1 
 
 ny 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 
 Gift of 
 
 Josephine Miles 
 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/castlewitalnwickOOhallrich 
 
m. 
 

 N'oirnir.M BESI.AN3 
 
 NEW 'YOUK . 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 Harper & Brothers, 82 Clifp-St. 
 
 1845. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by 
 
 HARrSR & Ekuthers, 
 In the Clerk's Office of tue Southern District of New-Yoife 
 
 — --' " — - v ililitiiilfaii 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ALNWICK CASTLE. 1 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race, 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 
 Alike their birth and burial place, 
 Their cradle and their grave! 
 
1U ' ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's Lion stands in state, 
 
 As in his proud departed hours; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners "flout the sky" 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines, 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 
 Through this romantic scene 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katharine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : 
 Does not the succouring ivy, keeping 
 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping? 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE. 11 
 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe, and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom: 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A Templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath , 
 When blood ran free as festal wine, 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death, 
 
12 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be * tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew-bell. 
 
 I wandered through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him 2 who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons; 
 To him who, when a younger son, 8 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE. 13 
 
 That last half stanza — it has dashed 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup; 
 The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its market day, 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way; 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
 From royal Berwick's 4 beach of sand, 
 From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne . 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy: 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
 Of knights, but not of the Round Table, 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy : 
 B 
 
14 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 'Tis what "our President," Monroe, 
 
 Has called "the era of good feeling:" 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing : 
 Lord Stafford^mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings ; 
 And noble name and cultured land, 
 Palace, and park, and vassal band, 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk 
 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 
 Is England's friend and fast ally; 
 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 And on the Cross and altar stone, 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE. 15 
 
 And not a sabre blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal s^ate ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate," 
 Are some half-dozen serving men, 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
 Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 5 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent, 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 Should tremble at his power: 
 
MARCO BOZZARI S. 17 
 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
 
 On old Platsea's day; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquered there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 B2 
 
18 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek \" 
 He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
 
 And death shots falling thick and fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain cloud; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 "Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 God — and your native land!" 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well; 
 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 19 
 
 And the red field was won; 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, Death! 
 
 Come to. the mother's, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her first-born's breath; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke, 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
 
 With banquet song, and dance, and wine ; 
 And thou art terrible — the tear, 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear, ■ 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
20 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the battle for the free, 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 Come, when his task of fame is wrought— 
 Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 
 
 Come in her crowning hour — and then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prisoned men : 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land ; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land wind, from woods of palm, 
 And orange groves, and fields of balm, 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 2J 
 
 Bo?zaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb: 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
 For thee she rings the birth-day bells; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch and cottage bed; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 
22 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
 One of the few, the immortal names, 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
BURNS. 
 
 TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN 
 AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. 
 
 Wild Rose of Allbway ! my thanks : 
 Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon 
 
 When first we met upon "the banks 
 A.nd braes o' bonny Doon." 
 
24 BURNS. 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief, 
 
 We've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
 Art withered — flower and leaf. 
 
 And will not thy death-doom be mine — « 
 The doom of all things wrought of clay — 
 
 And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
 Wild rose of Alio way? 
 
 Not so his memory, for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long, 
 
 His — who a humbler flower could make 
 Immortal as his song, 
 
 The memory of Burns — a name 
 
 That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 
 A nation's glory and her shame, 
 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
BURNS. 25 
 
 A nation's glory — be the rest 
 
 Forgot — she 's canonized his mind , 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 I've stood beside the cottage bed 
 
 Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; 
 A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
 
 A straw-wrought couch beneath. 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile, 
 His monument — that tells to Heaven 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle 
 To that Bard-peasant given! 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
 Boy- Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; 
 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A Poet's pride and power. 
 C 
 
26 BURNS. 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
 The power that gave a child of song 
 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
 The rich, the brave, the strong; 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than his, 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
 
 And lays lit up with Poesy's 
 Purer and holier fires : 
 
 Yet read the names that know not death; 
 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are there; 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 Mid, 
 
BURNS. 27 
 
 His is that language of the heart, 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak, 
 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start. 
 Or the smile light the cheek; 
 
 And his that music, to whose tone 
 
 The common pulse of man keeps time, 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 
 And listened, and believed, and felt 
 The Poet's mastery 
 
 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, 
 O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, 
 
 O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 
 
28 BURNS. 
 
 On fields where brave men "die or do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, 
 
 Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
 From throne to cottage hearth? 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
 
 When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 
 Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, 
 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
 With "Logan's" banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
BURNS. 29 
 
 Imagination's world of air, 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee. 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
 And Burns — though brief the race he ran, 
 Though rough and dark the path he trod, 
 
 Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, 
 The image of his God. 
 
 Through care, and pain, and want, and wo, 
 With wounds that only death could heal, 
 
 Tortures — the poor alone can know, 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth, 
 His independent tongue and pen, 
 
 And moved, in manhood as in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow men. 
 C2 
 
30 BURNS. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 Of coward and of slave ; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 
 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man! a nation stood 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
/ BURNS. 31 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day, 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories, 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined — 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, 
 
 Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, 
 
 And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, 
 The mightiest of the hour ; 
 
 t 
 
32 BURNS. 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble home 
 Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
 
 Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, 
 From countries near and far; 
 
 Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 
 My own green forest-land. 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth, 
 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His fields and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Doon's low trees, 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
 
 And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries! 
 The poet's tomb is there. 
 
BURNS. 33 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art, 
 His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? 
 
 Wear they not graven on the heart 
 The name of Robert Burns 1 
 
WYOMING. 
 
 " Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour uue 
 Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas." — Roussead. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thou com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last, 
 " On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming !" 
 Image of many a dream, in hours long past, 
 When life was in its bud and blossoming, 
 And waters, gushing from the fountain spring 
 Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, 
 As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
 I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, 
 The summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. 
 
WYOMING. 35 
 
 II. 
 
 I then but dreamed : thou art before me now, 
 In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
 I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow, 
 That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er; 
 And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore, 
 Within a bower of sycamores am laid ; 
 And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore 
 The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, 
 Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head. 
 
 III. 
 
 Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power 
 Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured : he 
 Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour 
 Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery 
 With more of truth, and made each rock and tree 
 Known like old friends, and greeted from afar: 
 And there are tales of sad reality, 
 In the dark legends of thy border war, 
 With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. 
 
36 WYOMING. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
 The bard's creations, moulded not of clay, 
 Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — 
 Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave — where are they ? 
 We need not ask. The people of to-day 
 Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, 
 And hospitable too — for ready pay; 
 With manners like their roads, a little rough, 
 And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though 
 tough. 
 
 Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, 
 And the town records, is the Albert now 
 Of Wyoming : like him, in church and state, 
 Her Doric column ; and upon his brow 
 The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow, 
 Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain 
 To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow, 
 That stands full-uniformed upon the plain, 
 To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. 
 
WYOMING. 37 
 
 VI. 
 
 For he would look particularly droll 
 In his "Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume," 
 And be the wonder of each Christian soul 
 As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. 
 But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
 Hath many a model here ; for woman's eye, 
 In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home, 
 Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high 
 To be o'erpraised even by her worshipper — Poesy. 
 
 f t ' 
 
 VII. 
 
 ?\ 
 
 There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — 
 Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 
 In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 
 "Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 
 Without a shoe or stocking — hoeing corn. 
 Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there, 
 With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne, 
 I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player 
 The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. 
 
 D 
 
38 WYOMING. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, 
 Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped 
 Upon their day of massacre. She told 
 Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, 
 Whereon her father and five brothers slept 
 Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, 
 When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
 And there, wild laurels planted on the grave 
 By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
 Are marks where timeworn battlements have been, 
 And in the tall grass traces linger still 
 Of "arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
 Five hundred of her brave that valley green 
 Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ; 
 But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene — 
 And where are now the twenty? Passed away. 
 Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle-day? 
 
ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 
 
 OF NEW-YORK, SEPT., 1820. 
 
 " The good die first, 
 And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
 Bum to the socket." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Green be the turf above thee, 
 Friend of my better days ! 
 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
40 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
 From eyes unused to weep, 
 
 And long where thou art lying, 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 Like thine, are laid in earth, 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 To tell the world their worth; 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and wo were thine; 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 Around thy faded brow, 
 
 But I've in vain essayed it, 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 41 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee, 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 D2 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest, 
 And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 
 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 
 
 But Hope is round us with her angel lay, 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. 
 
TWILIGHT. 43 
 
 In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow; 
 
 Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song 
 Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo 
 
 Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
 Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; 
 
 We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, 
 Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
 Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too — on the eye, 
 
 Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 
 Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, 
 
 Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 
 And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 
 
 And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
 Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, 
 
 The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
 Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 
 Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. 
 
44 TWILIGHT* 
 
 But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 
 
 There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 
 That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, 
 
 Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow ; 
 That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
 
 That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
 Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 
 
 And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; 
 The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 
 A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 
 
PSALM C X X X V I I. 
 
 " By the rivers of Babylon. 
 
 We sat us down and wept, 
 i Where Babel's waters slept, 
 And we thought of home and Zion as a long-gone, hap- 
 py dream; 
 We hung our harps in air 
 On the willow boughs, which there, 
 Gloomy as round a sepulchre, were drooping o'er the 
 stream. 
 
46 PSALM C XXXVI I. 
 
 The foes, whose chain we wore, 
 
 Were with us on that shore, 
 Exulting in our tears that told the bitterness of wo. 
 
 "Sing us," they cried aloud, 
 
 "Ye, once so high and proud, 
 The songs ye sang in Zion ere we laid her glory low. 
 
 And shall the harp of heaven 
 
 To Judah's monarch given 
 Be touched by captive fingers, or grace a fettered hand ? 
 
 No! sooner be my tongue 
 
 Mute, powerless, and unstrung, 
 Than its words of holy music make glad a stranger land. 
 
 May this right hand, whose skill 
 
 Can wake the harp at will, 
 And bid the listener's joys or griefs in light or darkness 
 come, 
 
 Forget its godlike power, 
 
 If for one brief, dark hour, 
 My heart forgets Jerusalem, fallen city of my home ! 
 
PSALM CXXXVII. 47 
 
 Daughter of Babylon ! 
 
 Blessed be that chosen one, 
 Whom God shall send to smite thee when there is none 
 to save; 
 
 He from the mother's breast, 
 
 Shall pluck the babe at rest, 
 And lay it in the sleep of death beside its father's grave. 
 
 
T 
 
 « * • * 
 
 The world is bright before thee, 
 
 Its summer flowers are thine, 
 Its calm blue sky is o'er thee, 
 
 Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine; 
 And thine the sunbeam given 
 
 To Nature's morning hour, 
 Pure, warm, as when from heaven 
 
 It burst on Eden's bower. 
 
to****. 49 
 
 There is a song of sorrow, 
 
 The death-dirge of the gay, 
 That tells, ere dawn of morrow, 
 
 These charms may melt away, 
 That sun's bright beam be shaded, 
 
 That sky be blue no more, 
 The summer flowers be faded, 
 
 And youth's warm promise o'er. 
 
 Believe it not — though lonely 
 
 Thy evening home may be; 
 Though Beauty's bark can only 
 
 Float on a summer sea; 
 Though Time thy bloom is stealing, 
 
 There's still beyond his art 
 The wild-flower wreath of feeling, 
 
 The sunbeam of the heart. 
 E 
 
THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS, 
 
 SARATOGA. 
 
 Strangers! your eyes are on that valley fixed 
 Intently, as we gaze on vacancy, 
 
 When the mind's wings o'erspread 
 
 The spirit-world of dreams. 
 
FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 01 
 
 True, 'tis a scene of loveliness — the bright 
 Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours, 
 
 Whose wakened leaf and bud 
 
 Are welcoming the morn. 
 
 And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud 
 Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven, 
 
 Even as a mother smiles 
 
 Above her cradled boy, 
 
 And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and mountain, 
 O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, 
 
 The river's golden shores, 
 
 The forests of dark pines. 
 
 The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
 The hum of the wild bee, the music wild 
 
 Of waves upon the bank, 
 
 Of leaves upon the bough. 
 
52 F I E L D O F 
 
 But all is song and beauty in the land, 
 Beneath her skies of June ; then journey on, 
 
 A thousand scenes like this 
 
 Will greet you ere the eve. 
 
 Ye linger yet — ye see not, hear not now 
 The sunny smile, the music of to-day, 
 Your thoughts are wandering up, 
 Far up the stream of time ; 
 
 And boyhood's lore and fireside listened tales 
 Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe 
 That valley's storied name, 
 Field of the grounded arms. 
 
 Strangers no more, a kindred " pride of place," 
 Pride in the gift of country and of name, 
 
 Speaks in your eye and step — 
 
 Ye tread your native land. 
 
THE GROUNDED ARMS. 53 
 
 And your high thoughts are on her glory's day, 
 The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, 
 
 Whose tempests bowed to earth 
 
 Her foeman's banner here. 
 
 The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead, 
 Upon the withered grass that autumn morn, 
 
 When, with as withered hearts 
 
 And hopes as dead and cold, 
 
 A gallant army formed their last array 
 Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom, 
 And at their conqueror's feet 
 Laid their war-weapons down. 
 
 Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonoured ; 
 Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there : 
 
 The soldier's trial task 
 
 Is not alone "to die." 
 
 E2 
 
54 FIELD OF 
 
 Honour to chivalry ! the conqueror's breath 
 Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame, 
 
 Nor mocks his captive's doom — 
 
 The bitterest cup of war. 
 
 But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
 Whose swords are lightning flashes in the cloud 
 
 Of the Invader's wrath, 
 
 Threatening a gallant land. 
 
 His armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone 
 Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand hills 
 
 Her answering voices shout, 
 
 And her bells ring to arms! 
 
 Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's march, 
 On raven wings, hushing the song of fame, 
 And glory's hues of beauty 
 Fade from the cheek of death. 
 
THE GROUNDED ARMS, 55 
 
 A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
 A fortress seen in every rock and tree, 
 
 The eagle eye of art 
 
 Is dim and powerless then, 
 
 And war becomes a people's joy, the drum 
 Man's merriest music, and the field of death 
 
 His couch of happy dreams, 
 
 After life's harvest home. 
 
 He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky 
 Above him, and his own green land around, 
 Land of his father's grave, 
 His blessing and his prayers, 
 
 Land where he learned to lisp a mother's name, 
 The first beloved in life, the last forgot, 
 
 Land of his frolic youth, 
 
 Land of his bridal eve, 
 
56 FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 Land of his children — vain your columned strength, 
 Invaders! vain your battles' steel and fire! 
 
 Choose ye the morrow's doom — 
 
 A prison or a grave. 
 
 And such were Saratoga's victors — such 
 
 The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death have given 
 
 A glory to her skies, 
 
 A music to her name. 
 
 In honourable life her fields they trod, 
 In honourable death they sleep below ; 
 Their sons' proud feelings here 
 Their noblest monuments. 
 
RED JACKET. 
 
 A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. 
 
 ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WKIR. 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
 First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 
 
 A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
 His love for the young land he left behind; 7 
 
58 RED JACKET. 
 
 And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, 
 Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven -wrought ; 
 
 Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 
 And beautiful as its green world of thought ; 
 
 And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
 As law authority, it passed nem. con. ; 
 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
 The most enlightened people ever known. 
 
 That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 
 
 And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
 There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 
 
 And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 
 We shall export our poetry and wine; 
 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 
 
RED JACKET. 59 
 
 If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! 
 
 Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
 In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 
 
 Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 
 
 Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, 
 Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ; 
 
 Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, 
 Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 
 
 For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
 Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 
 
 But that the forest tribes have bent for ages 
 To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 
 
 Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 
 
 Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 
 
 Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
 Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 
 
00 REDJACKET. 
 
 Yet it is music in the language spoken 
 
 Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 
 
 As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
 As Caeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 
 
 Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
 That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 
 
 And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, 
 A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 
 
 Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
 And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, 
 
 As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, 
 Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 
 
 Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? 
 
 Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
 As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors, 
 
 Heroes in history, and gods in song. 
 
REDJACKET. 61 
 
 Is beauty? — Thine has with thy youth departed; 
 
 But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, 
 And she who perished, young and broken hearted, 
 
 Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 
 
 Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches 
 The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; 
 
 And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
 The secret of their mastery — they are short. 
 
 The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, 
 The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
 
 Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
 The hearts of millions till they move as one ; 
 
 Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 
 The road to death as to a festival; 
 
 And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 
 With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
 F 
 
62 REDJACKET. 
 
 Who will believe? Not I — for in deceiving 
 Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 
 
 I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
 
 That all things beautiful are what they seem. 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
 Would, like the Patriarch's, sooth a dying hour, 
 
 With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, 
 As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower; 
 
 With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil; 
 
 With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
 Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
 
 That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair! 
 
 That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
 Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 
 
 And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain 
 
 Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 
 
REB JACKET. 63 
 
 And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, 
 Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 
 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 
 
 Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, 
 Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars; 
 
 Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; 
 Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; 
 
 Hope — that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
 Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 
 
 Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 
 
 Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 
 
LOVE. 
 
 • • • • The imperial votress passed on 
 In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again ? 
 
 Benedict, in Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 I. 
 
 When the tree of Love is budding first, 
 
 Ere yet its leaves are green, 
 Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed 
 
 Its infant life has been; 
 The wild bee's slightest touch might wring 
 
 The buds from off the tree, 
 As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing 
 
 Breaks the bubbles on the sea. 
 
LOVE. 65 
 
 II. 
 
 But when its open leaves have found 
 
 A home in the free air, 
 Pluck them, and there remains a wound 
 
 That ever rankles there. 
 The blight of hope and happiness 
 
 Is felt when fond ones part, 
 And the bitter tear that follows is 
 
 The life-blood of the heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 When the flame of love is kindled first, 
 
 'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 
 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst 
 
 In the blue of the summer heaven. 
 A breath can bid it burn no more, 
 
 Or if, at times, its beams 
 Come on the memory, they pass o'er 
 
 Like shadows in our dreams. 
 F2 
 
66 LOVE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But when that flame has blazed into 
 
 A being and a power, 
 And smiled in scorn upon the dew 
 
 That fell in its first warm hour, 
 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, 
 
 Whose task is to destroy; 
 'Tis the lamps on the altars of the dead, 
 
 Whose light but darkens joy. 
 
 Then crush, even in their hour of birth, 
 
 The infant buds of Love, 
 And tread his glowing fire to earth, 
 
 Ere 'tis dark in clouds above; 
 Cherish no more a cypress-tree 
 
 To shade thy future years, 
 Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be 
 
 Quenched only with thy tears. 
 
A SKETCH. 
 
 Her Leghorn hat was of the bright gold tint 
 The setting sunbeams give, to autumn clouds; 
 The riband that encircled it as blue 
 As spots of sky upon a moonless night, 
 When stars are keeping revelry in heaven ; 
 A single ringlet of her clustering hair 
 Fell gracefully beneath her hat, in curls 
 As dark as down upon the raven's wing; 
 
68 A SKETCH. 
 
 The kerchief, partly o'er her shoulders flung. 
 
 And partly waving in the wind, was woven 
 
 Of every colour the first rainbow wore, 
 
 When it came smiling in its hues of beauty, 
 
 A promise from on high to a lost world. 
 
 Her robe seemed of the snow just fallen to earth, 
 
 Pure from its home in the far winter clouds, 
 
 As white, as stainless; and around her waist 
 
 (You might have spanned it with your thumb and finger), 
 
 A girdle of the hue of Indian pearls 
 
 Was twined, resembling the faint line of water 
 
 That follows the swift bark o'er quiet seas. 
 
 Her face I saw not : but her shape, her form, 
 
 Was one of those with which creating bards 
 
 People a world of their own fashioning, 
 
 Forms for the heart to love and cherish ever, 
 
 The visiting angels of our twilight dreams. 
 
 Her foot was loveliest of remembered things, 
 
 Small as a fairy's on a moonlit leaf 
 
 Listening the wind-harp's song, and watching by 
 
 The wild-thyme pillow of her sleeping queen, 
 
 When proud Titania shuns her Oberon. 
 
 But 'twas that foot which broke the spell — alas ! 
 
 Its stocking had a deep, deep tinge of blue — 
 
 ] turned away in sadness, and passed on. x 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 The only bliss 
 
 Of Paradise that has survived the fall. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 "Beside the nuptial curtain bright" 
 
 The Bard of Eden .sings, 
 "Young Love his constant lamp will light, 
 
 And wave his purple wings." 
 But rain-drops from the clouds of care 
 
 May bid that lamp be dim, 
 And the boy Love will pout and swear 
 
 'Tis then no place for him. 
 
70 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 So mused the lovely Mrs. Dash; 
 
 'Tis wrong to mention names ; 
 When for her surly husband's cash 
 
 She urged in vain her claims. 
 "I want a little money, dear, 
 
 For Vandervoort and Flandin, 
 Their bill, which now has run a year, 
 
 To-morrow mean to hand in." 
 
 III. 
 
 " More ?" cried the husband, half asleep, 
 
 "You'll drive me to despair;" 
 The lady was too proud to weep, 
 
 And too polite to swear. 
 She bit her lip for very spite, 
 
 He felt a storm was brewing, 
 And dreamed of nothing else all night 
 
 But brokers, banks, and ruin. 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 71 
 
 IV. 
 
 He thought her pretty once, but dreams 
 
 Have sure a wondrous power, 
 For to his eye the lady seems 
 
 Quite altered since that hour ; 
 And Love, who, on their bridal eve, 
 
 Had promised long to stay, 
 Forgot his promise, took French leave, 
 
 And bore his lamp away. 
 
MAGDALEN/ 
 
 I. 
 
 A sword, whose blade has ne'er been wet 
 
 With blood, except of freedom's foes ; 
 That hope which, though its sun be set, 
 
 Still with a starlight beauty glows ; 
 A heart that worshipp'd in Romance 
 
 The Spirit of the buried Time, 
 And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, 
 
 And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ; 
 These had been, and I deemed would be 
 My joy, whate'er my destiny. 
 
MAGDALEN. 73 
 
 II. 
 
 Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright 
 
 Alone illumed my cradle-bed ; 
 And I had borne with wild delight 
 
 My banner where Bolivar led, 
 Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek, 
 
 Or manhood's pride was on my brow. 
 Its folds are furled — the war-bird's beak 
 
 Is thirsty on the Andes now; 
 I longed, like her, for other skies 
 Clouded by Glory's sacrifice. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, 
 
 Its soldier-song the bugle sings; 
 And I had buckled on my brand, 
 
 And waited but the sea wind's wings, 
 To bear me where, or lost or won 
 
 Her battle, in its frown or smile, 
 Men live with those of Marathon, 
 
 Or die with those of Scio's isle ; 
 And find in Valour's tent or tomb, 
 In life or death, a glorious home. 
 G 
 
74 MAGDALEN. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I could have left but yesterday 
 
 The scene of my boy-years behind, 
 And floated on my careless way 
 
 Wherever willed the breathing wind. 
 I could have bade adieu to aught 
 
 I've sought, or met, or welcomed here, 
 Without an hour of shaded thought, 
 
 A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. 
 Such was I yesterday — but then 
 I had not known thee, Magdalen. 
 
 To-day there is a change within me, 
 
 There is a weight upon my brow, 
 And Fame, whose whispers once could win me 
 
 From all I loved, is powerless now. 
 There ever is a form, a face 
 
 Of maiden beauty in my dreams, 
 Speeding before me, like the race 
 
 To ocean of the mountain streams — 
 With dancing hair, and laughing eyes, 
 That seem to mock me as it flies. 
 
MAGDALEN. 75 
 
 VI. 
 
 My sword — it slumbers in its sheath ; 
 
 My hopes — their starry light is gone; 
 My heart — the fabled clock of death 
 > Beats with the same low, lingering tone : 
 And this, the land of Magdalen, 
 
 Seems now the only spot on earth 
 Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; 
 
 And here I'd build my household hearth, 
 And breathe my song of joy, and twine 
 A lovely being's name with mine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In vain! in vain! the sail is spread; 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! my task is there ; 
 But when among the unmourned dead 
 
 They lay me, and the ocean air 
 Brings tidings of my day of doom, 
 
 Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, 
 The load-star of a happy home ; 
 
 In smile and voice, in eye and heart 
 The same as thou hast ever been, 
 The loved, the lovely Magdalen. 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Eyes with the same blue witchery as those 
 
 Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles ; 
 
 Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, 
 
 That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles ; 
 
 A power of motion and of look, whose art 
 
 Throws, silently, around the wildest heart 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN. 77 
 
 The net it would not break; a form which vies 
 With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, 
 And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find 
 His breathing marble could not realize. 
 
 Know ye this picture? There is one alone 
 Can call its pencilled lineaments her own. 
 She whom, at morning, when the summer air 
 Wanders, delighted, o'er her face of flowers, 
 And lingers in the ringlets of her hair, 
 We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet hours ; 
 She who, at evening, when her fingers press 
 The harp, and wake its harmonies divine, 
 Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine, 
 The minstrel of the bowers of happiness, 
 She whom the Graces nurtured — at her birth, 
 The sea-born Goddess and the Huntress maid, 
 Beings whose beauty is not of the earth, 
 Came from their myrtle home and forest shade, 
 Blending immortal joy with mortal mirth : 
 And Dian said, " Fair sister, be she mine 
 In her heart's purity, in beauty thine." 
 The smiling infant listened and obeyed. 
 G2 
 
TRANSLATION 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 
 Again ye come, again ye throng around me, 
 Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood's dream ! 
 
 Still shall I bless, as then, your spell that bound me ? 
 Still bend to mists and vapours as ye seem ? 
 
 Nearer ye come : I yield me as ye found me 
 In youth, your worshipper ; and as the stream 
 
 Of air, that folds you in its magic wreaths, 
 
 Flows by my lips, youth's joy my bosom breathes. 
 
TRANSLATION, ETC. 79 
 
 Lost forms and loved ones ye are with you bringing, 
 
 And dearest images of happier days, 
 First-love and friendship in your path upspringing, 
 
 Like old tradition's half-remembered lays, 
 And long-slept sorrows waked, whose dirge-like singing 
 
 Recalls my life's strange labyrinthine maze, 
 And names the heart mourned many a stern doom, 
 Ere their year's summer, summoned to the tomb. 
 
 They hear not these my last songs, they whose greeting 
 Gladdened my first ; my spring-time friends have gone, 
 
 And gone, fast journeying from that place of meeting, 
 The echoes of their welcome, one by one. 
 
 Though stranger crowds, my listeners since, are beating 
 Time to my music, their applauding tone 
 
 More grieves than glads me, while the tried and true, 
 
 If yet on earth, are wandering far and few. 
 
80 TRANSLATION, ETC. 
 
 A longing long unfelt, a deep-drawn sighing 
 For the far Spirit- World o'erpowers me now ; 
 
 My song's faint voice sinks fainter, like the dying 
 Tones of the wind-harp swinging from the bough, 
 
 And my changed heart throbs warm, no more denying 
 Tears to my eyes, or sadness to my brow : 
 
 The near afar off seems, the distant nigh, 
 
 The now a dream, the past reality. 
 
 1839. 
 
WOMAN. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 Lady, although we have not met, 
 And may not meet, beneath the sky; 
 
 And whether thine are eyes of jet, 
 
 Gray, or dark blue, or violet, 
 Or hazel — heaven knows, not I; 
 
 Whether around thy cheek of rose 
 
 A maiden's glowing locks are curled, 
 And to some thousand kneeling beaux, 
 Thy frown is cold as winter's snows, 
 Thy smile is worth a world; 
 
82 WOMAN. 
 
 Or whether, past youth's joyous strife, 
 
 The calm of thought is on thy brow, 
 And thou art in thy noon of life, 
 Loving and loved, a happy wife, 
 And happier mother now, 
 
 I know not: but, whate'er thou art, 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell, 
 To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart, 
 There should not be one hand or heart 
 But served or wished thee well. 
 
 For thou art Woman — with that word 
 
 Life's dearest hopes and memories come, 
 Truth, Beauty, Love — in her adored, 
 And earth's lost Paradise restored 
 In the green bower of home. 
 
 What is man's love? His vows are broke, 
 Even while his parting kiss is warm ; 
 
 But woman's love all change will mock, 
 
 And, like the ivy round the oak, 
 Cling closest in the storm. 
 
WOMAN. 
 
 83 
 
 And well the Poet at her shrine 
 
 May bend, and worship while he woos ; 
 
 To him she is a thing divine, 
 
 The inspiration of his line, 
 His loved one and his Muse. 
 
 If to his song the echo rings 
 
 Of Fame — 'tis woman's voice he hears ; 
 If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
 Flow sounds like rush of angel wings, 
 'Tis that she listens while he sings, 
 
 With blended smiles and tears : 
 
 Smiles — tears — whose blessed and blessing power, 
 
 Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree, 
 Alone keeps green through Time's long hour, 
 That frailer thing than leaf or flower, 
 A Poet's immortality. 
 
 1824. 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 HER FATHER. 
 
 "A Lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme." 
 A Lady asks? There was a time 
 When, musical as play-bell's chime 
 
 To wearied boy, 
 That sound would summon dreams sublime 
 
 Of pride and joy. 
 
A POET S DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 But now the spell hath lost its sway, 
 Life's first-born fancies first decay, 
 Gone are the plumes and pennons gay 
 
 Of young Romance ; 
 There linger but her ruins gray, 
 
 And broken lance. 
 
 'Tis a new world — no more to maid, 
 Warrior, or bard, is homage paid; 
 The bay-tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade, 
 
 Men's thoughts resign; 
 Heaven placed us here to vote and trade 
 
 Twin tasks divine ! 
 
 " Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks ; the green 
 
 And growing leaves of seventeen 
 
 Are round her ; and, half hid, half seen, 
 
 A violet flower, 
 Nursed by the virtues she hath been 
 
 From childhood's hour." 
 IT 
 
8 G a poet's daughter. 
 
 Blind passion's picture — yet for this 
 We woo the life-long bridal kiss, 
 And blend our every hope of bliss 
 
 With hers we love; 
 Unmindful of the serpent's hiss 
 
 In Eden's grove. 
 
 Beauty — the fading rainbow's pride, 
 Youth — 'twas the charm of her who died 
 At dawn, and by her coffin's eide 
 
 A grandsire stands, 
 Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried 
 
 Of mountain lands. 
 
 Youth's coffin — hush the tale it tells, 
 Be silent, memory's funeral bells! 
 Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells 
 
 Untold till death, 
 And where the grave-mound greenly swells 
 
 O'er buried faith. 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 " But what if hers are rank and power, 
 Armies her train, a throne her bower, 
 A kingdom's gold her marriage dower, 
 
 Broad seas and lands? 
 What if from bannered hall and tower 
 
 A queen commands'?" 
 
 A queen? Earth's regal moons have set. 
 
 Where perished Marie Antoinette? 
 
 Where's Bordeaux's mother? Where the jet- 
 Black Haytian dame? 
 
 And Lusitania's coronet? 
 And Angouleme? 
 
 Empires to-day are upside down, 
 The castle kneels before the town, 
 The monarch fears a printer's frown, 
 
 A brickbat's range; 
 Give me, in preference to a crown, 
 
 Five shillings change. 
 
88 A POET S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " But her who asks, though first among 
 The good, the beautiful, the young, 
 The birthright of a spell more strong 
 
 Than these hath brought her; 
 She is your kinswoman in song, 
 
 A Poet's daughter." 
 
 A Poet's daughter? Could I claim 
 The consanguinity of fame, 
 Veins of my intellectual frame ! 
 
 Your blood would glow 
 Proudly to sing that gentlest name 
 
 Of aught below. 
 
 A Poet's daughter — dearer word 
 
 Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard, 
 
 Fit theme for song of bee and bird 
 
 From morn till even, 
 And wind-harp by the breathing stirred 
 
 Of star-lit heaven. 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. &U 
 
 My spirit's wings are weak, the fire 
 
 Poetic comes but to expire, 
 
 Her name needs not my humble lyre 
 
 To bid it live; 
 She hath already from her sire 
 
 All bard can give. 
 
 1831. 
 
 H 2 
 
CONNECTICUT. 
 
 FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 " The woods in which we had dwelt pleasantly rustled their green leaves 
 in the song, and our streams were there with the sound of all their waters." 
 —Montrose. 
 
 I. 
 
 still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
 
 That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave; 
 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
 
 Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 
 Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, 
 
 And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; 
 And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, 
 Nor even then, unless in their own way. 
 

 CONNECTICUT. 91 
 
 II. 
 
 Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
 A "fierce democracie," where all are true 
 
 To what themselves have voted — right or wrong- 
 And to their laws denominated blue; 
 
 (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
 A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
 
 Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest, 
 
 Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 
 
 J* 
 
 III. 
 
 A justice of the peace, for the time being, 
 
 They bow to, but may turn him out next year ; 
 
 They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
 In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; 
 
 They have a natural talent for foreseeing 
 
 And knowing all things; and should Park appear 
 
 From his long tour in Africa, to show 
 
 The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — we know. 
 
92 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They love their land, because it is their own, 
 And scorn to give aught other reason why; 
 
 Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, 
 And think it kindness to his majesty; 
 
 A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
 Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 
 
 All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 
 
 With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; 
 
 Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
 The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 
 
 Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 
 
 And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," 
 
 And what the moralists call over- reaching, 
 A decent living. The Virginians look 
 
 Upon them with as favourable eyes 
 
 As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 
 
CONNECTICUT. 93 
 
 VI. 
 
 But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
 At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; 
 
 And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
 
 And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced 
 
 With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
 
 Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, 
 
 In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 
 
 Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 
 
 Is felt even in their nation's destiny ; 
 Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 
 
 And looked on armies with a leader's eye; 
 Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 
 
 Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
 And tales of love and war — listen to one 
 Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 
 
*^ CONNECTICUT. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When on that field his band the Hessians fought, 
 Briefly he spoke before the fight began: 
 
 " Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 
 For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, 
 
 By England's king ; a bargain, as is thought. 
 
 Are we worth more ? Let's prove it now we can ; 
 
 For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, 
 
 Or Mary Stark's a widow." It was done. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, 
 Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales, 
 
 The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
 Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 
 
 Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
 Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales 
 
 Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn time 
 
 Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 
 
CONNECTICUT. 
 
 X. 
 
 95 
 
 Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
 Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves, 
 
 The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, 
 The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, 
 
 Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
 Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 
 
 And his mind's brightest vision but displays 
 
 The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 
 
 Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; 
 The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove, 
 
 The mother smiling in her infant's bower; 
 Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 
 
 Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
 Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
 To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 
 
MUSI C. 
 
 TO A BOY OF FOUR YEARS OLD, ON HEARING HIM PLAY ON 
 THE HARP. 
 
 Sweet boy! before thy lips can learn 
 In speech thy wishes to make known, 
 
 Are "thoughts that breathe and words that burn 5 
 Heard in thy music's tone. 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 Were Genius tasked to prove the might, 
 The magic of her hidden spell, 
 
 She well might name thee with delight 
 As her own miracle. 
 
 Who that hath heard, from summer trees, 
 The sweet wild song of summer birds, 
 
 When morning to the far-off breeze 
 Whispers her bidding words ; 
 
 Or listened to the bird of night, 
 The minstrel of the starlight hours, 
 
 Companion of the firefly's flight, 
 Cool dews, and closed flowers; 
 
 But deemed that spirits of the air- 
 Had left their native homes in heaven, 
 
 And that the music warbled there 
 To earth a while was given? 
 I 
 
 97 
 
98 music. 
 
 For with that music came the thought 
 That life's young purity was theirs, 
 
 And love, all artless and untaught, 
 Breathed in their woodland airs. 
 
 And when, sweet boy! thy baby fingers 
 Wake sounds of heaven's own harmony, 
 
 How welcome is the thought that lingers 
 Upon thy lyre and thee ! 
 
 It calls up visions of past days, 
 When life was infancy and song 
 
 To us, and old remembered lays, 
 Unheard, unheeded long; 
 
 Revive in joy or grief within us, 
 
 Like lost friends wakened from their sleep, 
 With all their early power to win us 
 
 Alike to smile or weep. 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 And when we gaze upon that face, 
 Blooming in innocence and truth, 
 
 And mark its dimpled artlessness, 
 Its beauty and its youth; 
 
 We think of better worlds than this, 
 Of other beings pure as thou, 
 
 Who breathe, on winds of Paradise, 
 Music as thine is now. 
 
 And know the only emblem meet 
 Of that pure Faith the heart adores, 
 
 To be a child like thee, whose feet 
 Are strangers on Life's shores. 
 
ON THE DEATH OP 
 
 LIEUT. WILLIAM HOWARD ALLEN, 9 
 
 OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. 
 
 He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave, 
 And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, 
 With bitter, but proud tears, and o'er his head 
 The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave, 
 The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green ; 
 And by his grave's side pilgrim feet have been, 
 And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give, 
 Have there been breathed by those he died to save. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. ALLEN. 101 
 
 —Pride of his country's banded chivalry, 
 His fame their hope, his name their battle cry; 
 He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, 
 He died as fathers wish their sons to die. 
 
 If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss, 
 Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, 
 Could ever know on earth a second bloom, 
 The memory of a gallant death like his 
 Would call them into being ; but the few, 
 Who as their friend, their brother, or their son, 
 His kind Warm heart and gentle spirit knew, 
 Had long lived, hoped, and feared for him alone ; 
 His voice their morning music, and his eye 
 The only starlight of their evening sky, 
 Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim, 
 And life's best joys were sorrows but with him ; 
 And when, the burning bullet in his breast, 
 He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough, 
 There was one heart that knew and loved him best — 
 It was a mother's — and is broken now. 
 
 I 2 
 
NOTES. 
 
 (1.) P. 9. — Alnwick Castle, Northumberlandshire, a seat of the 
 Duke of Northumberland. Written in October, 1822. 
 
 From him who once his standard set. — Page 12. 
 (2.) One of the ancestors of the Percy family was an Emperor of 
 Constantinople. 
 
 Fought for King George at Lexington. — Page 12. 
 (3.) The late duke. He commanded a detachment of the British 
 army, in the affair at Lexington and Concord, in 1775. 
 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand. — Page 13. 
 (4.) Berwick was formerly a principality. Richard II. was styled 
 " King of England, France, and Ireland, and Berwick-upon-Tweed." 
 
 (5.) P. 16. — Marco Bozzabis, one of the best and bravest of the 
 modern Greek chieftains. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish 
 camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Plataea, August 20, 1823, and 
 expired in the moment of victory. 
 
104 NOTES. 
 
 (6.) P. 34.— Wyoming.— The allusions in the following stanzas 
 can be understood by those only who have read Campbell's beauti- 
 ful poem, " Gertrude op Wyoming :" but who has not read itl 
 
 (7.) P. 57. — " Red Jacket" appeared originally in 1828, soon after 
 the publication of Mr. Cooper's " Notions of the Americans." 
 
 (8.) P. 72.— Magdalen.— Written in 1823, for a love-stricken 
 young officer on his way to Greece. The reader will have the kind- 
 ness to presume that he died there. 
 
 (9.) P. 100. — Lieut. Allen. — He commanded the U. S. Sloop of 
 War Alligator, and was mortally wounded on the 9th of Nov., 1822, 
 in an action with pirates, near Matanzas, in the Island of Cuba. 
 His mother, a few hours after hearing of his death, died— literally 
 of a broken heart. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Alnwick Castle 9 
 
 Marco Bozzaris . ; . 16 
 
 Burns i 23 
 
 Wyoming . 34 
 
 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 39 
 
 Twilight 42 
 
 Psalm CXXXVII. . . 45 
 
 To**** . 48 
 
 The Field of the Grounded Arms 50 
 
 Red Jacket 67 
 
 Love 64 
 
 A Sketch 67 
 
 Domestic Happiness • 69 
 
 Magdalen 72 
 
 From the Italian 76 
 
 Translation from the German of Goethe .... 78 
 
 Woman 81 
 
 A Poet's Daughter 84 
 
 Connecticut 90 
 
 Music 96 
 
 On the Death of Lieut. Allen 100 
 
/ u 
 
 !%H5 
 
1 
 
 ill 
 
 ■ 
 
 I