st* LIBRARY I UNIVERSITY OF I VcAUFORNIA/ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Class of 1897 T1J Z SILENT HARP; FUGITIVE POEMS BY MISS ELIZABETH ALLEN. But Oh ! how griteful to a wounded hoart The lalo ol' Misery to iinjmrt From other*' eyes hid artless Borrows flow, Au'l raise esteem I;KQ the lni# of \\\* '. BURLINGTON: EDWARD SMITH, (Suectaavr to CAauc*y Goodrick.) 1832. accordin to Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832, By ELISABETH ALLEN, in the Clerk's office of the District of Vermont. University Frees... .E. Smith. PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. THE following pieces of Miss Allen's are not offered to the world with any expectation of pecuniary compensation, be yond the expense of publishing. The situation of their au thoress is sufficiently stated in her biographical notice, and the publisher hopes all who patronize native genius, will purchase her book, when they are informed, the profits are for her benefit. Burlington, October, 1832. PREFACE IT may not be amiss to introduce this little volume of poems to the attention of the reader, by giving a brief sketch of the life of its authoress ; as we have been enabled to learn it from her friends and acquaintances. This, we think more appro- priate, since she does not present her \vorks before the public, as a fair subject for fastidious criticism. To her friends she is assured this will prove an acceptable offering, and, from the favorable notice given to many of her anonymous pieces, she is also induced to hope, that no small portion of her readers will be ready to admit that her faults as an authoress, do not exceed her misfortunes. Miss Elizabeth Allen was born in Craftsbury, Vt., and there has spent most of her time. The town was then mostly a wilderness, and three or four months' attendance at a district school was the extent of her opportunity for acquiring an edu cation. Under her own tuition, however, she early became fond of reading and well acquainted with all the books which the place afforded ; She also engaged in epistolary writing, and, in accordance with the inspiration of natural scenery, of 1* PREFACE. which she was passionately fond, and of her own buoyant and joyful spirit, she made some attempts at poetic composition. She lived poetry, at least, kind hearted and sympathetic ; and her days were happy. But, at the age of sixteen, she was attack ed with a fever which wholely deprived her of hearing. All attempts at relief have been baffled, and her case is now en tirely hopeless. This misfortune gave her thoughts a pensive cast which they did not before exhibit. Thus deprived of so- uial intercourse, her chief amusement has been in attempts at composition, both prose and poetic ; in this manner were the following poems written. With respect to her circumstances in life, she is wholly dependent upon her own exertions; and, whatever pecuniary assistance s"he may receive from the pub lication of this volume, will not prove an offering to ono that needs it nut, or that forarets to be grateful. APOLOGY I ne'er the steep of fame to climb Have sought, by scribbling prose or rhynu Parnassus' mount I've look'd upon, But saw beneath, an abyss yawn : And though inclin'd its height to gain, I feared, and sought the lowly plain* There as I roamed my lonely way, Shrill lyres I heard above me play, All from the mount or midway high, Of varied tone and melody. But O ! one lyre above the rest, Awak'd emotions in my breast ; 'Twas thine, lamented youthful White, I listened to it with delight. Misfortune standing by his side, And as his hand to harp he plied, Slow moved a string his bosom glowed AtTd struck to " Disappointment's Ode." I listened to its plaintive tone And felt each note was all my own; When lo ! ' Cornelia' waked a strain Which to resist was all in vain ; So deep so plaintive low, yet sweet Each softer feeling rose to meet ; And in the oause of captived thought My heart straying echo* caught, Which on its pulse, by sorrows chilled, Produc'd these notes uncultur'd wild. THE NEW YEAR Old time, on his car, has revolved round again, And Boreas now mildly resumes his old reign, While high o'er his empire pale Luna sails on, And whispers to mortals " one year more is gone." How glorious the morn as it rises to view, A new year, my friends, is now dawning on you, Hope smiles on the future and points us to bliss ; Is ought in fruition so pleasing as this ? But stay, for a moment, and let us reflect, While of the past seasons we take retrospect- Gone, gone, yes forever, how fleet they have sped ; And thousands gone with them to sleep with the dead. The widow laments in the fulness of woe ; The patriot the statesman whose hopes are laid low ; The Muses lament too a favorite son ; Oshorn on the willows his sweet harp has hung. What wond'rous events fill the calendar page, Ah ! look at lone Greece, where war's havoc doth rage 10 Oppress'd by a tyrant her patriots rise, And shout " vict'ry or death" aloud to the skies. Missolonghi Oh stay drop a tear for her fate, Such valour devotion, what pen can relate ; Hail ! Grecia all hail ! may thy courage remain, 'Till the Ottoman tribes leave thy vallies with shame. But turn thee and see now the hand of our God, On Columbia's fair land, he hath lifted his rod, And great was the glory that gleam'd from the blow, When Adams and Jefferson, slept with the low ; 'Till ages expire the tale shall be told, While kings and their vassals, " with wonder behold." /"I ' And heard'st thou a -voice from the eastward afar ? Has Juggernaut come, on his thundering car ? Ah ! no 't is the voice of a mightier power " The slide of a mountain" tremendous the hour ! Ah ! Willey thou martyr how sad was thy doom, Thy wife and thy children, Oh where is their tomb ? Weep daughter of pity ; weep son of the brave A mountain* in ruins hath made them a grave. But why should we dwell on the glooms of the past, Since lights have been blended, and lights that shall last, For swift the reformer hath passed thro' our land And thousands submitting, have joined the blest band. *Whjte Mountains. 11 With prayers and with praises, our temples resound, And charity, virtue, and friendship abound. All hail ! to thy morning, thou gladsome young year, In thy bosom may solace be found for each tear, While the child of misfortune the victim of grief, Receives from thy bounties, a grateful relief; May philanthropists rise, to awaken the zeal Of all who have spirits, and hearts that can feel ; 'Till " slavery" is banish'd from this our free shore, And " debtors imprisoned" are heard of no more. Oh! when shall that era, of glory arise, When shall that " New year" beam forth to our eyes ; When envy and discord, shall cease to prevail, And each one his neighbor, as brother shall hail. LUCINDA'S GRAVE. No willow waves its silent shade On the new turf, that hides her head, No marble stone engraved upon, Tells how much loveliness is gone. But o'er the mound, where low she lies, The turf is green, and clovers rise ; And flowrets soon will bud and bloom, To grace Lucinda's early tomb. No sacriligious footstep's tread Approaches there her lowly head, But each fond friend, doth lowly bend, While tears upon the grave descend. And there the robin wakes his song, And sweetly sings, the whole day long As if her sleep to soothe and keep, While Cath'rine sits to list and weep. The following was written in answer to Mrs. Sigourney's very pathetic lines "On seeing the deaf, dumb and Hind girl, of the American Asylum, in Hartford, at a festival." The authoress begs leave to differ in opinion, from many others, firmly believing that those who come into the world desti tute of the sense of hearing, and are consequently dumb, in general, are far more tranquil and happy than those who have once enjoyed this blwinsr anil -utfered bereavement. Methinks before, I 've heard that note, Sigourney 't is thy plaintive strain : Afar the symphony shall float, Then sweetly echo back again. But she, to whom thy feeling heart Hath paid the tributary lay, May never, by instinct nor art, Know the sweet solace they convey. She sits in calm asylum's shade, Nor knows, nor fears the ills of life Nor heeds what slanderous tongues have sekl, So free from noise, from care and strife. Her guileless heart has never sighed, Nor throbed with rising passions' glow, 2 14 Nor felt the sting of wounded pride, Nor disappointment's heavy blow. But calm and peaceful is her breast A little world that 's all her own Disturbed by no intrusive guest, And ruled by nature's laws alone. And think you, lady, this's the fate Which most demands thy sympathy ? And is ""tke most unfortunate Of all that dwell below the sky ? Ah ! no in northern wild there 's one Who long hath sighed with vain regret, While mem'ry brings again the tone, She never, never can forget. A tuneful soul to her was given, And in the vocal choir she joined, To raise devotion's note to heaven, While tranquil peace beamed o'er her mind. And friendship's and affection's voice, With thrilling accents, moved her soul ; Earth seemed a scene, deep fraught with joys, Where smiling pleasures held control. But, ah ! one sad, one fatal hour, While hopes and smiles were beaming gay, 15 Misfortune, with unfeeling power, Swept every joyful sound away. No more can mellifluous note Of sacred song fall on her ear ; Nor more can she with joy devote A social hour to friend most dear. With flowing tear and heaving sigh She roams thro' Autumn fields alone, And oft she lists with wishful eye To hear the gay fledged songster's tone. But cheerless silence is her lot, And anxious care and wasting woe, As lett to meditative thought, She says, " My God ! why was it so ?" And, lady ! thou for her hast sung For Hartford's poor and hapless child : Again, then, let thy harp be strung To sing of E in northern wild. LINES Addressed to a volatile young lady. I saw a rose bud opening fair, And dew drops glittered on its stem ; Sweet violets, too, were rising there, Yet it scarce deigned to look on them. But proudly waving high its head, Seemed to defy the blighting powers, And said, " I shall not droop and fade Like other less attractive flowers.' 1 I saw admirers round it move, All flattering its loveliness, While each declared unchanging love For the fair flower, with fond caress. Again I saw that floweret Its lovely bloom was all decayed And, scattered round the violet, Its faded leaves neglected laid. 17 And no admirer now was there To drop the tear of fond regret ; But O ! I saw them bending where In brightness bloomed the violet. flfe sweetly bloomed thai lovely flower ; 0& modest lively gaily shone, As when the rose, in primeful hour, Deigned not its kindred tie to own. And thus that maid, who seeks to shine And in false colors blazon forth Shall see her influence decline, And tribute paid to modest worth. 2* LINES Addressed to Mr. S and Mrs. E. Chamberlin on the death of their only child. I had a little lovely flower 'Twas sweet, and passing fair, I tiaw it budding every hour, With promise rich and rare. I loved to culture and to prop, Till it became my pride, My solace, and my cheering hope, I had no flower beside. Thus while I nursed, it gaily throve, My cares were all repaid, For Oh ! this object of my love, Was a sweet smiling bale. How was my heart then torn with grief, When first I saw it fade, And fondly sought t' afford relief, While in my arms it laid. 19 But Ah ! twas vain in death it slep And all my joys were o'er With bleeding heart, I sat and wept, But saw my flower no more. Oh ! ye whov'e felt the chastening rod, Think what was then my stay I called upon my saviour God, And save my babe away. AMERICA'S INVITATION TO POLAND. I The authoress has felt a lively interest in the fortunes of Poland since the days when in childhood, she casually took op and perused, Miss Por ter's " Thaddeus of Warsaw." The impressions then received, are nat to be erased. The following is a recent effusion.] Son of Poland ! welcome thou ; Welcome to our happy home, No victor's wreath entwines thy brow, Yet noble patriot come Oh come. We have a wreath that thou may'st wear, A wreath by Kosciusko won, Who to our foe, his breast Laid bare, And fought beside our Washington* He fought he conquered, and his name Is pass word for his nation's sons, And thou shah share that brilliant fame Yes thou and all thy homeless onee. Come bring thy daughters, bring thy wives. Our sisters, shall their sistera be, 21 And we '11 protect them with our lives, Then come Polander, come be free. No tyrant's chain shall thrall thee here, Nor petty prince's galling yoke, No ties, to wring the heart's warm tear, Shall wantonly be torn or broke. America, hath open arms For every patriot son on earth, And liberty, with all its charms, She claims, and boasts its natal birth. Then come Polander, leave thy chains, Our starry banner waves for thee, And we have cities, prairies, plains With peace, and plenty come be free. The following lines were addressed to a stranger, on receiving a commu nication signed H. A M. VV. " Life cannot all be pleasure," The truth I know too well, And sorrow hath no measure, Its bitterness to tell. But there's a soothing power, A cordial for the smart, 'Tis not from drug nor flower, But from the stranger's heart. No language hath expression, To give that charm its due, Nor even can suppression Withhold it from the view ; It shines in every feature, Of him that's free from art, It blesses every creature And e'en the stranger's heart. 23 'Tis sympathy for sorrow, The pearl is most divine, A ray it doth not borrow, Tho' brilliantly it shine. Blest is the heart to feel it, More blessed to impart, And heaven will not conceal it, But bless the stranger's heart. TO MISS M. T. C- A birth day present. See, Mary see the dawn appears The day is opening to our view, It seals a lapse of fleeting years, Since we were blessed with sight of you. The new robed spring, with cheering smile, Salutes the morn with vernal flowers And little birds pour forth the while A greeting song, with all their powers. Oh may thy life, like this fair day, Be blest with hopes, and cheered with smiles, Virtue attend thee on thy way To soften all thy cares and toils, Yet while these wishes fond I give, I pause, and fain would moralize Behold the flowerets, how .they thrive ! And Ah ! they fade before our eyes. These sensual pleasures meet our view, And charm us by their vived glow, 25 But seek for joy, and Ah 'tis true, We find them but a gaudy show. 'Tis virtue only can impart To the young bosom, pure delight ; Ennoble, and refine the heart, A.nd guide the mind to moral light. Then Mary view the fragile flower, But place no hope in its frail bloom 'Twas formed to wither in an hour ; But virtue will survive the tomb. TO MY SISTER MARIA. Tho' distance my sister our faces divide, And 'tween us rolls widely, Champlain's noisy tide ; Yet the ties of affection unsundered remain, There's nought can dissever it's sweet golden chain. I turn me to moments, now vanished and sped, When I shared in thy cottage, and shared in thy bread ; When thy foster hand soothed in affliction's dread hour, Oh the mild balm of sympathy; heavenly power. TJhen, thy children came smiling, " a love kiss" to crave And told of the sweet one, just gone to her grave ; And thy husband, with truth beaming bland from his eye Prescribed a oheer cordial, for tear and for sigh. There are scenes, on which memory delighteth to dwell ; Emotions., nor absence, nor distance can quell ; Where fraternal affections have played on the soui, And domestic enjoyments held perfect control. Then sister tho' doomed from thy presence to pine My prayer is forever, for thee and for thine May adversity never more visit thy cot ; But hdpe, and sweet peace, and content be thy lot. SOLILOQUY, At the grave of a sister addressed to Mrs. M. P. Again sweet Laura, at thy tomb, The tributary tear I pay; Still mem'ry views thee, in thy bloom Yet see's that blooming fade away. Sad, solemn hour ! can I forget When o'er thy wasting form I stood ? Thine eye's fast waning beam I met, And dewed thy cheek with sorrow's flood ? No mother's soothing voice was there, To cheer thee on thy path way home ; v Our father, and our brother dear, We looked ; but oh ! they did not come. With one sweet sister yet a child I watched beside thy dying bed ; When Oh ! my heart, with anguish wild, Wished I had laid there in thv stead. 28 But sister, now thy pangs are o'er, Thy dust reposes 'neath this sod, And I shall see thee here no more, For thou hast gone to meet thy God. To meet our sainted mother too, Ali ! yes and never more to part ; Sweet Laura ! sister dear, adieu ! And hush emotions of my heart. I would not wish thee back ah no For futile are earth's pleasures all : But I'd prepare me hence to go, And meet thee at my saviour's call. I'll plant around thy grave fresh flowers, And where to Heav'en I've knelt and prayed ;- When time shall close my mortal hours, Loved one near thee may I be laid. TO THE APPROACHING COMET Oh ! thou dread visitor whence dost come ? And whither goest thou with thy train ? For threescore years and ten thy home ? Why comest to nether climes again ? Thou seemest a wanderer, without shore ; Unlinked unknown impelled by chance : No calculator can explore Thy swift departures and advance. Fleetly thou movest, yet whence or why, Is not for human ken to name ; And tho' in haste, who dare imply, That thou hast either end or aim. Thou'rt not unlike misfortune's child, Placed on an earthly hemisphere ; And doomed to trace its deserts wild, Sore dreaded in fay 'lorn career. 30 Like thee, unfixed, and much inclined To wander from the source of light But for that power, who all things binds, Were lost in everlasting night. And to that power, on wing of time, Like thee he hastes, a rest to find ; Enters at last a changeless clime, But leaves thee, to expire behind. TO- Thou art gone may the bark that conveys thee away Be the care of the God of the .billow ; When darkness succeeds the bland smile of the day, May angels watch over thy pillow. If error, thou deemest, thy footsteps have trod Then bow thee, in lowly contrition ; Invoke the forgivness of men and of God And find in sweet virtue, fruition. The wounds of thy heart, to sott soothing may yield, And thy bosom yet thrill, to a pleasure, When spring sends her smiles, and the garden and field Are teeming with Flora's rich treasure. Then sadness may flee, at the strains of delight. And thy bosom forget its rude wringing ; The " thought of the past" may decline in its might, And thy heart tuned to pleasure be singing. Thus fondly my wishes to thee must extend. That blessings may 'liven thy bosom ; The guardian angel ! thy almighty friend ! And thy heart cheered with hope's thriving blossom. THE POLISH DAUGHTER. [ Supposed to have retired with her mother, a few miles into the coun try, to avoid the terrors of an expected attnek npon Warsaw, and is awaked from sleep by the sound of Cannon.] Hearest thou ought, upon the soft The whispering breeze of morn 1 List ! Mother list ! 'tis war ! Oh ! direful sound ! The dreaded conflict hath burst forth, And father brother where are they? Warsaw ! thou art my hope. Within Thy sacred walls, myall of earth is pent, Except thee ; mother ! nought without its bounds Hath power, to charm or win one soft affection, Nor to chain me to the love of life. Sweet native scene ! There first my breath I drew, and with my First perceptions learned in virtue's path to tread. In after years, I, from the borders of that path, Culled odoriferous flowers, and Interwove a wreath, then by ambition led, I wooed, and with it crowned immortal ecrenoe. 33 Tiiere too, I learned to love, and with that passion, I imbibed a hale. Not for my brethren Of the Polish band, but Russia's lord, who Through the might of power sought t' enslave us. My Edward, was a patriot, and at sight Of human wrongs, his soul took fire. Commissioned to the field he went, And as a mark of pure regard, chose For his aid my only brother. Now Mid that battle's fiery din, where the Dread Cannon peals, their youthful valors tested. Oh mother ! hear My trembling hope grows faint My heart is sick ! for Ah ! e'en now, Wild fancy brings upon my ear, the Deathly groan the frantic scream, The call for mercy, and my lathers 'Tis stilled My God ! my gracious God ! has Warsaw Fallen ? are Poland's struggles o'er? Are we, the widowed wphaned doomed To bow, as Russia's humbled slaves? Ah ! sooner send us death. And if to ' Father" a response no more shall corne 34 Nor smile on brother meet heart felt return. Nor lovers true "embrace, then may Pauline, Rest in her early grave. And Mother ! Stay not thou behind. Elude a tyrant's Grasp, and meet in Heaven thy kin, Heaven ! The one spot, where tyrant and oppressor may Not come, where martyrs to a sacred cause At freedom's shrine who fell, Shall wake to peace, and everlasting joy. # * * * # A messenger approaches Fleet he comes woe ! woe ! is on his mien, Speak not thou wretched one ! I know it all Yet tell me does my father live ? My brother and my Edward. " All all Have found a grave and" stop no more ! Mother farewell ! no sword of steel Hath clove my heart, but sorrow rives its strings. France ! shall I curse thee ? And Thou, America , whose sister arm Nerved by the deeds, a Kosciusko wrought We fondly hoped, outstretched would Save us from this doom thou hast Looked on to see us perish, and the blood, That crimsons Warsaw's soil, will Rise to cry " ingrate " Wide yawned the opening grave, And Poland's fair, rests low with Poland's brave. LINES Occasioned by the sudden death of Capt. W. G. Corbin, who died at Port .Lawrence, Mich. August 1831, aged 26 years, leaving a bereaved wife and infant daughter sick in a strange land, to mourn his untimely death. Lo ! from yon distant western wild A plaintive note assails our ear Hark I 't is the wail of sorrow's child Arise, ye feeling souls and hear. " Oh distant friends to you I call, Behold me in my widowed state ; Beside me lifeless, lies my all My William ! Oh relentless fate ! But yesterday in healthful bloom, He wept to see my faded cheek ; And feared for me, an early tomb, And our sweet babe, so low and weak. But lurking death stole softly in, And while we slept, took fatal hold ; I waked, and turned my eyes to him, But ail ! I saw him, dead, and cold. With countless tears, I've dewed his cheek, And heared my babe on " Father" call ; He heeds it not, he does not speak, He's gone my love my life my all, My all ,'obtmt ! my arms doth cling One treasure yet to bind me here, A little helpless, orphaned thing ; To blend with mine, its flowing tear. Unwelcome art thou stranger band ! Whence will ye tear my love ? Oh say Make not his grave in this strange land, While kindred ones are far away. Tis o'er they've torn him from my sight, In Michigan they've made his bed ; I dread thee, oh ! thou land of blight, Where are thy bright illusions fled ? I turn me from thy scenes away, I leave the grave of him most dear ; Thou hast no charm to win my stay, Thou hast no sympathetic tear. First let me plant a woodbine there, And there I'll plant the fragile rose ; A willow waves already, where His sacred relic's now repose. 37 'Tis done and stranger, fare thee well ! I feel a sense, I cannot speak ; Who shall my heart's emotions tell, While I a homeward passage seek. Where parents, tears, with sisters, blend, Where brother sighs and weeps alone ; And sorrowing walks abroad the friend, To meditate on scenes by gone. Thou God ! who hear'st rny bitter moan, Oh ! in thy tender mercy deign To bless these trials of my own, And ease the absent mourner's pain. "FAIR M O N T G O M E R Y." Addressed to Miss E. Clapp, a much valued friend of iho authoress' There is a vaie to me, tis dear, Where Goodspeed's dwelling stands ; For there I met a friend sincere, In sweet Arcadian lands. r Convey my thanks and tell O tell But sweet instructor, fare thee well ! ELEGIAC LINES. [To the memory of Miss E. Kimball, daughter of J. Kimball Esq. of i, Vt. Ba, 'Tw as in the silent field of rest, The sacred mansion of the dead ; I saw the green turf on her breast, The grey stone standing at her head. Few were the days to her consigned, But fourteen years to her were given To open and improve the mind, And thus prepare the soul for heaven, And yet rou'id many a friendly heart, She twined herself with tender tie ; 'Twas not by caprice "W^rt, But innocent simplicity. Mild was the beaming of her eye, Her soul was in its lustre seen ; Her cheek had all the rose's dye, And interesting was her mien. 114 But Ah ! Eliza, thus to fall, Like a sweet rose in its rich bloom; Could pity friendship love nor all Thy virtues save thee from the tomb ? Ah ! no, the fatal blow 'tis given, The blow that sank thy form to earth ; That raised thy spotless soul to heaven, And showed us all thy lovely worth. But fancy paints thee far away From the inert and mournful sod ; That now protects thy lifeless clay, In blest communion with thy God. And oh ! as up through ether way, Thy uncumbered soul did fly ; To hail the mansions bright of day, What wonderous scenes regaled thine eye. Did'st thou not cast a look behind, And pity mortals here below ; Who as thou wert, are still confined, Nor heavenly joys can feel or know ? And when you reached that happy shore, Quick welcomed to thy saviours breast ; Did'st thou not for us implore, An entrance to that Heavenly rest ? 115 But sainted spirit ! fare thee well ! For thy remove we'll weep no more , Though bitter tears in showers have fell, The murmuring drops shall now be o'er. Though o'er thy relics with fond gaze, Thy mother sits and deeply sighs ; Above that eye she now will raise, And trace thy passage to the skies. Then tell her Clara, of thy fate, And how her Nancy passed away ; Thus teach how futile is this state, Where all things wither and decay. MIDNIGHT THOUGHT 'Tis night and the tumult is hu.hed, Soft silence is stealing around ; Now nought but the low breeze is heard, That sighs o'er yon new risen mound. The moon from behind a dark cloud, Sheds a faint and a lingering ray ; On that turf where enwraped in a shroud ; Young Almond lies sleeping in clay. How transient dear babe was thy stay, Six months tho'u hadst scarce been their own, When death came and took thee away, And left thy fond parents to mourn. Yes yonder I see a lone cot, Where Cath'rine still weeps thy remove ; In vain thy fair form has she sought, And sighed for the babe of her love, Each relic she mournful surveys, Then tears flow again from her eyes ; 117 Oh ! where is my Almond she says, While sobs in succession arise. Yet thou canst no more hear her sighs, Thy cheek feels no more her warm tear ; Arrived to thy home in the skies, f Thou lookest not on sorrow ^iere. But time his swift circuit shall move, And seasons their changes unfold ; Till summoned by angels above, Thy visage we there shall behold. TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. Our joys are few and short the date, How soon the transient visions fly; All nature blooms in mortal state, And all that's blooming soon must die. On what shall mortal man depend, Of all upon this earthly sod ? Since honors, riches, fame, nor friend, Survives the mandate of a God. Oh come frail man and view the mound, The grassy turf where Clara lies ; And say no more thy hopes are found On ought beneath the ether skies. When on a sickly couch reclined, And pains distract her feeble frame ; Still under all she was resigned, " My God is just" she would exclaim. When a loved brother weeping came, To bid a long, a last adieu ; He pointed to Jehovah's name, To guide her, death's dark valley through. 119 Remember, said that pious friend, 'Tis not by righteous deeds we've done, That we to God shall e'er ascend, But through the merits of his son. " I know it" smiling she replied, " My hope is in his saving grace ; Though it were just I were denied, And all our guilty sinful race." As sisters weeping near her stood, She did her trembling hand extend ; And as to chide the rising flood, A smile the action did attend. Of a kind parent bowed with grief, She asked his prayers, for the dread hour ; And as he breathod the sweet relief, She fell asleep to wake no more. Soft be thy slumbers gentle friend, Aiii peaceful rest thy lowly head ; Where ne'er shall cank'ring care attend, Thy hallowed, thy reposing bed. And cease the sigh, ye weeping friends, Parent brother sister, all ; A providence o'er earth attends, And nought without his leave shall fall. THE AFRICAN. Ah ! how unjust, was the decree, Tyranic pride prounounced in spite ; There shall a lasting bondage be, Of Afric's sons to lordly white. While pity wept and called in vain, On mercy to forbid the deed; Ambition firmer drew the chain, And virtue sought in vain to plead. Then grace, with placid look and calm, Spake to the mourning black and said Come rest in my protecting arm, And thou shalt there be comforted. But death, triumphant, called aloud, And said " 'tis I, 'tis / alone, Can rescue from the haughty proud, The power to level is my own." .* I - w"