been! 
 
 I ve heard enough ye cannot tell me more, 
 
 In all your volubility of Hpecch, 
 
 Were your time lengthen d to eternity! 
 
 Te would depose Manilius! do it then, 
 
 Ye dogs, and leap into his state, at once, 
 
 And growl and battle with yourselves, for bones, 
 
 That dogs have pluck d before ye Jackal troops, 
 
 That have a nose for carrion, find can scent 
 
 Your bruit age o er the Tiber, at its swell. 
 
 I ll hear no more from ye ye are too foul, 
 And taint mjr garden air: now get ye gone 
 
138 Sonnets. 
 
 Depose Manilius, send him into exile 
 Tell him to shake the dust from off hi* feel, 
 Nor curse ye all, twere waste of honest breath, 
 And like the holy blood, so often shed, 
 TVere less than thrown away, on thankless Rome 
 
 Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams 
 Upon my pillow, and my littlo child, 
 IV ho lay, like Innocence, upon my arm, 
 Turn d, discontentedly, beneath the glare, 
 And her sweet violet eye-lids, half unclosed 
 Till I, with cautious hand, removed her face, 
 And press d her to my uoaoni, and she sunk, 
 Into a breathing slumber but her voice, 
 As if her sense were conscious of my care, 
 Whispered most audibly, yet faintly too, 
 Father in her half broken modes of speech! 
 
 Kind spirits! but it was the sweetest sound, 
 That ever took my sad heart by surprise 
 And, (ho ashamed of such unmanliness, 
 I felt a lurking weakness in my eye, 
 And press M her closer to my breast again. 
 
 It was a picture of much loveliness 
 A picture, men would love to look upon, 
 Tho seldom so permitted. A sweet child, 
 That laughM in the possession of his prize, 
 
Sonnets. 139 
 
 Lay in its mother s firms, nnd drew its milk, 
 And nutriment, nnd life, from a half hid, 
 And half revcal d, and delicate, white rcund, 
 That peom d an orb of purity and peace! 
 Its little lip, and full and glowing cheek 
 Were of one colour rich and young and fresh 
 And only such, are heautiful! Its cyo 
 Glanced archly on its property the Imp, 
 As if it kn*w such things were not for all! 
 And then it playfully upturned the drexs, 
 And pcep d beneath, and with its little hand*, 
 Possess d itself of all, and placed its head 
 Upon its natural pillow, and look d up 
 In that sweet mother s face, and smiled with jojr, 
 And knew not, hippy Ignorant! the tears 
 Upon that mother s cheek, for it, were shed! 
 
 My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone, 
 Strangers and time, will have untaught thee all, 
 Thy father s love; ere thou wilt well hare known 
 Thou had st a father, tho hia name thou lt call 
 And I shall leave behind me, nought, that may 
 Teach thee thy loss, unless it be my song 
 And that, perchance, will scarcely linger long, 
 To keep my memory coupled with my lay ! 
 Sad lay! invoked in sorrow, tuned by wrong, 
 Harsh and unmusical, yet sadly deep 
 
140 Sonnets. 
 
 Such iotes as tempests waken, when they sweep 
 O ei wind-harps, with a pinion swift and strong! 
 Breaking perchance, each string, yet lifting high, 
 A dying shriek of mournful melody. 
 
 1 saw it in my dream. O ! could ! task 
 My sense again to slumber, nor awake 
 So long as the fair vision were in sight. 
 I will not do it so much wrong, to make 
 My rude words, show the picture thou dost ask; 
 But I should feel it poorly, if delight 
 Be only in my feature for I feel, 
 From the devoted counsels of my heart, 
 That I should look enjoyment, nor appeal 
 To low discourse of language, to bepaint 
 My morning vision of calm happiness: 
 That dream, which it would madden, to reveal, 
 And which even song would render spiritless 
 It was such deep, such fine, heart-touching ten 
 derness. 
 
 Thou hast enamor d me of woodland scenes, 
 Good shepherd, for thou telPst them with i ~ ir 
 That might have won a wilder thought < ar, 
 Than his, who sits beside thee, while he gleans 
 Thy secret from thee, of sweet happiness- 
 Inborn content, and nuiat humbleness 
 
Sonnets. 141 
 
 That cannot be overthrown by rising high, 
 
 And so nttrncteth not the gaze of envious eye, 
 
 Thy blessings are of that serener kind, 
 
 Which, as they call no passions forth, must bo 
 
 Only the lighter curl that breaks the sea 
 
 Into a pleasant murmur no rough wind 
 
 Is there, to rouse the sleeping ocean s form, 
 
 And call the whirlwind forth, and usher in the storm. 
 
 Ah! me, that sleeping^ like Endymion, 
 Upon a gentle hill-slope, flow r-o erstrewn, 
 I could be laid, to wait the coming moon, 
 And her sweet smile, as a rich garment, don. 
 Let the winds be around me and the dell, 
 That breaks into the valley, catch the sound, 
 And with its many voices, send around 
 Aerial music, till the wizard spell 
 Awake the night-nymphs to attend my sleep 
 And she, my mistress, from her ocean cell, 
 Arise on the blue mountains, with a swell 
 Of those sweet noioes from the caverns deep, 
 Wherein the mermaiden and mermen dwell 
 Then, from my bruised couch of hill-flow rs, lei 
 me leap. 
 
 Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills, 
 And looking on the waters let me go 
 18 
 
142 Sonnets. 
 
 I would not seek my couch, while such a show 
 Of beauty, all the free empyreal, fills 
 The city is behind me it w bright, 
 So liberal and and so lavish is the night, 
 As conscious of he riches, she bestows 
 Her wealth in wide profusion, where she goes 
 Downwards, the shadows of the houses, cast, 
 Are sick, with the gay loveliness of night, 
 And as her living beams arc rushing past, 
 How do they shrink before her fairy light. 
 Let me go forth for this must be the hour, 
 IV hen gentle spirits walk, and fairy forms have 
 pow r. 
 
 Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround 
 Thy rest, young pilgrim! pleasant breezes come, 
 And bear the odors of the blossoming ground, 
 And flap their wings above thy cheek s rich bloom! 
 And, O! that life may glide away with thee, 
 In infantile enjoyments! while I pray, 
 Above thy baby-couch, that thcu may st be 
 Guarded by angels, innocent as they, 
 I would deny thee all the hopes that crowd 
 O er childhood s pranking hours. Thou ohouM st 
 
 not dream 
 Of aught in store, where childhood could be 
 
 proud 
 
Sonnets. 148 
 
 Nor, should deceitful fancy lend one beam, 
 To dazzle thee in the far coming years, 
 IV hen life may be all bitterness and tears. 
 
 Come, sit thee down beside me I would rest, 
 Upon this bed of sedge the rivulet near, 
 Meanwhile, will send up to the watchful ear, 
 Some gentle murmurs, like a song, represt, 
 By tears of the sad heart that pours it out! 
 I do remember, it is now about 
 
 A score of summers, since I laid me down, 
 Beside this little streamlet, as I left 
 
 The noise and the confusion of yon town^ 
 To which 1 now return of wealth, bereft, 
 But visions, full and flowing, yet to come; 
 My heart was glowing then in ptimal bloom 
 This rivulet, glided on, as it doth now 
 Yet mark the life of changes on my brow! 
 
 The spirits that do dress the flow fs with dew, 
 And trip it, neath the moon, upon the green, 
 Have been with me, and I have heard and seen 
 Their gossamer forms among t\em, some I knew. 
 Theirs, were most pleasant duties, for they crept 
 Beside me, as upon my couch, I slept, 
 And built fair images to glad my sight 
 Then, with tweet songs, they hush d me to repose , 
 
144 Sonnets. 
 
 For I had partly waken d, neath the light 
 Of a rich vision which, I could not close 
 My eyes, for looking on ; until they won 
 The slumber, I had frighted, hack upon 
 My heavy lids, and so I past the night 
 Ah! me, I would that this long day were done. 
 
 I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this 
 Our fancies are most frolicsome, and oft 
 They bear our weakened images aloft, 
 Where they do lose themselves in very bliss. 
 Beshrew me, but it is a pleasant spot, 
 For fairies to make merry on, untill 
 The steeple s clock, from yonder grey brow d hill, 
 Doth dissipate their airy sports, I wot: 
 Yet, till the dawning, they may brush the dew, 
 And it may be, perchance, in day-light too, 
 Albeit we see them not the light of day, 
 Perchance, may take their lesser light away, 
 As the stars fade, when the young moon is fair, 
 And yet, wo know, they still are shining there! 
 
FAREWELL TO IDA/ 
 
 I. 
 
 Farewell, Farewell! the mournful tie, 
 
 That bound so lonp, is broke at last; 
 And nought is left me but to die 
 
 Or live, and bear alone, the blast. 
 And either fate twere death to gam, 
 
 Since from this exile never free: 
 Ah! death itself, were less than pain, 
 
 Since life has torn me thus from thee! 
 
 II. 
 
 The words of comfort, they bestow 
 
 How worse than idle to my ear! 
 Since I must feel, where er I go, 
 
 That I have more to hope, than fear! 
 The worst is known, and all the rest, 
 
 Go where I will, I may not fly 
 For life assures my lonely breast, 
 
 That all that s left me, is to die. 
 
146 Farewell to Ida. 
 
 III. 
 
 The truth too well assur d once known 
 
 I might confide in winds and waves; 
 And dream that Hope s not wholly gone, 
 
 And peace, not only in our graves. 
 This idle word, even this, dear love, 
 
 T were less than kind, should reach thy heart- 
 Alas! our tears can only prove, 
 
 He meet, and have but met, to part. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTE 1, PAGE 7. 
 "the Gothic Roderick s reign." 
 
 Roderick, b\ Historians, termed the last or the Goths; 
 ;e Dr. Southey s Poem on the subject. The fate of Rod 
 erick has never been positively known. He is supposed 
 to have been drowned in his flight from the field of Xeres de 
 la Frontera, when the Moors made the conquest of his high 
 ly romantic country. 
 
 NOTE 2, PAGE 7. 
 "Her own base son, 1 Ifc. 
 
 Julian, the father of the Spanish Helena, Cava, or as she 
 is ?ometimes called by the Moorish Historians, Florindt. 
 There is no country so rich in material for Poetry and the 
 Drama, as old Spain, at the period to which we refer, and 
 after No country, in the details of whose history, so much 
 of genuine romance may be *aid to mingle we wonder the 
 field should be BO little explored. 
 
 NOTE 3, PAGE 8. 
 
 "A beacon light to death and flame." 
 There is something even ludicrous in the strange union, 
 which the Spanish adventurers in Mexico, contrived to make 
 of religious devotion and enthusiasm,, and their o^n blood 
 thirsty and ambitious project*. The banner of Cortes, ac 
 cording to Robertson, whose work, by the way, has all thfi 
 merit of the romance, added to the correctness and generrl 
 truth of the history, had upon it a large cross, with tliis i i- 
 cription, "Let us follow the cross, for under this sign shall 
 w conquer." The "Inhoc siqno vince*" of Cons amiue, 
 may be forgiven, when we learn the character of the Chris- 
 
148 Able*. 
 
 tian Pagan; but iruly.it would be difficult to find, in the whole 
 annals of audacity, a similar instance of impudence. The 
 finger of devotion guiding to blood shed and murder. 
 
 NOTE 4, PACK 9. 
 Guatimozin. 
 
 This brave Indian, appears in all the characteristics of a 
 hero of Romance, fully worthy of the middle ages. AAer 
 warring against Cortes, with all the undeviating firmness, 
 joined to the experience of the veteran, we find him, at all 
 times calm, dignified and manly ; neither too much exhilarated 
 when crowned with conquest, nor prostrated by the reverses, 
 of defeat. The following passage from Robertson, may 
 show this: "When conducted to Cortes, he appealed, nei 
 ther with the sullen fierceness of a barbarian, nor with tho 
 dejection of a suppliant. "I have done," said he, "what 
 became a monarch. I have defended my people to tho la -t 
 extremity. Nothing now remains but to die. Take this 
 dagger," laying his hand on ono which Cortes wore, "plant 
 it in my breast, and put an end to a life which can no longer 
 be of use." Vol. ii. p. 48, 49. 
 
 NOTE 5, PAGE 9. 
 " Childrtn of the. bright sun." 
 
 The sun has been usually the lint object of worship among 
 all barbarous nations, as the supposed, and only visible 
 source of life, light, heat, &c. but the Mexicans and Peru 
 vians went still further and claimed to bo immediately de 
 scended from it. Their altars, dedicated to its worship, were 
 never honored with any thing less worthy than human beings. 
 
 NOTE 6, PAGE 9. 
 
 "Aof even the rhancc remains to flit t 
 
 But that is not a thought for thte." 
 Amidst vicissitudes and reverses that would have crushed 
 any humbler spirit, the energies of Cortes, never for a single 
 moment forsook him. Within an enemy s walls, iurround- 
 e<l by men of his own nation, jealous of his power, and por- 
 tually thwarting him by machinations and treasons he rose 
 superior to circumstances, and seemed invigorated by every 
 overthrow. 
 
Notes. 149 
 
 NOTE 7, PAGE 9. 
 -"TTieu God / war," IfC. 
 
 The fearful picture given by Robertson, cannot be surpass 
 ed in licuon. "On a signal given, iho priest in the principal 
 temple struck the great drum con^ecra cd to the God of war. 
 No sooner did tho Mexicans hear "s doleful sound, calculat 
 ed .o inspire (hem with contempt of death and enthusiastic 
 ardor, than they ru?hcd upon tho enemy with frantic rage, 
 &c." and again, after their \ictory, they v tho Spaniards) 
 found that forty of their fellow -soldiers had fallen into the 
 hands of the enemy, he proceeds:--" Tho approach of tho 
 night, though it delivered the dejected Spaniards from the 
 attacks of tho enemy, ushered in, what wag hardly less griev 
 ous, tho noi* 1 of their barbarous triumph, and of the horrid 
 festivals with which they celebrated their victory. E-ery 
 quarter of the city was illuminated, the great temple shono 
 with such peculiar splendor, that the Spaniards could plain 
 ly t*co the people in motion, und the priests busy in hastening 
 the preparations for the death of the prisoners. Through 
 the gloom, they fancied that hey discerned their compan 
 ions b^ the whiteness of their * i:is,as they were stript nai\ed, 
 and compelled to d.ince before the image of the God to 
 whom they were otlered They hdvrd tho shrieks of those 
 who were sacrificed, and thought that thev could distinguish 
 tach unhappy victim by tfic well- known sound of his voice." 
 
 NOTE 8, PAGE 19. 
 * Put firt unto tht brijfantinc." 
 
 The fleet with which Cones sailed for New Spain, was 
 destroyed by his orders, but at a much earlier period than 
 that to which tho Poem has reference. The crisis, of ho 
 Poem, however, requiring i* where it is, I have used tho 
 license commonly conceded to the writers of fiction, by 
 which History may be pcrvcned at pleasure. After rating 
 the intrigues by which Cortes prevailed on his men, to idopt 
 this measure, (tho dcstruc ion of,ihe fleet, Robertson pro 
 ceeds to say "Thus, from an effort of magnanimity, to 
 which there is nothing parallel in history, five hundred men 
 voluntarily consented to be shut up in a hostile countn , filled 
 with powerful and unknown na ions; and having pred -i-icd 
 every means of escape, left themselves without nny resource, 
 
150 Notes. 
 
 Inn their own valor and perseverance." Hist. Am. vol i. 
 j>. 414. 
 
 NOTE 9, PACE 28. 
 "JDw / rtpoe oil flower*" 
 
 According to the Historian, I have here been guilty of a 
 much greater violation of the fact thai) may well be passed 
 over. Upow the final conquest of Mexico, and before Gua- 
 timo/.in had yet beco made prisoner, he ordered all of his 
 treasures, knowing them to be the principal object with the 
 .Spaniards, to be thrown into the lake. This it was neressa- 
 iv should be concealed. It was, that this fact .should bo 
 made knowu, that the royal favorite, oa a bed of coal*, 
 turned to liis monarch an appealing eye, who sternly replied 
 "Am I reposing on a bed of flowers." The favorite per 
 severed and died. In the text, I have no su eh reason for 
 perseverance, for Guatimo/in, in the preceding pages has 
 already told where the treasure has been thrown, and his 
 torture can only be considered wanton, or meant to extort 
 a farther coufei-sion, us to any residue that might yet bo 
 found. The reader is at liberty to believe which he pleases. 
 
 NOTE 10, PAGE U8. 
 "Dark Jtcapulco, frowning; to the sAy." 
 
 Acapulco is a mountain in Peru. 1 wanted one of four syl- 
 nbles in Mexico, and applied n then-Jon; to one of the many 
 that gird the plain of the "Hiiih City." 
 NOTE II, PACK 44. 
 
 " Sftnin 
 
 Valued his worth, ami with /us honor* gave 
 A rgltct and nhante." 
 
 The hint days of Cortes, may be given in Robertson s ovsa 
 words: "Disgusted with ill suet ess to which he had not. 
 been accustomed, and weary of contending with adversaries 
 to whom he considered it as a disgrace to be opposed, lie 
 once more (A. D. 1540 sought redress in his native country. 
 But his reception there was very dillcroni from that which 
 gratitude, and even decency, ought to have secured for r.itn. 
 The merit of his ancient exploits, was already, in a gicut 
 
Motes. 151 
 
 service of moment was now expected from a man of declin 
 ing year? , and who began to be unfortunate. The Emperor 
 behaved to him with cold civility; his ministers treated him, 
 sometimes with neglect, sometimes with insolence. His 
 grievances received no redress; his claims were urged with 
 out effect; and after several years spent in fruitless applica 
 tion to ministers and judges, an occupation the most irksome 
 and mortifying to a man of high spirit, who had moved in a 
 sphere where he was more accustomed to command than to 
 solicit, Cortes ended his days on the second of December 
 ono thousand five hundred and forty soven, in the sixty-se 
 cond year of hii age. 
 
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