THE LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF COMMODORE BYRON MCCANDLESS * THE POETS AND POETRY AMERICA. WITH AN HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. BY RUFUS WILMOT GKISWOLD. HERE THE FREE SPIRIT OP MANKIND AT LENGTH THROWS ITS LAST FETTERS OFF J AND WHO SHALL PLACE A LIMIT TO THE GIANT'S UNCHAINED STRENGTH? BRYANT. ERE LONG, THINE EVERY STREAM SH4LL FIND A TONGTJK, LAND OF THE MANY WATERS! HOFFMAN. THIS BE THE POET'S PRAISE, THAT HE HATH EVER BEEN OF LIBERTY THE STEADIEST FRIEND j OF JUSTICE AND OK TRUTH FIRMEST OF ALL SUPPORTERS; OF HIGH THOUGHTS, AND ALL THE BEAUTY OF THE INNER WORLD, CREATOR. AMERICAN PROSPECTS 11^3 EIGHTH EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. PHILADELPHIA: CAREY AND HART, CHESNUT STREET. 1847. ENTERED, ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1842, BY CAREY Sf HART, IN THE OFFICE OJ THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANI> STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO. PHILADELPHIA. PRINTED BY T. K. & P. O. COLLIXS. g TO WASHINGTON ALLSTON, THE ELDEST OF THE LIVING POETS OF AMERICA, AND THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS OF HER PAINTERS, - THE fact that an eighth edition of " The Poets and Poetry of America" is demanded within five years from the time of its first publication is a gratifying evidence of the increasing interest felt in our literature. The work was in the first place too hastily prepared. There was difficulty in procuring materials, and in deciding, where so many had some sort of claim to the title, whom to regard as Poets. There had been published in this country about five hundred volumes of rhythmical compositions, of various kinds and degrees of merit, nearly all of which I read with more or less attention. From the mass I chose about one-fifth, as containing writings not unworthy of notice in such a survey of this part of our literature as I proposed to make. I have been censured, perhaps justly, for the wide range of my selections. But I did not consider all the contents of the volume genuine Poetry. I aimed merely to show what had been accomplished toward a Poetical Literature in the first half century of our national existence. With much of the first order of excellence I accepted more that was comparatively poor. But I believe I admitted nothing inferior to passages in the most celebrated foreign works of like character. I have also been condemned for omissions. But on this score I have no regrets. I can think of no name not included in the first edition which I would now admit without better credentials than were before me when that edition was printed. Since the year 1841 new poets have appeared, and some of our old writers have produced new poems. In revising this work I have made such improve- ments as were thus rendered possible and necessary. I trust it will be found more than ever to merit the favour with which it has been received. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1847. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. THIS book is designed to exhibit the progress and condition of Poetry in the United States. It contains selections from a large number of authors, all of whom have lived in the brief period which has elapsed since the establishment of the national government. Considering the youth of the country, and the many circumstances which have had a tendency to retard the advancement of letters here, it speaks well for the past and present, and cheeringly for the future. Although America has produced many eminent scholars and writers, we have yet but the beginning of a National Literature. EDWARDS and MARSH, in metaphysics ; DWIGHT, EMMONS, ALEXANDER, STUART, BUSH, WILLIAMS, ROBINSON, NORTON, HODGE and BARNES, in Theology ; HAMILTON, MADISON, WEBSTER and CALHOUN, in Politics ; STORY, KENT and WHEATON, in Ju- risprudence ; PRESCOTT and BANCROFT, in History ; BROWN, COOPER, IRVING, KENNEDY, BIRD, WARE, HOFFMAN and HAWTHORNE, in Romantic Fiction ; BRYANT, DANA, HALLECK, LONGFELLOW, WHITTIER, and others whose names are in this volume, in Poetry ; and AUDUBON, CHANNING, EVERETT, EMERSON, BROWNSON, VERPLANCK, and many more, in the various departments of Lite- rature, have written for the coming ages. But too few of them, it must be confessed, are free from that vassalage of opinion and style which is produced by a constant study of the Literature of the country from which we inherit our language, our tastes, and our manners. It is said that the principles of our heroic age are beginning to be re- garded with indifference ; that patriotism is decaying ; that the affections of the people are passing from the simplicity of a democracy to the gilded shows of an aristocracy. If it is so, it is because our opinions and feelings are controlled by foreigners, ignorant of our condition and necessities, and hostile to our government and institutions. And it will continue to be the case until, by an honest and judicious system of RECIPROCAL COPYRIGHT, such protection is given to the native author as will enable our best writers to de- vote more attention to letters, which, not less than wealth, add to a nation's PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. happiness and greatness ; and should receive as much of the fostering care of government as is extended to the agriculturist or manufacturer. There is nothing in our country to prevent the successful cultivation of literature and the arts, provided the government places our own authors upon an equality with their foreign rivals, by making it possible to publish their works at the same prices. A National Literature is not necessarily confined to local subjects ; but if it were, we have no lack of themes for romance, poetry, or any other sort of writing, even though the new relations which man sustains to his fellows in these commonwealths did not exist. The perilous adventures of the Northmen ; the noble heroism of Columbus ; the rise and fall of the Peruvian and Mexican empires ; the colonization of New-England by the Puritans ; the witchcraft delusion ; the persecution of the Quakers and Baptists ; the rise and fall of the French dominion in the Canadas ; the overthrow of the great confederacy of the Five Nations ; the settlement of New- York, Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia, by people of the most varied and picturesque characters ; the beautiful and poetical my- thology of the aborigines ; and that revolution, resulting in our independence and equal liberty, which forms a barrier between the traditionary past and the 'familiar present: all abound with themes for imaginative literature. Turning from these subjects to those of a descriptive character, we have a variety not less extensive and interesting. The chains of mountains which bind the continent ; the inland seas between Itasca and the ocean ; caverns, in which whole nations might be hidden ; the rivers, cataracts, and sea-like prairies ; and all the varieties of land, lake, river, sea and sky, between the gulfs of Mexico and Hudson, are full of them. The elements of power in all sublime sights and heavenly harmonies should live in the poet's song. The sense of beauty, next to the miraculous divine suasion, is the means through which the human character is purified and elevated. The creation of beauty, the manifestation of the real by the ideal, in " words that move in metrical array," is the office of the poet. This volume embraces specimens from a great number of authors ; and though it may not contain all the names which deserve admission, the judi- cious critic will be more likely to censure me for the wide range of my selections than for any omissions. In regard to the number of poems I have given from particular writers, it is proper to state that considerations uncon- nected with any estimates of their comparative merit have in some cases guided me. The collected works of several poets have been frequently PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. printed and are generally familiar, while the works of others, little less deserving of consideration, are comparatively unknown. There is in all the republic scarcely a native inhabitant of Saxon origin who cannot read and write. Every house has its book closet and every town its public library. The universal prevalence of intelligence, and that self-respect and confidence arising from political and social equality, have caused a great increase of writers. Owing, however, to the absence of a just system of copy- right, the rewards of literary exertion are so precarious that but a small number give their exclusive attention to literature. A high degree of excellence, espe- cially in poetry, is attained only by constant and quiet study and cultivation. Our poets have generally written with too little preparation, and too hastily, to win enduring reputations. In selecting the specimens in the work, I have regarded humorous and other rhythmical compositions, not without merit in their way, as poetry, though they possess few of its true elements. It is so common to mistake the form for the divine essence, that I should have been compelled to omit the names of many who are popularly known as poets, had I been governed by a more strict definition. PHILADELPHIA, March, 1842. CONTENTS. l-REFACE TO THE EIGHTH EDITION ........ 6 GENERAL PREFACE ................ 6 HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION ............. 17 PHILIP FRF.NEAU ................. 31 The Dying Indian ................. 32 Tbe Indian Burying-Ground ............. 32 To the Memory of the Americans who fell a( Eu'aw ..... 33 To an Old Man ................. 33 Columbus to Ferdinand ..... ......... 34 The Wild Honeysuckle ............... 34 Human Frailty .........'. ....... 35 The Prospect of Peace ............... 35 To a Night-Fly, approaching a Candle ......... f. 35 JOHN TRUMBULL ................. 36 (Me to Sleep ......... v ......... 37 The Country Clown, from " The Progress of Outness" ..... 39 Thi fop, from the same ............... 39 Character of McFin?al, from " McFingal" ......... 40 Extreme Humanity, from the same ........... 31 The Decayed Coquette ................ 42 TIMOTHY DWIGHT ................. 43 An Indian Temple .................. 44 England and America ................ 45 Tbe Social Visit .................. 45 The Country Pastor ................. 46 The Country Schoolmaster .............. 47 The Baltic of Ai, from " The Conquest of Canaan" ...... 47 The Lamentation of Selima, from the same ........ 48 Prediction to Joshua relative to America, from the same .... 48 Evening after a Battle, from the same .......... 49 Columbia .................... 49 DAVID HUMPHREYS ................. 60 On the Prospect of Peace ............... 51 Western Emigration ................ 61 American Winter .............. ...61 Revolutionary Soldier* ............... 51 JOEL BARLOW ............. ...... 5-2 The Hasty Pudding ................. 54 Burning of the New England Villages, from * The Colambiad" . . 67 To Freedom, from the same .............. 68 Morgan and Tell, from the same ............ 58 The Zones of America, from the same ......... 58 n THARD ALSOP ......... From a Monody on the Death of Washington ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD ............... 80 Crimes and Punishments ............... 60 A Radical Song of 1786 ............... 62 Reflections on seeing a Bull slain in the Country ....... 62 Impromptu on an Order to kill the Dogs in Albany ...... 62 WILLIAM CLIFFTON ................ 63 Epistle to William Gifforcl, Esq ............. 63 Mary will smile .................. 64 WASHINGTON ALLSTON ............... 65 The Paint King .................. 66 The Sylphs of the Seasons .............. 68 America to Great Britain .............. 72 The Spanish Maid .... ........ ....72 On Greenough's Group of the Angel and Child ....... 73 Sonnets .................... 73 OnaFallingGroupintheLastJudgmentofMicbael Angelo . 73 On Rembrant : occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream . . 73 On the Pictures by Rubens in the Luxembourg Gallery ... 73 To my venerable friend Benjamin West ........ 73 On seeing the Picture of .Solus, by Peligrino Tibaldi ... 74 On the Death of Samuel Taylor Coleridge ....... 74 The Tuscan Maid ................. 74 Rosalie ..................... 74 2 Page JAMES KIRKE PAULDING 75 Ode to Jamestown ...75 Passage down the Ohio, from "The Backwoodsman" 76 Evening, from the same 76 Crossing the Alleghanies 77 The Old Man's Carousal 77 LEVI FRISBE 78 A Castle in the Air 78 JOHN PIERPONT 79 Passing Away ' 80 Ode for the Charlestown Centennial Celebration 81 My Child 81 Ode for the Massachusetts Mechanics' Charitable Association ... 82 Her Chosen Spot 82 The Pilgrim Fathers 83 Plymouth Dedication Hymn 83 The Exile at Rest 83 Jerusalem 84 The Power of Music, from "Airs of Palestine" 85 Obsequies of Spurzheim 85 Hymn for the Dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, in Boston . . 86 The Sparkling Bowl 86 Ode for the Fourth of July 86 SAMUEL WOODWORTH 87 The Bucket 87 The Needle 87 ANDREWS NORTON ' 88 To , on the Death of a young Friend 88 Lines written after the Death of Charles Eliot 88 A Summer Shower 89 Hymn . . 89 To Mrs. , on her Departure for Europe 89 Hymn for the Dedication of a Church 90 Fortitude 90 The Close of the Year 90 To Mrs. , just after her Marriage 91 Funeral Hymn 91 A Winter Morning 91 RICHARD H. DANA 92 The Buccaneer 93 The Ocean, from " Factitious Life" 101 Daybreak 101 Extract from " The Husband's and Wife's Grave" 102 The Little Beach-Bird 102 The Moss Supplicateth for the Poet 103 Washington Allston 103 RICHARD HENRY WILDE 104 Ode to Ease 106 Solomon and the Genius 106 A Farewell to America 107 Napoleon's Grave 108 "My life is like the summer rose'- 108 To Lord Byron 108 To the Mocking-Bird 108 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE 109 The Judgment HI Hadad's Description of the City of Jerusalem 117 Untold Love, from " Demetria" 117 Scene from " Hadad" 118 Arthur's Soliloquy, from "Percy's Masque" 119 CHARLES SPRAGCE 130 Curiosity . '. 121 Sbakspeare Ode 127 The Brothers 128 Art, an Ode 129 Look on this Picture" 1 The Winged Worshippers 130 Dedication Hymn 130 9 12 CONTENTS. Page CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN Love and Politics 312 What is Solitude? 312 Indian Summer, 1828 313 Town Repining* .... 313 To a Lady Blushing 313 The Farewell -\ 313 " I will love her no more 't is wute of the heart" 313 " They are mockery all" 314 Melody 314 Morning Hymn 314 The Western Hunter to his Mistress 314 Thy Name 314 Rosalie Clare 315 Think of me, dearest" 315 " We parted in sadness" 315 The Origin of Mint Juleps 315 Sparkling and Bright 316 " Why seek her heart to understand" 316 " Ask me not why I should love her" 316 " She loves, but 'tis not me she loves" 316 "I know I share thy smiles with many" 316 N. P. WILLIS 317 Melanie 318 The Confessional 321 Linn on Leaving Europe 322 Spring 323 To Ermengarde 323 Hagar in the Wilderness 324 Thouehts while making a Grave for a first Child, born dead . . .325 The Belfry Pigeon 325 April 326 The Annoyer 326 To a Face beloved 326 EDWARD SANFORD 327 Address to Black-Hawk 327 To a Musquito 328 J. O. ROCKWELL 329 The Sum of Life 330 To Ann 330 The Lost at Sea 330 1 he Death-bed of Beauty 331 To the ke Mountain 331 The Prisoner for Debt 331 To a Wave 331 THOMAS WARD 332 Musings on Rivers 332 To the Magnolia 333 To an Infant in Heaven 333 JOHN H. BRYANT 334 The New England Pilgrim's Funeral 334 A Recollection 335 My Native Village . 335 The Indian Summer 336 The Blind Restored to Sight 336 Two Sonnets 336 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 337 Nuremberg 338 The Arsenal at Springfield 339 The Skeleton in Armour 339 A Ps.lin of Life 341 The Light of Stars 341 Endymion 341 Footsteps of Angels 342 The Beleaguered City 342 It is not always May 342 Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 343 The Village Blacksmith 343 Eicelsior 344 The rainy Day 344 Maidenhood . . . . 344 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 345 The Slain Eagle 347 The Brooklet 348 The Shaded Water 348 To the Breeze .... 349 The Lost Pleiad 349 The Edge of the Swamp . . 350 Changes of Home 350 GEORGE LUNT 351 Autumn Musings . 3.11 Jejvish Battle-Song 352 "Pass on, relent lets world" 352 Page GEORGE LUNT. Hampton Beach , 353 Pil?rim Song 353 The Lyre and Sword 353 JONATHAN LAWRENCE 354 Thoughts of a Student 354 Sea-Song 355 Look Aloft 355 To May 355 LOUISA J. HALL 356 A Scene from " Miriam" 356 Prayer 359 Miriam to Paulu 359 EMMA C. EMBURY 360 Autumn Evening 360 The Old Man's Lament 360 . . . .361 . . 361 S'.i on the Death of the Duke of Reichstadt Madame de Stael ..... .... ......... 362 Ballad .... ........... ...... 302 Sonn< ..................... 362 JOHN GREENI.EAF WHITTIER ............ J63 Lines written in the Book of a Friend .......... 364 Democracy .................... 355 Raphael Memories .................... 368 To a Friend on her Return from Europe .......... 367 The Ballad of Cassandra Southwick ........... 368 New England ................... 370 The Female Martyr ................ 370 The Frost Spirit .................. 371 The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon .............. 372 The Worship of Nature ............... 312 The Funeral Tree of the Sokokia ............ 373 Palestine .................... 374 Pentucket .................... 374 Lines on the Death of S. Oliver Torrey, of Boston ..... .375 The Prisoner for Debt ................ 376 The Merrimack .................. 375 St. John ..................... 377 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH .............. 379 The Acorn .................... 3SO The Drowned Mariner ................ 382 To the Hudson .................. 382 Sonnets ........ . ............ 333 Poesy .................... 383 The Bard ................... 333 An Incident .............. .... 383 The Unattained ................ 383 The Wife ................... 383 Religion ................ ... 383 The Dream ............... ... 388 Wayfarers .................. 3S3 Midsummer, from "The Sinless Child" .......... 384 Guardian Angels, from the same ............ 384 Conscience, from the same .............. 384 Flower?, from the same ............... 384 Field-Elves, from the same ............. 384 Superstition, from the same .............. 384 Infant Slumber, from the same ............. 384 Sympathy, from the same ............... 384 OLIVER WENDKLL HOLMES ............ 385 The Cambridge Churchyard .............. 3S6 An Evening Thought ................ 387 LaGrisette .................. -387 The Treadmill Song ................ 387 Departed Days .................. 388 The Dilemma .................. 388 The Star and the Water-Lily .......... ... 388 The Music Grinders ................. 389 Tin- Philosopher to his Love ..... '. ........ 389 L'lnC'inuue ................... 390 The Last Reader .................. 390 The Last Leaf .................. 390 Old Ironsides ................... 391 "Slrange! that one lightly-whisper'd tone" ........ 391 *Thf Steamboat .................. 391 ALBERT PIKE ................... 3U2 Hymns to the Gods ................. 393 To Neptune .................. 393 To Apollo .................. 393 To Venus ................... 394 To Diana . . . . 395 CONTENTS. 13 ALBERT PIKE Page Hymns to the Gods. To Mercury 395 To Bacchu 396 ToSomnus 397 To Cere. 397 To the Planet Jupiter 398 To the Mocking-bird 400 To Spring 401 Lines written on the Rocky Mountains 401 PARK BENJAMIN 402 Gold 403 Upon seeing a Portrait of a Lady 403 The Stormy Petrel 403 The Nautilus 403 To one Beloved 404 The Tired Hunter 405 The Departed 405 I am not old 405 The Dove's Errand 408 " How cheery are the Mariners" 406 Lines spoken by a Blind Boy 407 The Elysian Isle 407 Sonnets 408 RALPH HOYT 409 Old 409 New 410 Sal 412 Snow 412 Extract from the Chaunt of Life 413 WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK 414 A Lament 415 Memory 415 Song of May 416 Death of the First-Born 416 Summer 417 The Early Dead 417 The Signs of God 417 Euthanasia 418 An Invitation 418 The Burial-place at Laurel Hill 418 A Contrast 419 The Faded One 419 A Remembrance ' 419 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER 420 To the West 420 August 421 Spring Verses 421 May 422 Our Early Days 422 The Labourer 423 The Mothers of the West 423 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE 424 Hymn and 1'nyer 424 The Poet 424 Jacob's Well 425 The Violet 425 To a Bunch of Flower. 425 ANNA PEYRE DINNIES 426 Wedded Love 426 The Wife . . 426 JAMES ALDRICH 427 Mom at Sea . . -427 A Dea'h-Bed 427 My Mother's Grave 427 A SpriD?.Day Walk 428 To one far away 428 Beatrice 428 " Underneath this marble cold" 428 The Dreaming Girl 428 WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER 429 A Forest Scene, from " Yonnondio" 429 Woods by Moonlight, from the same 429 A M"ck Indian Fight, from the same 429 An Indian March, from the same 430 On a Ruin, from the Same 430 The F.nand of Wan-nut-hay, from the same 430 A Floridian Scene 430 EDGAR A. POE 431 Coliseum -431 The Raven 432 The Conqueror Worm 433 The Haunted Palace 434 The Sleeper 434 Page ISAAC McLELLAN, JR. 435 New England's Dead 435 The Death of Napoleon 435 The Notes of the Bird 430 Lines suggested by a Picture by Washington Allslon 438 JONES VERY 437 To the Painted Columbine 437 Lines 10 a Withered Leaf reen on a Poet's Table 4.17 The Heart 437 Sonnets 438 ALFRED B. STREET 440 The Gray Forest-Eagle 441 Fowling 4 42 A Forest Walk , . 443 winler 444 The Settler 444 An American Forest in Spring 445 The Lost Hunter 445 WILLIAM H. BUHLEIGH 447 Elegiac Stanzas 447 " Let there be Light" _ 443 June 448 Spring , 419 Stanzas written on visiting my Birth-place 449 To H. A. B 450 To 450 " Believe not the slander, my dearest Katrine !" 451 Sonnets . . 451 LOUIS LEGBJND NOBLE 453 The Cripple Boy . Toa Swan flying at midnight in the vale of the Huron 4.53 C. P. CRANCH 454 The music of the Spheres 454 The Blind Seer 454 The Hours ' _ . . . . 455 " Thought is deeper than all speech" 455 My Thought 455 On hearing Triumphant Music 456 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN 457 Mary 457 The Rinulet 457 To an Elm 459 Tri Mountain ................... 458 Love and Fame 459 Greenough's Washington 459 " Are we not exiles here P 460 Alone once more 400 The Law of Beauty, from " The Spirit of Poetry" 460 Columbus, from the same 46! Florence, from the same 461 Poetry Immortal, from the same 461 WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIB 462 " Go forth into the fields" 462 To the Autumn Forest 4 :2 On the Death of a Friend 463 Our Country 463 " I hear thy voice, Spring !" 4'3 * I stood beside the grave of him" 453 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 464 The Unexpected Declaration .164 To the Spirit of Poetry 463 " Your heart is a music-box, dearest ! 465 To 465 Labour 4fc6 " I loved an idea ! I sought it in thee" 466 Lines on a Deaf and Dumb Boy . . . 466 She loves him yet 466 PHILIP P. COOKE 467 Emily : Proem to the " Froissart Ballads" 467 Life in the Autumn Woods 469 Florence Vane 470 EPES SARGENT 471 Records of a Summer-Voyage to Cuba 471 The Days that are Past 473 The Martyr of the Arena 473 Summer in the Heart 474 The Fugitive from Love : 4"4 The Night-Storm at Sea 474 14 CONTENTS. Ptge LUCY HOOPER 476 Oieola 475 The Daughter of Herodiai 475 Time, Faiih, Energy" 476 Give me Armour of Proof" 476 Linn suggested by a scene in " Matter Humphrey's Clock" . . .477 Life mid Death 477 THOMAS Vf. PARSONS 478 The Shadow of the Obelisk 478 Hudson River 479 On a Bust of Dante 480 On Magdalen, by Guido 480 ELIZABETH F. ELLETT 481 The Delaware Water-Gap 481 Suiquehanna 482 Ijke Ontario 482 Sodus Bay 483 To a Waterfall 483 To the Condor 484 The Isle of Rest 484 Tiie Vanity of the Vulgar Great 484 A Parallel 485 Lake George 485 To the Whip-poor-will 485 " Come, fill a pledge to sorrow" 485 WILLIAM WALLACE 486 The Gods of Old 486 The Statuary 487 A Letter to Madeline 489 WILLIAM W. LORD 490 Keatt 490 To my Sister 490 The Brook 491 A Rime 491 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE 492 Manhood 493 Old Churches 493 The Heart's Song 494 The Chimes of England 494 March 494 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 495 Rosaline 495 The Beggar 496 " Lift up the curtains of thine eyes" 496 Sonnets 497 The Poet 498 Extract from A Legend of Brittany 499 The Syrens 499 An Incident in a Railroad Car 500 The Heritage 501 To the Future 502 AMELIA B. WELBY 503 The Presence of God 503 To the memory of a Friend 504 To a Sea-Shell 504 My Sisters 505 " I know that thy spirit" 605 LUCRETIA AND. MARGARET DAVIDSON 506 A Prophecy 507 To Mrs. Townsend 507 I would fly from the city" 50? To my Mother 508 VARIOUS AUTHORS 509 Dirc of Alaric, the Visijoih. Edward Everett 611 To a bereaved Mother. John Quincy Jilamt 512 To the Frinjilla Melodia Henry Pickering 512 M arks of Time. Katharine A. Wan ' 513 Geehile. An Indian Lament Henry Rowe Schonlcraft . . . . 513 The Song of the Prairie.-j: K. Mitchell 514 The Incomprehensibility of God. Elizabeth Tovmsend . . . .514 VARIOUS AUTHORS Page The Dying Archer. R. C. Waterston 615 The Villager* Winter Evening Sou?. Jama T. Fields .... 615 Dirge for a young Girl. Jama T. Fieldt 615 Saco Falli Jama T. Fitldt 615 " Twelve years have flown. " Proiper M. Wetmort 516 The Banner of Mural. Protptr M. Wetmare 516 Marius amid the Ruins of Carthage. Mrt. Lydia tf. Child . . .616 The Twenty Thousand Children of the Sabbath Schools in New York, celebrating together the Fourth of July, 1839. William B. Tappan 517 To the Ship of the Line Pennsylvania William B. Tappan . .517 Spring is Coming. Jama Naek 517 To my sick and suffering Brother, on his fifteenth Birth-day. George B. Cheever 5I8 Anacreontic. Alexander H. Bogart 519 Brother, come home. Catherine H. Elling 619 Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to stand Ml. John B. Van Schaick 620 The Devoted. Elizabeth Margaret Chandler 620 A Good-night to Connecticut. Hugh Peteri 521 T i> said that absence conquers Love Frederick W. Thomal . .521 The Wliip poor-will. Robert Montgomery Bird 522 The Silent Girl. Samuel Oilman 622 The Huma. Sarah Louisa P. Smith 522 " Who has robb'd the ocean cave." John Shaw 523 " He came too late." Elizabeth Bofert 523 The Sleeping Wif.-. Thomas Mackellar 523 The Hymns my Mother Sur,g. Thomas MackeUar 523 The Philosophy of Whist. Charles Wetl Thompson 524 TotheRiverOReechee. Robert M. Charllan 524 The Burial of the Wilhlacochee. Horatio Halt 624 Agriculture. Charltt W. Everett 525 " Minstrel, sing that song again." Chark* W. Everett .... 525 To S. T. P George W. Patten.. 525 Lines on passing II e Grave of my Sister. Micah P. Flint . . .526 The Free Mind WiUiam Lloyd Garrison 526 The Armies of the Eve. Oltoay Curry 526 The Green Hills of my Fatherhnd. Inura if. .TVrurrton . . .527 Mysterious Music of Orean. F S Eckard 527 "Give me the old." Anonymous 528 A September evening on the banks of the Mooshassuck. Sarah Helen Whitman 528 The Lover Student. Benjamin D. fPinslow 529 A Midsummer Day Scene. C. G. Eastman ........ 629 Lake Erie. Ephraim Peabody 530 Thi Backwoodsman. Ephraim Peabody 530 On a Friend. John M. Hamey 530 My Child. Julia H. Scott 531 The Warrior's Dirge. Caroline M. Sawyer 531 The Einh of Thunder. W.J.SncUmg 632 To my Wife. Lindley Murray 533 Faded Hours. John Rudolph Sutrrmeister 533 The Bird of the Bastile. Btnjamin B. Thatcher 534 The Aached Stream. W. . Charming 534 To a Shower. James WiUiam Miller . , 535 To an Infant. William B. Walter 535 To Pneuma Jama Wallit Eastburn 536 Little Red Riding Hood. Jama N. Barker 536 The Light of Home. Sarah Jofepha Halt 538 The mother perishing in a Snow-storm. Seba Smith 538 Wedded Love's First Home. Jama HaU 538 The IJeal Anne C. Lynch 53!> ' The Ideal Found. Anne C. Lynch 639 Astarte. Henry B. Hint 539 Life. Jamn Bayard Taylor 540 The Father's Death. H. R. Jacktm 540 The City of the Heart. T. Buchanan Reed 541 The Journalist. Cornelius Mathews 541 My Native Land. Theodore S. Fay 642 From a Father to his Children.-CZfmen( C. Moore 543 The Star-Spangled Banner. Francis S. Key 543 Hail, Columbia. Jottph Hapkinton 544 POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA. FROM THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS TO THE REVOLUTION. HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. THE earliest specimens of poetry which I have presented in the body of this work are from the writings of PHILIP FRENEAU, one of those worthies who with both lyre and sword aided in the achievement of the independence of the United States. Before his time but little poetry was written in this country, al- though from the landing of the pilgrims at Plymouth there was at no period a lack of can- didates for the poetic laurel. Many of the early colonists were men of erudition, deeply versed in scholastic theology, and familiar with the best ancient literature; but they possessed neither the taste, the fancy, nor the feeling of the poet, and their elaborate metrical compositions are forgotten by all save the antiquary, and by him are regarded as among the least valuable of the relics of the first era of civilization in America. It is unreasonable to compare the quaint and grotesque absurdities of FOLGER, MATHER, and WIGGLESWORTH with the productions of the first cultivators of the art in older nations ; for literature mental development had here, in truth, no infancy. The great works of CHAU- CER, SPENSER, SHAKSPEARE, and MILTON were as accessible in their time as now, and the living harmonies of DRYDEN and POPE were borne on every breeze that then fanned the cheek of an Englishman. The bar to pro- gress was that spirit of bigotry at length bro- ken down by the stronger spirit of freedom which prevented the cultivation of elegant learning, and regarded as the fruits of profane desire the poet's glowing utterance, strong feeling, delicate fancy, and brilliant imagina- tion. Our fathers were like the labourers of an architect; they planted deep and strong in religious virtue and useful science the founda- tions of an edifice, not dreaming how great and magnificent it was to be. They did well their part; it was not meet for them to fashion the capitals and adorn the arches of the temple. The first poem composed in this country was a description of New England, in Latin, by the Reverend WILLIAM MORRELL, who came to Plymouth Colony in 1623, and returned to London in the following year. It has been reprinted, with an English translation made by the author, in the collections of the Massa- 3 chusetts Historical Society. The first verses by a colonist were written about the year 1630. The name of the author has been lost : New England's annoyances, you that would know them, Fray ponder these verses which briefly do show them. The place where we live is a wilderness wood, Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good : Our mountains and hills and our valleys below Being commonly cover'd with ice and with snow: And when the northwest wind with violence blows, Then every man pulls his cap over his nose : But if any 's sti hardy and will it withstand, He forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand. But when the spring opens, we then take the hoe, And make the ground ready to plant and to sow ; Our corn being planted and seed being sown, The worms destroy much before it is grown ; And when it is growing some spoil there is made By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade ; And when it is come to full corn in the ear, It is often destroy'd by raccoon and by deer. And now do our garments begin to grow thin, And wool is much wanted to card and to spin ; If we can get a garment to cover without, Our other in-garments are clout upon clout : Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn, They need to be clouted soon after they 're worn ; But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing, Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothing. If fresh meat be wanting, to fill up our dish, We have carrots and pumpkins and turnips and fish : And is there a mind for a delicate dish, We repair to the clarn banks, and there we catch fish. Instead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies, Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies; We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon; If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone. If barley be wanting to make into malt, We must be contented and think it no fault; For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut tree chips. Now while some are going let others be coming, For while liquor 's boiling it must have a scumming ; But I will not blame them, for birds of a feather, By seeking their fellows, are flocking together. But you whom the LORD intends hither to bring, Forsake not the honey for fear of the sting; But bring both a quiet and contented mind, And all needful blessings you surely will find. The first book published in British America was "The Psalms in Metre, faithfully Trans- lated, for the Use, Edification, and Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in New England," printed at Cambridge, in 1640. The version was made by THOMAS WELDE, of Roxbury, RICHARD MATHER, of Dorchester, and JOHN ELIOT, the famous apos- tle to the Indians. The translators seem XV111 HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. to have been aware that it possessed but little poetical merit. "If," say they, in their pre- face, " the verses are not always so smooth and elegant as some may desire and expect, let them consider that GOD'S altar needs not our polishings; for we have respected ra- ther a plain translation, than to smooth our verses with the sweetness of any paraphrase, and so have attended to conscience rather than elegance, and fidelity rather than poetry, in translating Hebrew words into English lan- guage, and DAVID'S poetry into English me- tre." COTTON MATHER laments the inele- gance of the version, but declares that the He- brew was most exactly rendered. After a second edition had been printed, President DUNSTER,* of Harvard College, assisted by Mr. RICHARD LYON, a tutor at Cambridge, at- tempted to improve it, and in their advertise- ment to the godly reader they state that they "had special eye both to the gravity of the phrase of sacred writ and sweetness of the verse." DUNSTER'S edition was reprinted twenty-three times in America, and several times in Scotland and England, where it was long used in the dissenting congregations. The following specimen is from the second edition : PSALM CXXXVII. The rivers on of Babilon, There when wee did sit downe, Yea. even then, wee mourned when Wee remembered Sion. Our harp wee did hang it amid, Upon the willow tree, Because there they that us away Led in captivitee Requir'd of us a song, and thus Askt mirth us waste who laid, Sing us among a Sion's song, Unto us then they said. The LORD'S song sing can wee, being In stranger's land 1 then let Lose her skill my right hand if I Jerusalem forget. Let cleave my tongue my pallate on If mind thee doe not I, If r.hiefe joyes o're I prize not more Jerusalem my joy. Remember, LORD, Edom's sons' word, Unto the ground, said they, It rase, it rase, when as it was Jerusalem her day. Blest shall he be that paycth thee, Daughter of Babilon, Who must be waste, that which thou hast Rewarded us upon. O happie hee shall surely bee That takcth up, that nke Thy little ones against the stones Doth into pieces breake. Mrs. ANNE BRADSTREET, " the mirror of her * THOMAS DUNSTER was the first president of Harvard College, and was inaugurated on the twenty-seventh of age, and glory of her sex," aa she is styled by JOHN NORTON, of excellent memory, came to America with her husband, SIMON BRAD- STREET, governor of the colony, in 1630, when she was but sixteen years of age. She was a daughter of Governor DUDLEY, a miserly, though a "valorous and discreet gentleman," for whom Governor BELCHER wrote the fol- lowing epitaph : " Here lies THOMAS DUDLEY, that trusty old stnd A bargain 'a a bargain, and must be made good." Mrs. BRADSTREET'S verses were printed at Cambridge, in 1640. The volume was enti- tled, " Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a compleat discourse and description of the four Elements, Constitutions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, together with an exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies, viz : the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian; and Roman Commonwealth, from the beginning, to the end of the last King ; with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems." NORTON declares her poetry so fine that, were MARO to hear it, he would condemn his own works to the fire ; and in a poetical description of her character says Her breast was a brave pallace, a broad street, Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet, Where nature such a tenement had tane That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane. The author of the " Magnalia" speaks of her poems as a " monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marble ;" and JOHN ROGERS, one of the presidents of Harvard College, in some verses addressed to her, says Your only hand those poesies did compose : Your head the source, whence all those springs did flow : Your voice, whence change's sweetest notes arose : Your feet that kept the dance alone, I trow : Then veil your bonnets, poetasters all, Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly fall, And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal. Should all with lowly congees laurels bring, Waste Flora's magazine to find a wreath, Or Pineus' banks, 'twere too mean offering; Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath To guard your fairer front ; here 't is your name Shall stand immarbled ; this your little frame Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal fame. She died in September, 1672, and "was greatly mourned." The following stanzas are August, 1640. In 1654 he became unpopular on account of his public advocacy of anti-ptedohaptie in, arid was com- pelled to resign. When he died, in 1059, he bequeathed legacies to the persons who were most active in causing his separation from the college. In the life of DUNSTER, in the Magnolia, is the following admonition, by a Mr. SHEPHERD, to the authors of the New Psalm Book; You Rcali'ry poets keep clear of the crime Of niisin|t to ?ive to us very good rhyme. And you of Dorthtslef, your versre lenirihfn. Bui with tht text}' ownvxrrdi you will them airengthen. HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. from one of her minor pieces, entitled " Con- templations." Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm Close sate I by a goodly river's side, Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ; A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. I once that loved the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel), And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell. While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the long'd-for ocean held its course, I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder aught, but still augment its force : O happy flood, quoth I, that holdst thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. Nor is 't enough, that thou alone may'st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet: Thou emblem true, of what I count the best, could I lead my rivulets to rest, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest. Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide, That for each season, have your habitation, Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide, To unknown coasts to give a visitation, In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry, So nature taught, and yet you know not why, You watry folk that know not your felicity. Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air, Then to the colder bottome straight they dive, Eftsoon to NEPTUNE'S glassie hall repair To see what trade the great ones tbete do drive, Who forrage o'er the spacious sea-g'-en field, And take the trembling prey before yield, [shield. Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 1 judg'd my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight. O merry bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, norcruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm; Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer, Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear. The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,* Setts hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew, So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old, begins anew, And thus they ijass their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better region, Where winter 's never felt by that sweet airy legion. Man 's at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak : Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, Each storm his state, his mind, his body break : From some of these he never finds cessation, But day or night, within, without, vexation, [lation. Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st re- And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain, Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow : Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation, * Anticipate. In weight, in frequency, and long duration, Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation. The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide, And now become great master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre, That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heaven's bower. But sad affliction comes and makes him see Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety; Only above is found all with security. O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things, That draws oblivion's curtains over kings, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their names without a record are forgot, Their parts, their ports, their pomp 's all laid in th' dust ; Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust; But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone Shall last and shine when all of these are gone. WILLIAM BRADFORD, the second governor of Plymouth, who wrote a " History of the People and Colony from 1602 to 1647," composed also " A Descriptive and Historical Account of New England, in Verse," which is preserved in the Collections of the Massa- chusetts Historical Society. When JOHN COTTON, a minister of Boston, died in 1652, BENJAMIN WOODBRIDGK, the first graduate of Harvard College, and afterward one of the chaplains of CHARLES the Second, wrote an elegiac poem, from a passage in which it is supposed FRANKLIN borrowed the idea of his celebrated epitaph on himself. COTTON, says WOODBRIDGE, was A living, breathing Bible ; tables where Both covenants at large engraven were; Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column, His head an index to the sacred volume, His very name a title-page, and next His life a commentary on the text. O what a monument of glorious worth, When in a new edition he comes forth, Without erratas, may we think he 'II be, In leaves and covers of eternity! The lines of the Reverend JOSEPH CAPEN, on the death of Mr. JOHN FOSTER, an inge- nious mathematician and printer, are yet more like the epitaph of FRANKLIN : Thy body which no activeness did lack, Now's laid aside like an old almanack; But for the present only 's out of date, 'Twill have at length a far more active state : Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be, Yet at the resurrection we shall see A fair edition, and of matchless worth, Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth; 'Tis but a word from GOD the great Creator, It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur. The excellent President URIAN OAKES, styled " the LACTANTIUS of New England," was one of the most distinguished poets of his time. The following verses are from his HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. Elegy on the death of THOMAS SHKI-ARD, mi- nister of Charlestown: Art, nature, grace, in him were all combined To show the world a matchless paragon; In whom of radiant virtues no less shined, Than a whole constellation ; but nee 's gone ! Hee 'a gone, alas ! down in the dust must ly As much of this rare person, as could die. To be descended well, doth that commend ' Can sons their fathers' glory call their ownl Our SHEPARD justly might to this pretend, (IIU blessed father was of high renown, Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,) But his own personal worth's a better claim. His look commanded reverence and awe, Though mild and amiable, not austere : Well humour'd was he, as I ever saw, And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear. The muses and the graces too, conspired, To set forth this rare piece to be admired. He breathed love, and pursued peace in his day, As if his soul were made of harmony : Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay In such a piece of frail mortality. Sure Father WILSON'S genuine son was he, New-England's PAUL had such a TIMOTHY. My dearest, inmost, bosome friend is gone ! Gone is my sweet companion, soul's delight ! Now in a huddling crowd, I 'm all alone, And almost could bid all the world good-night, Blest be my rock ! GOD lives : O ! let him be As he is all, so all in all to me. At that period the memory of every eminent person was preserved in an ingenious elegy, epitaph, or anagram. SHEPARD, mourned in the above verses by OAKES, on the death of JOHN WILSON, " the Paul of New England," and "the greatest annagrammatizer since the days of LYCOPHRON," wrote John Wilson, ana.gr. John Wilson. O, change it not! No sweeter name or thing, Throughout the world, within our ears shall ring. THOMAS WELDE, a poet of some reputation in his day, wrote the following epitaph on SAMUEL DANFORTH, a minister of Roxbury, who died soon after the completion of a new meeting-house : Our new-built church now suffers too by this, Larger its windows, but its lights are less. PETER FOULGER, a schoolmaster of Nan- tucket, and the maternal grandfather of Doctor FRANKLIN, in 167G published a poem entitled " A Looking-glass for the Times," addressed to men in authority, in which he advocates religious liberty, and implores the government to repeal the uncharitable laws against the Quakers and other sects. He says The rulers in the country I do owne them in the LOUD ; And such as are for government, with them I do accord. But that which I intend hereby, is that they would keep bound; And meddle not with GOD'S worship, for which they have no ground. And I am not alone herein, there's many hundreds more, That have for many years ago spoke much more upon that Indeed, I really believe, it 's not your business, [score. To meddle withthe church of GOD in matters more or less. In another part of his " Looking Glass" he says Now loving friends and countrymen, I wish we may be wise; 'T is now a time for every man to see with his own eyes. "T is easy to provoke the LORD to send among us war ; 'Tis easy to do violence, to envy and to jar; To show a spirit that is high ; to scorn and domineer; To pride it out as if there were no GOD to make us fear; To covet what is not our own ; to cheat and to oppress ; To live a life that might free us from acts of righteousness; Toswearandlie and to be drunk, to backbite one another; To carry tales that may do hurt and mischief to our bro- ther; To live in such hypocrisy, as men may think us good, Although our hearts within are full of evil and of blood. All these, and many evils more, are easy for to do ; But to repeut and to reform we have no strength thereto. The following are the concluding lines : I am for peace, and not for war, and that 's the reason why I write more plain than some men do, that use to daub and lie. But I shall cease and set my name to what I here insert : Because to be a libeller, I hate it with my heart, [here, From Sherbontown, where now I dwell, my name I do put Without offence, your real friend, it is PETER FOULGER. Probably the first native bard was he who is described on a tombstone at Roxbury as " BENJAMIN THOMSON, learned schoolmaster and physician, and ye renowned poet of New England." He was born in the town of Dor- chester, (now Quincy,) in 1640, and educated at Cambridge where he received a degree in 1662. His i mcipal work, "New England's Crisis," appears to have been written during the famous wars of PHILIP, Sachem of the Pequods, against the colonists, in 1675 and 1676. The following is the prologue, in which he laments the growth of luxury among the people : The times wherein old POMPION was a saint, When men fared hardly yet without complaint, On vilest cates; the dainty Indian-maize Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes, Under thatch'd huts without the cry of rent, And the best sawce to every dish, content. When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats, And men as well as birds had chirping notes. When Cimnels were accounted noble blood ; Among the tribps of common herbage food. Of CERES' bounty form'd was many a knack, Enough to fill poor Rouirf's Almanack. These golden times (too fortunate to hold) Were quickly sin'd away for love of (fold. 'T was then among the bushes, not the street, If one in place did an inferior meet, "Good-morrow, brother, is there aught you wantl Take freely of me, what I have you ha'nt." Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now, As ever since "Tour servant, Sir," and bow. Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes, Which now would render men like upright apes, Was comlier wear, our wiser fathers thought, Than the cnst fashions from all Europe brought, 'T was in those dayes an honest grace would hold Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold. And men had better stomachs at religion, Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon ; When honest sisters met to pray, not prate, About their own and not their neighbour's state. HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud Of the ancient planters' race before the flood, Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush For other fare than jonakin and mush. Although men fared and lodged very hard, Yet innocence was betler than a guard. 'T was long before spiders and worms hnd drawn Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne New England's beautys, which still seem'd to me Illustrious in their own simplicity. 'T was ere the neighbouring Virgin-Land had broke The hogsheads of her worse than hellish sinoak. 'T was ere the Islands sent their presents in, Which but to use was counted next to sin. 'T was ere a barge had made so rich a fraight As chocolate, dust-gold, and hitts of eight. Ere wines from France and Muscovadoe too, Without the which the drink will scarsely doe. From western isles ere fruits and delicasies Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces. Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war Was from our towns and hearts removed far. No bugbear comets in the chrystal air Did drive our Christian planters to despair. No sooner pagan malice peeped forth But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth Who by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like; Their weapons are unseen with which they strike. Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales Were covered up in most contentious souls : Freeness in judgment, union in affection, Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection. Thon were the times in which our councells sate, These gave prognosticks of our future fate. If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase, These warrs will usher in a longer peace. But if New England's love die in its youth, The grave will open next for blessed truth. This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers. Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn To draw the figure of New England's urne. New England's hour of passion is at hand; No power except divine can it withstand. Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out, But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about, Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings, To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings. So that the mirror of the Christian world Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd. Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize Not dastard spirits only, but the wise. Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye Of the big-swoln expectant standing by : Thus the proud ship after a little turn, Sinks into NEPTUNE'S arms to find its urne : Tlius hath the heir to many thousands born Been in an instant from the mother torn : Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale, Anil thy supporters through great losses fail. This is the Prulogue to thy future woe, The Epilogue no mortal yet can know. THOMSON died in April, 1714, aged 74. He wrote besides his " great epic," three shorter poems, neither of which have much merit. ROGER WILLIAMS, Chief Justice SEWALL, NATHANIEL WARD, of Ipswich, JOHN OSBORN, NATHANIEL PITCHER, and many others were in this period known as poets. The death of PITCHER was celebrated in some verses enti- tled "Pitchero Tlirenodia," in which he was compared to PINDAR, HORACE, and other great writers of antiquity. The most celebrated person of his age in America was COTTON MATHER. He was once revered as a saint, and is still regarded as a man of great natural abilities and profound and universal learning. It is true that he had much of what is usually called scholarship : he could read many languages ; and his me- mory was so retentive that he rarely forgot the most trivial circumstance ; but he had too little genius to comprehend great truths; and his attainments, curious rather than valuable, made him resemble a complicate machine, which, turned by the water from year to year, pro- duces only bubbles, and spray, and rainbows in the sun. He was industrious, and, beside his three hundred and eighty-two printed works, left many manuscripts, of which the largest is called " Illustrations of the Sacred Scriptures," on which he laboured daily more than thirty years. It is a mere compilation of ideas and facts from multitudinous sources, and embraces nothing original, or valuable to the modern scholar. His minor works are nearly all forgotten, even by antiquaries. The " Magnalia Christi Americana" is preserved rather as a curiosity than as an authority ; for recent investigations have shown that his statements are not to be relied on where he had any interest in misrepresenting acts or the characters of persons. His style abounds with puerilities, puns, and grotesque conceits. His intellectual character, however, was bet- ter than his moral ; for he was wholly destitute of any high religious principles, and was am- bitious, intriguing, and unscrupulous. He fanned into a flame the terrible superstition in regard to witchcraft, and when the frenzy was over, hypocritically endeavoured to persuade the people that instead of encouraging the pro- ceedings, his influence and exertions had been on the side of forbearance and caution. Fail- ing to convince them of this, he attempted to justify his conduct, by inventing various per- sonal histories, to show that there had been good cause for the atrocious persecutions. COTTON MATHER'S verses, scattered through a great number of his works, are not superior to those of many of his contemporaries. The following lines from his "Remarks on the Bright and the Dark Side of that American Pillar, the Reverend Mr. William Thomson," show his customary manner APOLLYON owing him a cursed spleen Who an APOLLOS in the church had been, Dreading his traffic here would be undone By num'rous proselytes he daily won, Accused him of imaginary faults, And push'd him down so into dismal vaults: Vaults, where he kept long ember- weeks of grief, > Till Heaven alarmed sent him a relief. xxu HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. Then was a DANIEL in the lion's den, A man, oh, how beloved of GOD and men ! l(y his hillside an Hebrew sword there lay, With which at last he drove the devil away. Quakers, too, durst not bear his keen replies, But fearing it half-drawn the trembler flies. Like LAZARUS, new raised from death, appears The saint that had been dead f.ir many years. Our NEHEMIAII said, " shall such as I Desert my flock, and like a coward fly!" Long had the churches begg'd the saint's release; Released at last, he dies in glorious peace. The night is not so long, but Phosphor's ray Approaching glories doth on high display. Faith's eye in him discern'd the morning star, His heart leap'd ; sure the sun cannot be far. In ecstasies of joy, he ravish'd cries, " Love, love the LAMB, the LAMB !" in whom he dies. MATHER died on the thirteenth of February, 1724, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. ROGER WOLCOTT, a major-general at the capture of Louisburg, and afterward governor of Connecticut, published a volume of verses at New London, in 1725. His principal work is "A Brief Account of the Agency of the Honourable JOHN WINTHROP, Esquire, in the Court of King CHARLES the Second, Anno Do- mini 1662, when he obtained a Charter for the Colony of Connecticut." In this he describes a miracle by one of WINTHROP'S company, on the return voyage. The winda awhile Are courteous, and conduct them on their way, To near the midst of the Atlantic sea, When suddenly their pleasant gales they change For dismal storms that o'er the ocean range. For faithless .aSoLus, meditating harms, Breaks up the peace, and priding much in arms, Unbars the great artillery of heaven, And at the fatal signal by him given, The cloudy chariots threatening take the plains ; Drawn by wing'd steeds hard pressing on their reins. These vast battalions, in dire aspect raised, Start from the barriers night with lightning blazed, Whilst clashing wheels, resounding thunders crack, Strike mortals deaf, and heavens astonish'd shake. Here the ship captain, in the midnight watch, Stamps on the deck, and thunders up the hatch; And to the mariners aloud he cries, " Now all from safe recumbency arise : All hands aloft- and stand well to your tack, Engendering storms have clothed the sky with black, Big tempests threaten to undo the world : Down topsail, let the mainsail soon be furl'd: Haste to the foresail, there take up a reef: 'Tis time, boys, now if ever, to be brief; Aloof for life ; let 'a try to stem the tide, The ship's much water, thus we may not ride: Stand roomer then, let 's run before the sea, That so the ship may feel her steerage way : Steady at helm !" Swiftly along she scuds Before the wind, and cuts the foaming suds. Sometimes aloft she lifts her prow so high, As if she "d run her bowsprit through the sky; Then from the summit ebbs and hurries down, As if her way were to the centre shown. Meanwhile our founders in the cabin sat, Reflecting on their true and sad estate ; Whilst holy WARHAM'S sacred lips did treat About GOD'S promises and mercies great. Still more gigantic births spring from the clouds, Which tore the tatter'd canvass from the shrouds, And dreadful bails of lightning fill thn air, Shut from the linml of the great TIILNDKKEB. And now a mighty sea the ship o'ertakes, Which falling on the deck, the bulk-head breaks; The sailors cling to ropes, and frighted cry, "The ship is foundered, we die! we die!" Those in the cabin heard the sailors screech; All rise, and reverend WARHAM do beseech, That he would now lift up to Heaven a cry For preservation in extremity. He with a faith sure bottorn'd on the word Of Him that is of sea and winds the LORD, His eyes lifts up to Heaven, his hands extends, And fervent prayers for deliverance sends. The winds abate, the threatening waves appease, And a sweet calm sits regent on the seas. They bless the name of their deliverer, Who now they found a GOD that heareth prayer. Still further westward on they keep their way, Ploughing the pavement of the briny sea, Till the vast ocean they had overpast, And in Connecticut their anchors cast. In a speech to the king, descriptive of the valley of the Connecticut, WINTHROP says The grassy banks are like a verdant bed, With choicest flowers all enamelled, O'er which the winged choristers do fly, And wound the air with wondrous melody. Here Philomel, high perch'd upon a thorn, Sings cheerful hymns to the approaching morn. The song once set, each bird tunes up his lyre, Responding heavenly music through the quire Each plain is bounded at its utmost edge With a long chain of mountains in a ridge, Whose azure tops advance themselves so high, They seem like pendants hanging in the sky. In an account of King PHILIP'S wars, he tells how the soldier met his amorous dame, Whose eye had often set his heart in flame. Urged with the motives of her love and fear, She runs and clasps her arms about her dear Where, weeping on his bosom as she lies, And languishing, on him she sets her eyes, Till those bright lamps do with her life expire, And leave Mm weltering in a double fire. In the next page he describes the rising of the sun By this AURORA doth with gold adorn The ever beauteous eyelids of the morn ; And burning TITAN his exhaustless rays, Bright in the eastern horizon displays ; Then soon appearing in majestic awe, Makes all the starry deities withdraw ; Veiling their faces in deep reverence, Before the throne of his magnificence. WOLCOTT retired from public life, after hav- ing held many honourable offices, in 1755, and died in May, 1767, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. The next American verse-writer of much reputation was the Reverend MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH. He was born in 1631, and graduated at Harvard College soon after enter- ing upon his twentieth year. When rendered unable to preach, by an affection of the lungs, In costly verse and most laborious rhymes, He dish'd up truths right worthy our regard. His principal work, "The Day of Doom, or a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgment, with a Short Discourse about HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. Eternity," passed through six editions in this country, and was reprinted in London. A few verses will show its style Still was the night, serene and bright, When all men sleeping lay ; Calm was the season, and carnal reason Thought so 't would last for aye. Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, Much good thou hast in store : This was their song their cups among, The evening before. After the " sheep" have received their re- ward, the several classes of " goats" are ar- raigned before the judgment-seat, and, in turn, begin to excuse themselves. When the infants object to damnation on the ground that Adam is set free And saved from his trespass, Whose sinful fall hath spilt them all, And brought them to this pass, the puritan theologist does not sustain his doctrine very well, nor quite to his own satis- faction even; and the judge, admitting the palliating circumstances, decides that although in bliss They may not hope to dwell, Still unto them He will allow The easiest room in hell. At length the general sentence is pronounced, and the condemned begin to wring their hands, their caitiff-hands, And gnash their teeth for terror; They cry, they roar for anguish sore, And gnaw their tongues for horror. But get away without delay, CHRIST pities not your cry : Depart to hell, there may ye yell, And roar eternally. WIGGLESWORTH died in 1705. The Reverend BENJAMIN COLMAN, D.D. " married in succession three widows, and wrote three poems;" but though his diction was more elegant than that of most of his contemporaries, he had less originality. His only daughter, Mrs. JANE TURELL, wrote verses which were much praised by the critics of her time. The " Poems of the Reverend JOHN ADAMS, M.A.," were published in Boston in 1745, four years after the author's death. The vo- lume contains paraphrases of the Psalms of David, the Book of Revelation in heroic verse, translations from HORACE, and four original compositions, of which the longest is a " Poem on Society," in three cantos. The following picture of parental love is from the first canto. The parent, warm with nature's tender fire, Does in the child his second self admire; The fondling mother views the springing charms Of the young infant smiling in her arms: And when imperfect accents show the dawn Of rising reason, and the future man, Sweetly she he,;irs wh it fondly he returns, And by this fuel her affection burns. But when succeeding years have fi.x'd his growth, And sense and judgment crown tlu> ripen'd youth: A social joy tli<;i;c<: t;.kes its happy rise, And friendship adds its force to Nature's ties. The conclusion of the second canto is a de- scription of love But now the Muse in softer measure flows, And gayer srenes and fairer landscapes shows: The reign of Fancy, when the sliding hours Are past with lovely nymph in woven bowers, Where cooly shades, and lawns forever green, And streams, and warbling birds adorn the scene; Where smiles and graces, and the wanton train Of Cytherea, crown the flowery plain. What can their charms in equal numbers tell? The glow of roses, and the lily pale ; The waving ringlets of the flowing hair, The snowy bosom, and the killing air; Their sable brows in beauteous arches bent, The darts which from their vivid eyes are sent, And fixing in our easy-wounded hearts, Can never be removed hy all our arts ; 'T is then with love, and love alone possest, Our reason fled, that passion claims our breast. How many evils then will fancy form 7 A frown will gather, and discharge a storm : Her smile more soft and cooling breezes brings, Than zephyrs fanning with their silken wings. But love, where madness reason does subdue, E'en angels, were they here, mii'lit well pursue. Lovely the sex, and moving are their charms, But why should passion sink us to their arms t Why should the female to a goddess turn, And flames of love to flames of incense burn') Either by fancy-fired, or fed by lies, Be all distraction, or all artifice 7 True love does flattery as much disdain As, of its own perfections, to be vain. The heart can feel whste'er the lips reveal, Nor Syren's smiles the destined death conceal. Love is a noble and a generous fire, Esteem and virtue feed the just desire ; Where honour leads the way it ever moves, And ne'er from breast to breast, inconstant, roves. Harbour'd by one, and only harbour'd there, It likes, but ne'er can love another fair. Fix'd upon one supreme, and her alone, Our heart is, of the fair, the constant throne. Nor will her absence, or her cold neglect, At once, expel her from our just respect : Inflamed by virtue, love will not expire, Unless contempt or hatred quench the fire. ADAMS died on the twenty-second of Janu- ary, 1740. I copy from the " Boston Weekly Newsletter,"* printed the day after his inter- ment, the following letter from a correspondent at Cambridge, which shows the estimation in which he was held by his contemporaries : " Last Wednesday morning expired in this place, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, and this day was interred with a just solemnity and respect, the reverend and learned JOHN ADAMS, M. A., only son of the Honourable JOHN ADAMS, Esquire. " The corpse was carried and placed in the * This was the first newspaper published in America. It was established in 1001, and the first sheet that was printed was taken damp from the press by Chief Justice SEWEL, to exhibit ;is a curiosity to President WILLARD, of Harvard University. The "Newsletter" was con- tinued seventy-two years. HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. center of the college hall ; from whence, after a portion of Holy Scripture, and a prayer very suitable to the occasion, by the learned head of that society, it was taken and deposited within sight of the place of his own educa- tion. The pall was supported by the fellows of the college, the professor of mathematics, and another master of arts. And, next to a number of sorrowful relatives, the remains of this great man were followed by his honour the lieutenant-governor, with some of his majesty's council and justices; who, with the reverend the president, the professor of divini- ty, and several gentlemen of distinction from this and the neighbouring towns, together with all the members and students of the college, composed the train that attended in an orderly procession, to the place that had been appoint- ed for his mournful interment. " The character of this excellent person is too great to be comprised within the limits of a paper of intelligence. It deserves to be engraven in letters of gold on a monument of marble, or rather to appear and shine forth from the works of some genius, of an uncom- mon sublimity, and equal to his own. But sufficient to perpetuate his memory to the latest posterity, are the immortal writings and composures of this departed gentleman ; who, for his genius, his learning, and his piety, ought to be enrolled in the highest class in the catalogue of Fame." The only American immortalized in " The Dunciad" was JAMES RALPH, who went to England with FRANKLIN. POPE exclaims Silence, ye wolves! while RALPH to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous; answer him, ye owls! RALPH wrote a long "poem" entitled "Zeu- ma, or the Love of Liberty," which appeared in London in 1 729 ; " Night," and " Sawney," a satire, in which I suppose he attempted to repay the debt he owed to POPE, as it is but an abusive tirade against that poet and his friends. I quote a few lines from " Zeuma:" Tlascala's vaunt, great ZAGNAR'S martial son, Extended on the rack, no more complains That realms are wanting to employ his sword ; But, circled with innumerable ghosts, Who print their keenest vengeance on his soul, For all the wrongs, and slaughters of his reign, Howls out repentance to the deafen'd skies, And shakes hell's concave with continual groans. In Philadelphia, in 1728 and 1729, THOMAS MAKIN published two Latin poems, "Enco- mium Pennsylvaniae" and "Inlaudes Penn- sylvaniae." About the same time appeared in Boston JOHN MAYHEW'S " Gallic Perfidy" and " Conquest of Louisburg," two smoothly versified but very dull compositions. THOMAS GODFREY of Philadelphia has been called "the first American dramatic poet," but I believe a play superior to "The Prince of Parthia" had been composed by some stu- dents at Cambridge before his time. GODFREY was a son of the inventor of the quadrant claimed in England by HADLEY. He was a lieutenant in the expedition against Fort Du Quesne in 1759, and on the disbanding of the colonial forces went to New Providence, and afterward to North Carolina, where he died, on the third of August, 17G3, in the twenty- seventh year of his age. His poems were published in Philadelphia in 1765, in a quarto volume of two hundred and thirty pages. "The Prince of Parthia, a Tragedy," con- tains a few vigorous passages, but not enough to save it from condemnation as the most worthless composition in the dramatic form that has been printed in America. The fol- lowing lines from the fifth act, might pass for respectable prose O may he never know a father's fondness, Or know it to his sorrow ; may his hopes Of joy be cut like mine, and his short life Be one continued tempest. If he lives, Let him be cursed with jealousy and fear; May torturing Hope present the flowing cup, Then, hasty, snatch it from his eager thirst, And, when he dies, base treachery be the means. The " Court of Fancy," a poem in the he- roic measure, is superior to his tragedy in its diction, but has little originality of thought or illustration. Of Fancy he gives this descrip- tion High in the midst, raised on her rolling throne, Sublimely eminent, bright FANCY shone. A glittering tiara her temples bound, Rich set with sparkling rubies all around ; A radiant bough, ensign of her command, Of polished gold, waved in her lily hand ; The same the sybil to ^ENEAS gave, When the bold Trojan cross'd the Stygian wave. In silver traces fix'd unto her car, Four snowy swans, proud of the imperial fair, Wing'd lightly on, each in gay beauty dress'd, Smooth'd the soft plumage that adorn'd her breast. Sacred to her the lucent chariot drew, Or whether wildly through the air she flew, Or whether to the dreary shades of night, Oppress'd with gloom she downward bent her flight, Or proud aspiring sought the bless'd abodes, And boldly shot among the assembled gods. One of GODFREY'S most intimate friends was the Reverend NATHANIEL EVANS, a na- tive of Philadelphia, admitted to holy orders by the Bishop of London in 1765. He died in October, 17t>7, in the twenty-sixth year of his age; and his poems, few of which had been printed in his lifetime, were soon after- ward, by his direction, collected and published. The " Ode on the Prospect of Peace," writ- ten in 17G1, is the most carefully finished of HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. I quote the concluding his productions, verses Thus has Britannia's glory beam'd, Where'er bright Phoebus, from his car, To earth his cheerful rays hath stream'd, Adown the crystal vault of air. Enough o'er Britain's shining arms, Hath Victory display'd her charms Amid the horrid pomp of war Descend then, Peace, angelic maid. And smoothe BELLOXA'S haggard brow; Haste to diffuse thy healing aid, Where'er implored by scenes of wo. Henceforth whoe'er disturbs thy reign Or stains the world with human gore, Be they from earth (a gloomy train 1) Banish'd to hell's profoundest shore; Where Vengeance, on Avernus' lake, Rages, with furious ATE bound ; And black Rebellion's fetters shake, And Discord's hideous murmurs sound ; Where Envy's noxious snakes entwine Her temples round, in gorgon mood, And bellowing Faction rolls supine Along the flame-becurled flood ! Hence, then, to that accursed place, Disturbers of the human race! And with you bear Ambition wild, and selfish Pride, With Persecution foul, and Terror by her side. Thus driven from earth, War's horrid train O Peace, thou nymph divine, draw near! Here let the muses fix their reign, And crown with fame each rolling year. Source of joy and genuine pleasure, Queen of quiet, queen of leisure, Haste thy votaries to cheer ! Cherish'd beneath thy hallow'd rule, Shall Pennsylvania's glory rise ; Her sons, bred up in Virtue's school, Shall lift her honours to the skies A state thrice blest with lenient sway, Where Liberty exalts the mind ; Where Plenty basks the live-long day And pours her treasures unconfined. Hither, ye beauteous virgins tend, With Art and Science by your side. Whose skill the untutor'd morals mend, And mankind to fair honour guide ; And with you bring the graces three, To fill Ihe soul with glory's blaze; Whose charms give grace to poesy, And consecrate the immortal lays Such as, when mighty PINDAR sung, Through the Alphean village rung; Or such as, Meles, by thy lucid fountains flow'd, When bold MJEONIDES with heavenly transports glow'd. To such, may Delaware, majestic flood, Lend, from his flowery banks, a ravish'd ear; Such note as may delight the wise and good, Or saints celestial may endure to hear! For if the muse can aught of lime descry, Such notes shall sound tliy crystal waves along, Thy cities fair with glorious Athens vie, Nor pure llissus boast a nobler song. On thy fair banks, a fane to Virtue's name Shall rise and Justice light her holy flame. All hail, then, Peace ! restore the golden days, And round the ball diffuse Britannia's praise; Stretch her wide empire to the world's last end, Till kings remotest to her sceptre bend ! JOHN OSBORN of Sandwich, in Massachu- setts, who died in 1753, wrote a "Whaling Song" which was well known in the Pacific 4 for more than half a century. While in col- lege, in 1735, he addressed an elegiac epistle to one of his sisters, on the death of aonember of the family, of which I quote the first part Dear sister, see the smiling spring In all its beauties here ; The groves a thousand pleasures bring, A thousand grateful scenes appear. With tender leaves the trees are crown'd, And scatter'd blossoms all around, Of various dyes Salute your eyes, And cover o'er the speckled ground. Now thickets shade the glassy fountains; Trees o'erhang the purling streams ; Whisp'rin? breezes brush the mountains, Grots are fill'd with balmy steams. But, sister, all the sweets that grace The spring and blooming nature's face; The chirping birds, Nor lowing herds; The woody hills, Nor murm'ring rills ; The sylvan shades, Nor flowery meads, To me their former joys dispense, Though all their pleasures court my sense, But melancholy damps my mind ; I lonely walk the field, With inward sorrow fill'd, And sigh to every breathing wind. The facetious MATHER BYLES was in his time equally famous as a poet and a wit. A contemporary bard exclaims Would but APOLLO'S genial touch inspire Such sounds as breathe from BYLES'S warbling lyre, Then might my notes in melting measures flow, And make all nature wear the signs of wo. And his humour is celebrated in a poetical account of the clergy of Boston, quoted by Mr. SAMUEL KETTELL, in his "Specimens of American Poetry," There's punning BYLES, provokes our smiles, A man of stately parts. He visits folks to crack his jokes. Which never mend their hearts. With strutting gait, and wig so great, He walks along the streets ; And throws out wit, or what's like it, To every one he meets. BYLES was graduated at Cambridge in 1725, and was ordained the first minister of the church in Hollis street, in 1732. He soon became emi- nent as a preacher, and the King's College at Aberdeen conferred on him the degree of Doc- tor of Divinity. He was one of the authors of "A Collection of Poems by several Hands," which appeared in 1744, and of numerous essays and metrical compositions in "The New Eng- land Weekly Journal," the merit of which was such as to introduce him to the notice of POPE and other English scholars. One of his poems is entitled "The Conflagration;" and it is "applied to that grand catastrophe of our world when the face of nature is to be changed c XXVI HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. The following lines by a deluge of fire." show its style Vet sJiall ye, flames, the wasting globe refine, And aid the skies with purer splendour shine. The earth, which the prolific fires consume, To beauty burns, and withers into bloom; Improving in the fertile flame it lies, Fades into form, and into vigour dies : Fresh-dawning glories blush amidst the blaze, And nature all renews her flowery face. With endless charms the everlasting year Rolls round the seasons in a full career ; Spring, ever-blooming, bids the fields rejoice, And warbling birds try their melodious voice ; Where'er she treads, lilies unbidden blow, Quick tulips rise, and sudden roses glow : Her pencil paints a thousand beauteous scenea, Where blossoms bud amid immortal greens ; Each stream, in mazes, murmurs as it flows, And floating forests gently bend their boughs. Thou, autumn, too, sitt'st in the fragrant shade, While the ripe fruits blush all around thy head: And lavish nature, with luxuriant hands, All the soft months, in gay confusion blends. BYLES was earnestly opposed to the Revo- lution, and in the spring of 1777 was denounced in the public assemblies as a Tory, and com- pelled to give bonds for his appearance before a court for trial. In the following June he was convicted of treasonable conversation, and hos- tility to the country, and sentenced to be im- prisoned forty days on board a guard ship, and at the end of that period to be sent with his family to England. The board of war how- ever took his case into consideration, and com- muted the punishment to a short confinement under a guard in his own house; but, though he continued to reside in Boston during the remainder of his life, he never again entered a pulpit, nor regained his ante-revolutionary popularity. He died in 1788, in the eighty- second year of his age. He was a favourite in every social or con- vivial circle, and no one was more fond of his society than the colonial governor, BELCHER, on the death of whose wife he wrote an elegy ending with Meantime my name to thine allied shall stand, Still our warm friendship, mutual flames extend ; The muse shall so survive from age to age, And BELCHER'S name protect his BYLES'S page. The doctor had declined an invitation to visit with the governor the province of Maine, and BELCHER resorted to a stratagem to secure his company. Having persuaded him to drink tea with him on board the Scarborough ship of war, one Sunday afternoon, as soon as they were seated at the table the anchor was weighed, the sails set, and before the punning parson had called for his last cup, the ship was too far at sea for him to think of returning to the shore. As every thing necessary for his comfort had been thoughtfully provided, he was easily reconciled to the voyage. While making preparations for religious services, the next Sunday, it was discovered that there was no hymn book on board, and he wrote the following lines, which were sung instead of a selection from STEKNHOLD and HOPKINS Great GOD, thy works our wonder raise; To tln:>: our swelling notes belong ; While skies and winds, and rocks and seas, Around shall echo to our song. Thy power produced this mighty frame, Aloud to thee the tempests roar, Or softer breezes tune thy name Gently along the shelly shore. Round thee the scaly nation roves, Thy opening hands their joys bestow, Through all the blushing coral groves, These silent gay retreats below. See the broad sun forsake the skies, Glow on the waves, and downward glide ; Anon heaven opens all its eyes, And star-beams tremble o'er the tide. Each various scene, or day or night, LORD! points to thee our nourish'd soul; Thy glories fix our whole delight ; So the touch'd needle courts the pole. JOSEPH GREEN, a merchant of Boston, who had been a classmate of BYLES at Cambridge, was little less celebrated than the doctor for humour; and some of his poetical composi- tions were as popular ninety years ago as in our own time have been those of " CROAKER & Co.," which they resemble in spirit and play- ful ease of versification. The abduction of the Hollis street minister was the cause of not a little merriment in Boston; and GREEN, be- tween whom and BYLES there was some rivalry, as the leaders of opposing social factions, soon after wrote a burlesque account of it In DAVID'S Psalms an oversight BYLES found one morning at his tea, Alas! that he should never write A proper psalm to sing at sea. Thus ruminating on his seat, Ambitions thoughts at length prevail'd, The bard determined to complete The part wherein the prophet fail'd. He sal awhile and stroked his muse,* Then taking up his tuneful pen, Wrote a few stanzas for the use Of his seafaring bretheren. The task perform'd, the bard content, Well chosen was each flowing word ; On a short voyage himself he went, To hear it read and sung on board. Most serious Christians do aver, (Their credit sure we may rely on,) In former times that after prayer, They used to sing a song of Zion. Our modern parson having pray'd, Unless loud fame our faith beguiles, Sat down, took out his book and said, " Let 's sing a psalm of MATHER BYLES." At first, when he began to read, Their heads the assembly downward hung, But he with boldness did proceed, And thus he read, and thus they sung. * BVLES'S favourite cat, so named by his friends. HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. THE PSALM. With vast amazement we survey The wonders of the deep, Where mackerel swim, and porpoise play, And crabs and lobsters creep. Fish of all kinds inhabit here, And throng the dark abode. Here haddock, hake, and flounders are, And eels, and perch, and cod. From raging winds and tempests free, So smoothly as we pass, The shining surface seems to be A piece of Bristol glass. But when the winds and tempests rise, And foaming billows swell, The vessel mounts above the skies And lower sinks than hell. Our heads the tottering motion feel, And quickly we become Giddy as new-dropp'd calves, and reel Like Indiana drunk with rum. What praises then are due that we Thus far have safely got, Amarescoggin tribe to see, And tribe of Penobscot. In 1750 GREEN published "An Entertain- ment for a Winter Evening," in which he ridicules the freemasons ; and afterward, " The Sand Bank," "A True Account of the Cele- bration of St. JOHN the Baptist," and several shorter pieces, all of which I believe were satirical. His epigrams are the best written in this country before the Revolution; and many anecdotes are told to show the readiness of his wit and his skill as an improvisator. On one occasion, a country gentleman, know- ing his reputation as a poet, procured an intro- duction to him, and solicited a "first rate epi- taph" for a favourite servant who had lately died. GREEN asked what were the man's chief qualities, and was told that " COLE excelled in all things, but was particularly good at raking hay, which he could do faster than anybody, the present company, of course, ex- cepted." GREEN wrote immediately Here lies the body of JOHN COLE, His master loved him like his soul ; He could rake hay, none could rake faster Except that raking dog, his master. In his old age GREEN left Boston for Eng- land, rather from the infirmities of age, than from indifference to the cause of liberty. Contemporary with BYLES and GREEN was the celebrated Doctor BENJAMIN CHURCH. He was born in Boston in 1739, and graduated at Cambridge when in the sixteenth year of his age. After finishing his professional educa- tion, he established himself as a physician in his native city, and soon became eminent by his literary and political writings. At the commencement of the revolutionary troubles, he was chosen a member of the Massachusetts legislature, and after the battle of Lexington was appointed surgeon-general of the army. In the autumn of 1775 he was suspected of treasonable correspondence with the enemy, arrested by order of the commander-in-chief, tried by the general court, and found guilty. By direction of the Congress, to whom the subject of his punishment was referred, he was confined in a prison in Connecticut; but after a few months, on account of the condi- tion of his health, was set at liberty; and in the summer of 1776 he embarked at Newport for the West Indies, in a ship which was never heard of after the day on which it sailed. CHURCH wrote several of the best poems in Pietas et Gratulatio Collegii Cantabrigiensis apud Novanglos, published on the accession of George the Third to the throne ; and " The Times," a satire, "The Choice," "Elegies on GEORGE WHITEFIELD and Doctor MAY- HEW," and several other pieces, all of which were manly in their style, and smoothly ver- sified. The following are the concluding lines of his address to the king: May one clear calm attend thee to thy close, One lengthen'd sunshine of complete repose : Correct our crimes, and beam that Christian mind O'er the wide wreck of desolate mankind; To calm-brow'd Peace, the maddening world restore, Or lash the demon thirsting still for gore ; Till nature's utmost bound thy arms restrain, And prostrate tyrants bite the British chain. JAMES ALLEN, the author of an " epic poem" entitled "Bunker Hill," of which but a few fragments have been published, lived in the same period. The world lost nothing by "his neglect of fame." WILLIAM LIVINGSTON, a member of the first Congress, and the first republican governor of New Jersey, was born in New York in 1723, and was graduated at Yale College in 1741. His poem entitled " Philosophic Solitude," which has been frequently reprinted, is a spe- cimen of elegant mediocrity superior to most of the compositions which I have already alluded to but contains nothing worthy of especial praise. The opening verses are not deficient in melody : Let ardent heroes seek renown in arms, Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms; To shining palaces let fools resort, And dunces cringe to be esteem'd at court : Mine be the pleasure of a rural life, From noise remote, and ignorant of strife; Far from the painted belle, and white-gloved beau, The lawless masquerade, and midnight show, From ladies, lap-dogs, courtiers, garters, stars, Fops, fiddlers, tyrants, emperors, and czars. Among the poets who wrote just before the Revolution, and whom I have not before men- tioned, was Mrs. ELIZA BLEECKER, the author of several pieces relating to the domestic suf- HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. ferings which followed in the train of frontier warfare. Some " Lines on Reading Virgil," written in 1778, show her manner Now cease those tears, lay gentle VIRGIL by, Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye; Shall .KM: AS fur lost CRECSA mourn, And tears be wanting on ABELLA'S urn? Like him I lost my fair one in my flight, From cruel foes, and in the dead of night. Shall he lament the fall of Dion's towers, And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours t See York on fire while, borne by winds, each flame Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main, The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze, From Alleghany sees the rolling blaze. Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade I saw my aged parent safe conveyed ; Then sadly followed to the friendly land With my surviving infant by the hand : No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed, To load my shoulders, and my flight impede; Protection from such impotence who 'd claim? My Gods took care of me not I of them. The Trojan saw ANCIIISES breathe his last When all domestic dangers he had passed ; So my lov'd parent, after she had fled, Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed : He held his way o'er the Cerulian main, But I returned to hostile fields again. During the war several volumes of patriotic and miscellaneous verses were published in New England and New York. The poems of Doctor J. M. SEWELL, contain the well- known epilogue to ADDISON'S " Cato," begin- ning " We see mankind the same in every age:" and those of Doctor PRIME and GULIAN VER- PLANCK are written with unusual taste and care. PRIME finished his professional educa- tion in Europe, and on his return applied for a commission in the army, but did not succeed in obtaining one. He alludes to his disap- pointment in an elegy on the death of his friend Doctor SCUDDER, who was slain in a skirmish at Shrewsbury in New Jersey So bright, bless'd shade ! thy deeds of virtue shine ; So rich, no doubt, thy recompence on high : My lot's far more lamentable than thine, Thou liv'st in death, while I in living die. With great applause hast thou perform'd thy part, Since thy first entrance on the stage of life; Or in the labours of the healing art, Or in fair Liberty's important strife. In med'cine skilful, and in warfare brave, In council steady, uncorrupt and wise ; To thee, the happy lot thy Maker gave, To no small rank in each of these to rise. .Employ'd in constant usefulness thy time, And thy fine talents in exertion stroiis ; Thou diedst advanc'd in life, though in thy prime, For, living useful thou hast lived long. But I, alas ! like some unfruitful tree, That useless stands, a cumberer of the plain, My faculties unprofitable see, And five long years have lived almost in vain. While all around me, like the busy swarms, That ply the fervent labours of the hive ; Or guide the state, with ardour rush to arms, Or some less great but needful business drive, I see my time inglorious glide away, Obscure and useless like an idle drone; And unconducive each revolving day, Or to my country's int'rest or my own. Great hast thou lived and glorious hast thou died ; Though trait'rous villains have cut short thy days; Virtue must shine, whatever fate betide, Be theirs the scandal, and be thine the praise. Then, to my soul thy memory shall be, From glory bright, as from affection, dear; And while I live to pour my grief for thee, Glad joy shall sparkle in each trickling tear. Thy great example, too, shall fire my breast ; If Heaven permit, with thee, again I 'II vie; And all thy conduct well in mine express'd, Like thee I' 11 live, though I like thee should die. PRIME wrote a satire on the Welsh, in Latin and English, entitled " Muscipula sive Cam- bromyomachia ;" and on the passage of the stamp act composed " A Song for the Sons of Liberty in New York," which is superior to any patriotic lyric up to that time written in this country. VERPLANCK was a man of taste and erudition, and his "Vice, a Satire," pub- lished soon after his return from his travels, in 1774, is an elegant and spirited poem. Among his shorter pieces is the following " Prophecy," written while he was in England, in 1773 Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat ; Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great, But wealth and power have no immortal day, For all things ripen only to decay. And when that time arrives, the lot of all, When Britain's glory, power, and wealth shall fall; Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decree In other worlds another Britain see, And what thou art, America shall be. From this account of the " poets and poetry" of our ante-revolutionary period, it will be seen that until the spirit of freedom began to influ- ence the national character, very little verse worthy of preservation was produced in Ame- rica. The POETRY OF THE COLONIES was with- out originality, energy, feeling, or correctness of diction. POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA, THROUGH THE GROWING PRESENT WESTWARD THE STARRT PATH OF POESY LIBS ; HER OLORIOOS SPIRIT, LIKE THE EVESISG CRESCENT, COMES ROUKDINO UP THE SSIEi. T. B. READ. PHILIP FRENEAU. [Born, 1752. Died, 1832.] PHILIP FRENEAU* was the most distinguished poet of our revolutionary time. He was. a volumi- nous writer, and many of his compositions are intrinsically worthless, or, relating to persons and events now forgotten, are no longer interesting ; but enough remain to show that he had more genius and more enthusiasm than any other bard whose powers were called into action during the great struggle for liberty. He was of French ex traction. His grandfather a pious and intelligent Huguenot, came to America immediately after the revocation of the edict of Nantz, in company with a number of Protestant gentlemen, who on their arrival founded the old church of Saint Esprit, in New York, and after- ward, I believe, the pleasant v^Ujyre of New Ro- chelle, near that city. The poetTWSs born on the fifteenth of January, in the year 1752. His father died while he was yet a child, but his mother at- tended carefully to his education, and he entered Nassau Hall at Princeton, in 1767, so far advanced in classical studies, that the president of the col- lege made his proficiency the subject of a congra- tulatory letter to one of his relatives. His room- mate and most devoted friend here was JAMES MADISON, and among his classmates were many others who in after time became eminent as legis- lators or scholars. He was graduated when nine- teen years of age, and soon after removed to Phila- delphia, where he was for several years on terms of familiar intimacy with the well-known FRANCIS HOPKINSON, with whom he was associated as a political writer. He began to compose verses at an early period, and, before leaving Princeton, had formed the plan of an epic poem on the life and discoveries of CO- LUMBUS, of which the Address to Ferdinand," in this volume, is probably a fragment. After his removal to Philadelphia his attention was devoted to politics, and his poetical writings related princi- pally to public characters and events. His satires on HUGH GAINE,-)- and other prominent tories, were remarkably popular in their time, though deserving of little praise for their chasteness or elegance of diction ; and his patriotic songs and * The name of the poet is sometimes confounded with that of his brother, PETER FRENEAU, a celebrated par- tisan editor, of South Carolina, who occasionally wrote verses, though I believe nothing of more pretension than a song or an epigram. PETER FRENEAU was a man of wit and education ; he was one of Mr. JEFFER- SON'S most ardent and influential adherents, and when the republican party came into power in South Carolina, he was made Secretary of State. THOMAS, in his "Re- miniscences," remarks that "his style of writing com- bined the beauty and smoothness of ADDISON with the simplicity of COBBETT." He died in 1814. t The " King's Printer," in New York. ballads, which are superior to any metrical compo- sitions then written in this country, were every- where sung with enthusiasm. FHENEAU enjoyed the friendship of ADAMS, FRANKLIN, JEFFERSON, MADISON, and MONROE, and the last three were his constant correspondents while they lived. I have before me two letters, one written by JEFFERSON and the other by MADI- sox, in which he is commended to certain citizens of New York, for his extensive information, sound discretion, and general high character, as a candi- date for the editorship of a journal which it was intended to establish in that city. His application appears to have been unsuccessful : probably be- cause the project was abandoned. As a reward for the ability and patriotism he had displayed during the war, Mr. JEFFERSON- gave him a place in the Department of State ; but his public employment being of too sedentary a description for a man of his ardent temperament, he soon relinquished it to conduct in Philadelphia a paper entitled " The Freeman's Journal." He was the only editor who remained at his post, during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city, in the summer of 1 793. The Journal" was unprofitable, and he gave it up, in 1793, to take the command of a merchant-ship, in which he made several voyages to Madeira, the West Indies, and other places. His naval ballads and other poems relating to the sea, written in this period, are among the most spirited and carefully finished of his productions. Of the remainder of his history I have been able to learn but little. In 1810 he resided in Philadel- phia, and he subsequently removed to Mount Plea- sant, in New Jersey. He died, very suddenly, near Freehold, in that state, on the eighteenth day of December, 1832, in the eightieth year of his age. The first collection of FRENEAU'S poems was published in 1786 ; a second edition appeared in a closely printed octavo volume at Monmouth, in New Jersey, in 1795 ; and a third, in two duodeci- mo volumes, in Philadelphia, in 1809. The last is entitled "Poems written and published during the American Revolutionary War, and now re- published from the original Manuscripts, inter- spersed with Translations from the Ancients, and other Pieces not heretofore in Print." In 1788 he published in Philadelphia his "Miscella- neous Works, containing Essays and additional Poems," and, in 1814, "A Collection of Poems on American Affairs, and a Variety of other Sub- jects, chiefly Moral and Political, written between 1797 and 1815." His house at Mount Pleasant was destroyed by fire, in 1815 or 1816, and in some of his letters he laments the loss, by that misfortune, of some of his best poems, which had never been printed. 31 32 PHILIP FRENEAU. THE DYING INDIAN. ON yonder lake I spread the sail no more ! Vigour, and youth, and active days are past Relentless demons urge me to that shore On whose black forests all the dead are cast: Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song, For I must go to shades below, Where all is strange and all is new ; Companion to the airy throng ! What solitary streams, In dull and dreary dreams, All melancholy, must I rove along ! To what strange lands must CHEQ.UI take his way ! Groves of the dead departed mortals trace : No deer along those gloomy forests stray, No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase. But all are empty, unsubstantial shades, That ramble through those visionary glades ; No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend, But sickly orchards there Do fruits as sickly bear, And apples a consumptive visage shew, And wither'd hangs the whortleberry blue. Ah me ! what mischiefs on the dead attend ! Wandering a stranger to the shores below, Where shall I brook or real fountain find 1 Lazy and sad deluding waters flow Such is the picture in my boding mind ! Fine tales, indeed, they tell Of shades and purling rills, Where our dead fathers dwell Beyond the western hills ; But when did ghost return his state to shew ; Or who can promise half the tale is true ? I too must be a fleeting ghost ! no more None, none but shadows to those mansions go ; I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore, For emptier groves below ! Ye charming solitudes, Ye tall ascending woods Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams, Whose aspect still was sweet, Whether the sun did greet, Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams Adieu to all ! To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd, The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade ; Adieu all triumphs here ! Adieu the mountain's lofty swell, Adieu, thou little verdant hill, And seas, and stars, and skies farewell, For some remoter sphere ! Perplex'd with doubts, and tortured with despair, Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep ? Nature at last these ruins may repair, When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep; Some real world once more may be assign'd, Some new-born mansion for the immortal mind! Farewell, sweet lake ; farewell, surrounding woods : To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray, Beyond the mountain^, and beyond the floods, Beyond the Huron bay ! Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, My trusty bow and arrows by my side, The cheerful bottle and the venison store ; For long the journey is that I must go, Without a partner, and without a guide." He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep ! THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND. . ITS spite of all the learn'd have said, I still my old opinion keep ; The posture that we give the dead, Points o\lt*Ufe soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.* His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dress' d, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that knows no rest His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit Observe the swelling turf, and say They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far-projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest play'd ! There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale SHEBAH, with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. * The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture ; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images of birds, quadrupeds, &c. : and (if that of a warrior) with bows, arrows, tomahawks, and other military weapons. PHiLIP FRENEAU. 33 By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, To willows sad and weeping yews In. habit for the chase array'd, With us awhile, old man, repair, The hunter still the deer pursues, Nor to the vault thy steps refuse ; The hunter and the deer, a shade ! Thy constant home must soon be there. And long shall timorous fancy see To summer suns and winter moons The painted chief and pointed spear ; Prepare to bid a long adieu ; And Reason's self shall bow the knee Autumnal seasons shall return, To shadows and delusions here. And spring shall bloom, but not for you. Why so perplex'd with cares and toil To rest upon this darksome road 1 TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS 'Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil, A barren and a bleak abode. WHO FELL AT EUTAW.* Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, These dregs of life are bought too dear ; AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died; 'Tis better far to die, than bear Their limbs with dust are cover'd o'er The torments of life's closing year. Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide ; How many heroes are no more ! Subjected to perpetual ills, A thousand deaths around us grow : If, in this wreck of ruin, they The frost the tender blossom kills, Can yet be thought to claim the tear, And roses wither as they blow. smite your gentle breast, and say, The friends of freedom slumber here ! Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail ; Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain, The blasted apple seeks the ground ; The peaches fall, the cherries fail ; If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; The grape receives a mortal wound. Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest ! The breeze, that gently ought to blow, Stranger, their humble graves adorn ; You too may fall, and ask a tear : 'Tis not the. beauty of the morn Swells to a storm, and rends the main ; The sun, that charm'd the grass to grow, Turns hostile, and consumes the plain ; That proves the evening shall be clear. The mountains waste, the shores decay, They saw their injured country's wo ; The flaming town, the wasted field ; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe ; Once purling streams are dead and dry 'Twas Nature's work 'tis Nature's play, And Nature says, that all must die. They took the spear but left the shield. Yon flaming lamp, the source of light, Led by the conquering genius, GREENE, The Britons they compell'd to fly : None distant viewed the fatal plain ; In chaos dark may shroud his beam, And leave the world to mother Night, A farce, a phantom, or a dream. None grieved, in such a cause to die. What now is young, must soon be old : But like the Parthians, famed of old, Whate'er we love, we soon must leave : Who, flying, still their arrows threw ; 'Tis now too hot, 'tis now too cold These routed Britons, full as bold, To live, is nothing but to grieve. Retreated, and retreating slew. How bright the morn her course begun ! Now rest in peace, our patriot band ; No mists bedimm'd the solar sphere ; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, The clouds arise they shade the sun, We trust they find a happier land, For nothing can be constant here. A brighter sunshine of their own. Now hope the longing soul employs, In expectation we are bless'd ; * But soon the airy phantom flies, For, lo ! the treasure is posscss'd. TO AN OLD MAN. Those monarchs proud, that havoc spread. (While pensive RF.ASOX dropt a tear,) WHY, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan Those monarchs have to darkness fled, Beneath a weight of years and wo ; And ruin bounds their mad career. Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, And age proclaims, "'Tis time to go." The grandeur of this earthly round, Where folly would forever stay, * The Battle of Eutaw, South Carolina, was fought Is but a name, is but a sound September 8. 1781. Mere emptiness and vanity. 5 34 PHILIP FRENEAU. Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heaven's remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair. Those native fires, that warm'd the mind, Now languid grown, too dimly glow, Joy has to grief the heart rcsign'd, And love, itself, is changed to wo. The joys of wine are all you boast, These, for a moment, damp your pain ; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost And darkness clouds the soul again. Then seek no more for bliss below, Where real bliss can ne'er be found ; Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow, And fairer flowers bedeck the ground ; Where plants of life the plains invest, And green eternal crowns the year : The little god, that warms the breast, Is weary of his mansion here. Like Phospher, sent before the day, His height meridian to regain, The dawn arrives he must not stay To shiver on a frozen plain. Life's journey past, for fate prepare, 'Tis but the freedom of the mind ; Jove made us mortal his we are, To Jove be all our cares resigned. COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND.* IH.TJSTKIOTJS monarch of Iberia's soil, Too long I wait permission to depart ; Sick of delays, I beg thy listening ear . Shine forth the patron and the prince of art. While yet Columbus breathes the vital air, Grant his request to pass the western main : Reserve this glory for thy native soil, And, what must please thee more, for thy own reign. Of this huge globe, how small a part we know Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny ? How disproportion'd to the mighty deep The lands that yet in human prospect lie ! Does Cynthia, when to western skies arrived, Spend her moist beam upon the barren main, And ne'er illume with midnight splendour, she, The natives dancing on the lightsome green ? Should the vast circuit of the world contain Such wastes of ocean and such scanty land ? 'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so ; I think more nobly of the Almighty hand. * Columbus was a considerable number of years en- gazcil in soliciting the court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined to exist somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address King Ferdinand in the above stanzas. Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round To light mere waves and monsters of the seas 'I No ; be there must, beyond the billowy waste, Islands, and men, and animals, and trees. An unremitting flame my breast inspires To seek new lands amid the barren waves, Where, falling low, the source of day descends, And the blue sea his evening visage laves. Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage :* " The time may come, when numerous years are past, When ocean will unloose the bands of things, And an unbounded region rise at last ; And TTPHIS may disclose the mighty land, Far, far away, where none have roved before ; Nor will the world's remotest region be Gibraltar 's rock, or THULE'S savage shore." Fired at the theme, I languish to depart ; Supply the bark, and bid Columbns sail ; He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep ; Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. Nor does he dread to miss the intended course, Though far from land the reeling galley stray, And skies above, and gulfy seas below, Be the sole objects seen for many a day. Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain The mystic magnet to the mortal eye : So late have we the guiding needle plann'd, Only to sail beneath our native sky 1 Ere this was known, the ruling power of all Form'd for our use an ocean in the land, Its breadth so small, we could not wander long, Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand. Short was the course, and guided by the stars, But stars no more must point our daring way ; The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drowned, And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea, When southward we shall steer O grant my wish, Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail, He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep, Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet : No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear. * Seneca, the poet, a native of Con!ova in Spain : " fenicnt annis fctula seris, Qitibus oceanus vinciila rerum J.axtt, et ingerts pattat tcllns, Tiipliisq-ue novos detegat orbes ; JVic eil terris ultima Tltvle." Seneca, Med., act iii., v. 375. PHILIP FRENEAU. By Nature's self in white array'd, She bade thce shun the "vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by ; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose. Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom ; They died nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower. From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came : If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same ; The space between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower. HUMAN FRAILTY. DISASTERS on disasters grow, And those which are not sent we make; The good we rarely find below, Or, in the search, the road mistake. The object of our fancied joys With eager eye we keep in view : Possession, when acquired, destroys The object, and the passion too. The hat that hid Belinda's hair Was once the darling of her eye ; 'Tis now dismiss'd, she knows not where ; Is laid aside, she knows not why. Life is to most a nauseous pill, A treat for which they dearly pay : Let's take the good, avoid the ill, Discharge the debt, and walk away. THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. THOUGH Had in winter's gloomy dress All Nature's works appear, Yet other prospects rise to bless The new returning year : The active sail again is seen To greet our western shore, Gay plenty smiles, with brow serene, And wars distract no more. No more the vales, no more the plains An iron harvest yield ; Peace guards our doors, impels our swains To till the grateful field : From distant climes, no longer foes, (Their years of misery past,) Nations arrive, to find repose In these domains at last. And, if a more delightful scene Attracts the mortal eye, Where cloud? nor darkness intervene, Behold, aspiring high, On freedom's soil those fabrics plann'd, On virtue's basis laid, That make secure our native land, And prove our toils repaid. Ambitious aims and pride severe, Would you at distance keep, What wanderer would not tarry here, Here charm his cares to sleep 1 O, still may health her balmy wings O'er these fair fields expand, While commerce from all climates brings The products of each land. Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, That share alike our span, Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, The eternal friend of man : The darkness of the days to come * She brightens with her ray, And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, When sickening to decay ! TO A NIGHT-FLY, APPROACHING A CANDLE. ATTRACTED by the taper's rays, How carelessly you come to gaze On what absorbs you in its blaze ! O fly ! I bid you have a care : You do not heed the danger near This light, to you a blazing star. Already you have scorch'd your wings : What courage, or what folly brings You, hovering near such blazing things 1 Ah, me ! you touch this little sun One circuit more, and all is done ! Now to the furnace you are gone ! Thus folly, with ambition join'd, Attracts the insects of mankind, And sways the superficial mind : Thus, power has charms which all admire, But dangerous is that central fire If you are wise, in time retire. JOHN TRUMBULL. [Barn 1750. Died 1831.] Jony TRUMBULL, LL.D., the author of" McFin- gal," was born in Waterlmry, Connecticut, on the twenty-fourth day of April, 1750. His father was a Congregational clergyman, and for many years one of the trustees of Yale College. He early instructed his son in the elementary branches of education, and was induced by the extraordinary vigour of his intellect, and his unrcmitted devotion to study, to give him lessons in the Greek and Latin languages before he was six years old. At the age of seven, after a careful examination, young TRUMBULL was declared to be sufficiently advanced to merit admission into Yale College. On account of his extreme youth, however, at that time, and his subsequent ill health, he was not sent to reside at New Haven until 1763, when he was in his thirteenth year. His college life was a continued series of successes. His superior genius, Attainments and industry enabled him in every trial to surpass his competitors for academic honours ; and such of his collegiate exercises as have been printed evince a discipline of thought and style rarely discernible in more advanced years, and after greater opportunities of improvement. He was graduated in 1767, but remained in the college three years longer, devoting his attention principally to the study of polite letters. In this period he became acquainted with DWIGHT, then a member of one of the younger classes, who had attracted considerable attention by translating in a very creditable manner two of the finest odes of Horace, and contracted with him a lasting friend- ship. On the resignation of two of the tutors in the college in 1771, TRUMBULL and DWIGHT were elected to fill the vacancies, and exerted all their energies for several years to introduce an im- proved course of study and system of discipline into the seminary. At this period the ancient languages, scholastic theology, logic, and mathe- matics were dignified with the title of " solid learning," and the study of belles lettres was de- cried as useless and an unjustifiable waste of time. The two friends were exposed to a torrent of cen- sure and ridicule, but they persevered, and in the end were successful. TRTJMBULL wrote many humorous prose and poetical essays while he was a tutor, which were published in the gazettes of Connecticut and Massachusetts, and with DWIGHT produced a series in the manner of the " Spectator," which extended to more than forty numbers. The " Progress of Dulness" was published in 1772. It is the most finished of THUMIICLL'S poems, and was hardly less serviceable to the cause of educa- tion than " McFingal" was to that of liberty. The puerile absurdity of regarding a knowledge of the Greek and Hebrew languages as of more import- ance to a clergyman than the most perfect ac- quaintance with rhetoric and belles lettres, then obtained more generally than now, and dunces had but to remain four years in the neighbourhood of a university to be admitted to the fellowship of scholars and the ministers of religion. In the satire, TOM BHAIXLESS, a country clown, too indolent to follow the plough, is sent by his weak- minded parents to college, where a degree is gained by residence, and soon after appears as a full-wigged parson, half-fanatic, half-fool, to do his share toward bringing Christianity into contempt. Another principal person is DICK HAIHBRAIN, an impudent fop, who is made a master of arts in the same way ; and in the third part is introduced a character of the same description, belonging to the other sex. During the last years of his residence at College, TRUMBULL paid as much attention as his other avocations would permit to the study of the law, and in 1773 resigned his tutorship and was ad- mitted to the bar of Connecticut. He did not seek business in the courts, however, but went immediately to Boston, and entered as a student the office of JOHX ADAMS, afterward President of the United States, and at that time an eminent advocate and counsellor. He was now in the focus of American politics. The controversy with Great Britain was rapidly approaching a crisis, and he entered with characteristic ardour into all the discussions of the time, employing his leisure hours in writing for the gazettes and in partisan correspondence. In 1774, he published anonymously his Essay on the Times," and soon after returned to New Haven, and with the most flattering prospects commenced the practice of his profession. The first gun of the revolution echoed along the continent in the following year, and private pur- suits were abandoned in the general devotion to the cause of liberty. TRUMBULL wrote the first part of " McFingal," which was immediately printed in Philadelphia, where the Congress was then in session, and soon after republished in numerous editions in different parts of this country and in England. It was not finished until 1782, when it was issued complete in three cantos at Hartford, to which place TRUMBULL had removed in the preceding year. " McFingal'' is in the Hudibrastic vein, and much the best imitation of the great satire of BUTLER that has been written. The hero is a Scotish justice of the peace residing in the vicinitj of Boston at the beginning of the revolution, and the first two cantos are principally occupied with a discussion between him and one HONORIUS on the course of the British government, in which McFiirGAL, an unyielding loyalist, endeavours to 36 JOHN TRUMBULL. 37 make proselytes, while all his arguments are directed against himself. His zeal and his logic are together irresistibly ludicrous, but there is no- thing in the character unnatural, as it is common for men who read more than they think, or attempt to discuss questions they <3o not understand, to use arguments which refute the positions they wish to defend. The meeting ends with a riot, in which McFiJfGAL is seized, tried by the mob, con- victed of violent toryism, and tarred and feathered. On being set at liberty, he assembles his friends around him in his cellar, and harangues them until they are dispersed by the whigs, when he escapes to Boston, and the poem closes. These are all the important incidents of the story, yet it is never tedious, and few commence reading it who do not follow it to the end and regret its termination. Throughout the three cantos the wit is never separated from the character of the hero. After the removal of TRUMBULL to Hartford a social club was established in that city, of which BARLOW, Colonel HUMPHRIES, Doctor LEMUEL HOPKINS, and our author, were members. They produced numerous essays on literary, moral, and political subjects, none of which attracted more applause than a scries of papers in imitation of the " Rolliad," (a popular English work, ascribed to Fox, SHERIDAN, and their associates,) entitled " American Antiquities" and " Extracts from the Anarchiad," originally printed in the New Haven Gazette for 1786 and 1787. These papers have never been collected, but they were republished from one end of the country to the other in the periodicals of the time, and were supposed to have had considerable influence on public taste and opinions, and oy the boldness of then- satire to have kept in abeyance the leaders of political dis- organization and infidel philosophy. TRUMUULL also aided BARLOW in the preparation of his edi- tion of WATTS'S version of the Psalms, and wrote several of the paraphrases in that work which have been generally attributed to the author of "The Columbiad." TRUMBULL was a popular lawyer, and was ap- pointed to various honourable offices by the people and the government. From 1795, in consequence of ill health, he declined all public employment, and was for several years an invalid. At length, recovering his customary vigour, in ^800 he was elected a member of the legislature, and in the year following a judge of the Superior Court. In 1808 he was appointed a judge of the Supreme Court of Errors, and held the office until 1819, when he finally retired from public life. His poems were collected and published in 1820, and in 1825 he removed to Detroit, where his daughter, the wife of the Honourable WILLIAM WOODBHIDGE, now a member of the United States Senate for Michigan, was residing, and died there in May, 1831, in the eighty-first year of his age. ODE TO SLEEP. I. COME, gentle Sleep ! Balm of my wounds and softener of my woes, And lull my weary heart in sweet repose, And bid my sadden'd soul forget to weep, And close the tearful eye ; While dewy eve, with solemn sweep, Hath drawn her fleecy mantle o'er the sky, And chased afar, adown the ethereal way, The din of bustling care and gaudy eye of day. II. Come, but thy leaden sceptre leave, Thy opiate rod, thy poppies pale, Dipp'd in the torpid fount of Lethe's stream, That shroud with night each intellectual beam, And quench the immortal fire, in deep Oblivion's wave. Yet draw the thick, impervious veil O'er all the scenes of tasted wo ; Command each cypress shade to flee ; Between this toil-worn world and me Display thy curtain broad, and hide the realms be- low. in. Descend, and, graceful, in thy hand, With thee bring thy magic wand, And thy pencil, taught to glow In all the hues of Iris' bow. And call thy bright, aerial train, Each fairy form and visionary shade, That in the Elysian land of dreams, The flower-enwoven banks along, Or bowery maze, that shades the purple streams, Where gales of fragrance breathe the enamour'd In more than mortal charms array'd, [song, People the airy vales and revel in thy reign. IV. But drive afar the haggard crew, That haunt the guilt-encrimson'd bed, Or dim before the frenzied view Stalk with slow and sullen tread ; While furies, with infernal glare, Wave their pale torches through the troubled air ; And deep from Darkness' inmost womb, Sad groans dispart the icy tomb, And bid the sheeted spectre rise, Mid shrieks and fiery shapes and deadly fantasies. * See a note on this subject appended to the Life of BARLOW in this volume. D 38 JOHN TRUMBULL. V. Come and loose the mortal chain, That binds to clogs of clay the ethereal wing ; And give the astonish' d soul to rove, Where never sunbeam stretch' d its wide domain; And hail her kindred forms above, In fields of uncreated spring, Aloft where realms of endless glory rise, And rapture paints in gold the landscape of the skies. VI. Then through the liquid fields we'll climb, Where Plato treads empyreal air, Where daring Homer sits sublime, And Pindar rolls his fiery car ; Above the cloud-encircled hills, Where high Parnassus lifts his airy head, And Helicon's melodious rills Flow gently through the warbling glade ; And all the Nine, in deathless choir combined, Dissolve in harmony the enraptured mind, And every bard, that tuned the immortal lay, Basks in the ethereal blaze, and drinks celestial day. VII. Or call to my transported eyes Happier scenes, for lovers made ; Bid the twilight grove arise, Lead the rivulet through the glade. In some flowering arbour laid, Where opening roses taste the honey'd dew, And plumy songsters carol through the shade, Recall my long-lost wishes to my view. Bid Time's inverted glass return The scenes of bliss, with hope elate, And hail the once expected morn, And burst the iron bands of fate Graced with all her virgin channs, Attractive smiles and past, responsive flame, Restore my ***** to my arms, Just to her vows and faithful to her fame. vin. Hymen's torch, with hallow'd fire, Rising beams the auspicious ray. Wake the dance, the festive lyre Warbling sweet the nuptial lay ; Gay with beauties, once alluring, Bid the bright enchantress move, Eyes that languish, smiles of rapture, And the rosy blush of love. On her glowing breast reclining, Mid that paradise of charms, Every blooming grace combining, Yielded to my circling arms, I clasp the fair, and, kindling at the view, Press to my heart the dear deceit, and think the transport true. Hence, false, delusive dreams, Fantastic hopes and mortal passions vain Ascend, my soul, to nobler themes Of happier import and sublimer strain. Rising from this sphere of night, Pierce yon blue vault, ingemm'd with golden fires ; Beyond where Saturn's languid car retires, Or Sirius keen outvies the solar ray, To worlds from every dross terrene refined, Realms of the pure, ethereal mind, Warm with the radiance of unchanging day: Where cherub-forms and essences of light, With holy song and heavenly rite, From rainbow clouds their strains immortal pour; An earthly guest, in converse high, Explore the wonders of the sky, From orb to orb with guides celestial soar, And take, through heaven's wide round, the uni- versal tour; X. And find that mansion of the blest, Where, rising ceaseless from this lethal stage, Heaven's favourite sons, from earthly chains re- leased, In happier Eden pass the eternal age. The newborn soul beholds the angelic face Of holy sires, that throng the blissful plain, Or meets his consort's loved embrace, Or clasps the son, so lost, so mourn'd in vain. There, charm'd with each endearing wile, Maternal fondness greets her infant's smile ; Long-sever'd friends, in transport doubly dear, Unite and join the interminable train And, hark ! a well-known voice I hear I spy my sainted friend ! I meet my HOWE* again ! XL Hail, sacred shade ! for not to dust consign'd, Lost in the grave, thine ardent spirit lies, Nor fail'd that warm benevolence of mind To claim the birthright of its native skies. What radiant glory and celestial grace, Immortal meed of piety and praise ! Come to my visions, friendly shade, 'Gainst all assaults my wayward weakness arm, Raise my low thoughts, my nobler wishes aid, When passions rage, or vain allurements charm ; The pomp of learning and the boast of art, The glow, that fires in genius' boundless range, The pride, that wings the keen, satiric dart, And hails the triumph of revenge. Teach me, like thce, to feel and know Our humble station in this vale of wo, Twilight of life, illumed with feeble ray, The infant dawning of eternal day ; With heart expansive, through this scene improve The social soul of harmony and love ; To heavenly hopes alone aspire and prize The virtue, knowledge, bliss, and glory of the skies. * Rev. JOSEPH HOWE, pastor of a church in Boston ; some time a fellow-tutor with the author at Vale College. He died in 1775. The conclusion of the ode was varied, by inserting this tribute of affection. JOHN TRUMBULL. 39 THE COUNTRY CLOWN.* BUKD in distant woods, the clown Brings all his country airs to town ; The odd address, with awkward grace, That bows with all-averted face ; The half-heard compliments, whose note Is swallow'd in the trembling throat ; The stilTen'd gait, the drawling tone, By which his native place is known ; The blush, that looks, by vast degrees, Too much like modesty to please ; The proud displays of awkward dress, That all the country fop express : The suit right gay, though much belated, Whose fashion 's superannuated ; The watch, depending far in state, Whose iron chain might form a grate The silver buckle, dread to view, O'crshadowing all the clumsy shoe ; The white-gloved hand, that tries to peep From ruffle, full five inches deep ; With fifty odd affairs beside, The foppishness of country pride. Poor DICK ! though first thy airs provoke The obstreperous laugh and scornful joke. Doom'd all the ridicule to stand, While each gay dunce shall lend a hand ; Yet let not scorn dismay thy hope To shine a witling and a fop. Blest impudence the prize shall gain, And bid thee sigh no more in vain. Thy varied dress shall quickly show At once the spendthrift and the beau. With pert address and noisy tongue, That scorns the fear of prating wrong 'Mongst listening coxcombs shalt thou shine, And every voice shall echo thine. THE FOP.t How blest the brainless fop, whose praise Is doom'd to grace these happy days, When well-bred vice can genius teach, And fame is placed in folly's reach ; Impertinence all tastes can hit, And every rascal is a wit. The lowest dunce, without despairing, May learn the true sublime of swearing ; Learn the nice art of jests obscene, While ladies wonder what they mean ; The heroism of brazen lungs, The rhetoric of eternal tongues ; While whim usurps the name of spirit, And impudence takes place of merit, And every money'd clown and dunce Commences gentleman at once. For now, by easy rules of trade, Mechanic gentlemen are made ! From handicrafts of fashion born ; Those very arts so much their scorn. * From the " Progress of Dulness." t From the same. To tailors half themselves they owe, Who make the clothes that make the beau. Lo ! from the seats, where, fops to bless, Learn'd artists fix the forms of dress, And sit in consultation grave On folded skirt, or straiten'd sleeve, The coxcomb trips with sprightly haste, In all the flush of modern taste ; Oft turning, if the day be fair, To view his shadow's graceful air ; Well pleased, with eager eye runs o'er The laced suit glittering gay before ;* The ruffle, where from open'd vest The rubied brooch adorns the breast ; The coat, with lengthening waist behind, Whose short skirts dangle in the wind ; The modish hat, whose breadth contains The measure of its owner's brains ; The stockings gay, with various hues ; The little toe-encircling shoes ; The cane, on whose carved top is shown A head, just emblem of his own ; While, wrapp'd in self, with lofty stride, His little heart elate with pride, He struts in all the joys of show That tailors give, or beaux can know. And who for beauty need repine, That's sold at every barber's sign ; Nor lies in features or complexion, But curls disposed in meet direction, With strong pomatum's grateful odour, And quantum sufficit of powder 1 These charms can shed a sprightly grace O'er the dull eye and clumsy face ; While the trim dancing-master's art Shall gestures, trips, and bows impart, Give the gay piece its final touches, And lend those airs, would lure a duchess. Thus shines the form, nor aught behind, The gifts that deck the coxcomb's mind; Then hear the daring muse disclose The sense and piety of beaux. To grace his speech, let France bestow A set of compliments for show. Land of politeness ! that affords The treasure of new-fangled words, And endless quantities disburses Of bows and compliments and curses ; The soft address, with airs so sweet, That cringes at the ladies' feet ; The pert, vivacious, play-house style, That wakes the gay assembly's smile ; Jests that his brother beaux may hit, And pass with young coquettes for wit, And prized by fops of true discerning, Outface the pedantry of learning. Yet learning too shall lend its aid To fill the coxcomb's spongy head ; And studious oft he shall peruse The labours of the modern muse. From endless loads of novels gain Soft, simpering tales of amorous pain, * This passage alludes to the mode of dress then in fashion. 40 JOHN TRUMBULL With double meanings, neat and handy, From ROCHESTER and TRISTRAM SHANDY.* The blundering aid of weak reviews, That forge the fetters of the muse, Shall give him airs of criticising On faults of books, he ne'er set eyes on. The magazines shall teach the fashion, And commonplace of conversation, And where his knowledge fails, aiFord The aid of many a sounding word. Then, lest religion he should need, Of pious HUME he'll learn his creed, By strongest demonstration shown, Evince that nothing can be known ; Take arguments, unvex'd by doubt, On VOLTAIRE'S trust, or go without; 'Gainst Scripture rail in modern lore, As thousand fools have rail'd before ; Or pleased a nicer art display To expound its doctrines all away, Suit it to modern tastes and fashions By various notes and emendations ; The rules the ten commands contain, With new provisos well explain ; Prove all religion was but fashion, Beneath the Jewish dispensation. A ceremonial law, deep hooded In types and figures long exploded ; Its stubborn fetters all unfit For these free times of gospel light, This rake's millennium, since the day When Sabbaths first were done away ; Since pander-conscience holds the door, And lewdness is a vice no more ; And shame, the worst of deadly fiends, On virtue, as its squire, attends. Alike his poignant wit displays The darkness of the former days, When men the paths of duty sought, And own'd what revelation taught ; Ere human reason grew so bright, Men could see all things by its light, And summon'd Scripture to appear, And stand before its bar severe, To clear its page from charge of fiction, And answer pleas of contradiction ; Ere miracles were held in scorn, Or BOUNGBROKE, or HUME were born. And now the fop, with great energy, Levels at priestcraft and the clergy, At holy cant and godly prayers, And bigots' hypocritic airs ; Musters each veteran jest to aid, Calls piety the parson's trade ; Cries out 't is shame, past all abiding, The world should still be so priest-ridden ; Applauds free thought that scorns control, And generous nobleness of soul, That acts its pleasure, good or evil, And fears nor deity nor devil. These standing topics never fail To prompt our little wits to rail, * STERNE'S Tristram Shandy was then in the highest vogue, and in the zenith of its transitory reputation. With mimic drollery of grimace, And pleased impertinence of face, 'Gainst virtue arm their feeble forces, And sound the charge in peals of curses. Blest be his ashes ! under ground If any particles be found, Who, friendly to the coxcomb race, First taught those arts of commonplace, Those topics fine, on which the beau May all his little wits bestow, Secure the simple laugh to raise, And gain the dunce's palm of praise. For where 's the theme that beaux could hit With least similitude of wit, Did not religion and the priest Supply materials for the jest ; The poor in purse, with metals vile For current coins, the world beguile ; The poor in brain, for genuine wit Pass off a viler counterfeit ; While various thus their doom appears, These lose their souls, and those their ears ; The want of fancy, whim supplies, And native humour, mad caprice ; Loud noise for argument goes off, For mirth polite, the ribald's scoff; For sense, lewd drolleries entertain us, And wit is mimick'd by profaneness. CHARACTER OF McFINGAL.* WHEX Yankees, skill'd in martial rule, First put the British troops to school ; Instructed them in warlike trade, And new manoeuvres of parade ; The true war-dance of Yankee-reels, And manual exercise of heels ; Made them give up, like saints complete, The arm of flesh, and trust the feet, And work, like Christians undissembling, Salvation out by fear and trembling ; Taught Percy fashionable races, And modern modes of Chevy-Chaces :j- From Boston, in his best array, Great Sr fleets the sunbright form, by man adored ! Soon fell the head of gold to Time a prey, The arms, the trunk, his cankering tooth devour'd, And whirlwinds blew the iron dust away. Where dwelt imperial Timur, far astray Some lonely-musing pilgrim now inquires ; And, rack'd by storms and hastening to decay, Mohammed's mosque foresees its final iircs, And Rome's more lordly temple day by day expires. As o'er proud Asian realms the traveller winds, His manly spirit, hush'd by terror, falls WTien some forgotten town's lost site he finds ; Where ruin wild his pondering eye appals, Where silence swims along the moulder'd walls, And broods upon departed Grandeur's tomb, Through the lone, hollow aisles, sad Echo calls At each slow step ; deep sighs the breathing gloom, And weeping fields around bewail their emoress' doom. Where o'er a hundred realms the throne uprose The screech-owl nests, the panther builds his home ; Sleep the dull newts, the lazy adders doze Where pomp and luxury danced the golden room; Low lies in dust the sky-resembled dome, Tall grass around the broken column waves, And brambles climb and lonely thistles bloom ; The moulder'd arch the weedy streamlet laves, And low resound, beneath, unnumber'd sunken graves. In thee, Albion ! queen of nations, live [known ; Whatever splendours earth's wide realms have In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive, And Greece her arts, and Rome her lordly throne ; By every wind thy Tyrian fleets are blown ; Supreme, on Fame's dread roll, thy heroes stand ; All ocean's realms thy naval sceptre own; Of bards, of sages, how august thy band ! And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd land. But, O how vast thy crimes! Through Heaven's great year, When few centurial suns have traced their way ; When Southern Europe, worn by feuds severe, Weak, doting, fallen, has bow'd to Russian sway, And setting lory beam'd her farewell ray, To wastes, perchance, thy brilliant fields shall turn ; In dust thy temples, towers, and towns decay ; The forest howl where London turrets burn, And all thy garlands deck thy sad funereal urn. Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of fame, Scepter'd with arts and arms, (if I divine,) Some unknown wild, some shore without a name, In all thy pomp shall then majestic shine. As silver-headed Time's slow years decline, Not ruins only meet the inquiring eye; Where round yon mouldering oak vain brambles The filial stem, already towering high, [twine, Ere long shaH stretch his arms, and nod in yonder sky. * The extract above and the one which precedes it are from the canto on the destruction of the Pequod Indians, in "Greenfield Hill." Where late resounded the wild woodland roar Now heaves the palace, now the temple smiles; Where frown'd the rude rock and the desert shore Now Pleasure sports, and Business want beguiles, And Commerce wings her flight to thousand isles ; Culture walks forth, gay laugh the loaded fields, And jocund Labour plays his harmless wiles; Glad Science brightens, Art her mansion builds, And Peace uplifts her wand, and HEAVEN his bless- ing yields. THE SOCIAL VISIT.* YE Muses ! dames of dignified renown, Revered alike in country and in town, Your bard the mysteries of a visit show ; (For sure your ladyships those mysteries know:) What is it, then, obliging sisters ! say, The debt of social visiting to pay] 'Tis not to toil before the idol pier; To shine the first in fashion's lunar sphere ; By sad engagements forced abroad to roam, And dread to find the expecting fair at home ! To stop at thirty doors in half a day, Drop the gilt card, and proudly roll away ; To alight, and yield the hand with nice parade ; Up stairs to rustle in the stifF brocade ; Swim thrdugh the drawing-room with studied air, Catch the pink'd beau, and shade the rival fair; To sit, to curb, to toss with bridled mien, Mince the scant speech, and lose a glance between ; Unfurl the fan, display the snowy arm, And ope, with each new motion, some new charm: Or sit in silent solitude, to spy Each little failing with malignant eye ; Or chatter with incessancy of tongue, Careless if kind or cruel, right or wrong ; To trill of us and ours, of mine and me, Our house, our coach, our friends, our family, While all the excluded circle sit in pain, And glance their cool contempt or keen disdain : To inhale from proud Nanking a sip of tea, And wave a courtesy trim and flirt away : Or waste at cards peace, temper, health, and life, Begin with sullenncss, and end in strife ; Lose the rich feast by friendly converse given, And backward turn from happiness and heaven. It is in decent habit, plain and neat, To spend a few choice hours in converse sweet, Careless of forms, to act the unstudied part, To mix in friendship, and to blend the heart ; To choose those happy themes which all must feel, The moral duties and the household weal, The tale of sympathy, the kind design, Where rich affections soften and refine ; To amuse, to be amused, to bless, be bless'd, And tune to harmony the common breast ; To cheer with mild good-humour's sprightly ray, And smooth life's passage o'er its thorny way ; To circle round the hospitable board, And taste each good our generous climes afford ; To court a quick return with accents kind, And leave, at parting, some regret behind. *From "Greenfield Hill." 46 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. THE COUNTRY PASTOR.* AH ! knew he but his happiness, of menf Not the least happy he, who, free from broils And base ambition, vain and bustling pomp, Amid a friendly cure, and competence, Tastes the pure pleasures of parochial life. What though no crowd of clients, at his gate, To falsehood and injustice bribe his tongue, And flatter into guilt 1 what though no bright And gilded prospects lure ambition on To legislative pride, or chair of state 1 What though no golden dreams entice his mind To burrow, with the mole, in dirt and mire ? What though no splendid villa, Eden'd round With gardens of enchantment, walks of state, And all the grandeur of superfluous wealth, Invite the passenger to stay his steed, And ask the liveried foot-boy, Who dwells here 1" What though no swarms, around his sumptuous board, Of soothing flatterers, humming in the shine Of opulence, and honey from its flowers Devouring, till their time arrives to sting, Inflate his mind ; his virtues round the year Repeating, and his faults, with microscope Inverted, lessen, till they steal from sight ? Yet from the dire temptations these present His state is free ; temptations, few can stem ; Temptations, by whose sweeping torrent hurl'd Down the dire steep of guilt, unceasing fall Sad victims, thousands of the brightest minds That time's dark reign adorn ; minds, to whose grasp Heaven seems most freely off'er'd ; to man's eye, Most hopeful candidates for angels' joys. His lot, that wealth, and power, and pride forbids, Forbids him to become the tool of fraud, Injustice, misery, ruin ; saves his soul From all the needless labours, griefs, and cares, That avarice and ambition agonize ; From those cold nerves of wealth, that, palsied, feel No anguish, but its own ; and ceaseless lead To thousand meannesses, as gain allures. Though oft compell'd to meet the gross attack Of shameless ridicule and towering pride, Sufficient good is his ; good, real, pure, With guilt unmingled. Rarely forced from home, Around his board his wife and children smile ; Communion sweetest, nature here can give, Each fond endearment, office of delight, With love and duty blending. Such the joy My bosom oft has known. His, too, the task To rear the infant plants that bud around ; To ope their little minds to truth's pure light ; To take them by the hand, and lead them on In that straight, narrow road where virtue walks ; To guard them from a vain, deceiving world, * From "Greenfield Hill." t Ah ! knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he, &c. THOMSON. O fortunatos niuiium, sua si bona norint, Agricolas ! VIROIL, Otorg. 2. And point their course to realms of promised life. His too the esteem of those who weekly hear His words of truth divine ; unnumber'd acts Of real love attesting to his eve Their filial tenderness. Where'er he walks, The friendly welcome and inviting smile Wait on his steps, and breathe a kindred joy. Oft too in friendliest association join'd, He greets his brethren, with a flowing heart, Flowing with virtue; all rejoiced to meet, And all reluctant parting; every aim, Benevolent, aiding with purpose kind ; While, seasori'd with unblernish'd cheerfulness, Far distant from the tainted mirth of vice, Their hearts disclose each contemplation sweet Of things divine; and blend in friendship pure, Friendship sublimed by piety and love. All virtue's friends are his: the good, the just, The pious, to his house their visits pay, And converse high hold of the true, the fair, The wonderful, the moral, the divine : Of saints and prophets, patterns bright of truth, Lent to a world of sin, to teach mankind How virtue in that world can live and shine ; Of learning's varied realms ; of Nature's works ; And that bless'd book which gilds man's darksome way With light from heaven ; of bless'd Messiah's throne And kingdom ; prophecies divine fulfill'd, And prophecies more glorious yet to come In renovated days ; of that bright world, And all the happy trains which that bright world Inhabit, whither virtue's sons are gone : While God the whole inspires, adorns, exalts ; The source, the end, the substance, and the soul. This too the task, the bless'd, the useful task, To invigour order, justice, law, and rule ; Peace to extend, and bid contention cease ; To teach the words of life ; to lead mankind Back from the wild of guilt and brink of wo To virtue's house and family ; faith, hope, And joy to inspire ; to warm the soul With love to God and man ; to cheer the sad, To fix the doubting, rouse the languid heart ; The wandering to restore ; to spread with down The thorny bed of death ; console the poor, Departing mind, and aid its lingering wing. To him her choicest pages Truth expands, Unceasing, where the soul-entrancing scenes Poetic fiction boasts are real all : Where beauty, novelty, and grandeur wear Superior charms, and moral worlds unfold Sublimities transporting and divine. Not all the scenes Philosophy can boast, Though them with nobler truths he ceaseless blends, Compare with these. They, as they found the mind, Still leave it ; more inform'd, but not more wise. These wiser, nobler, better, make the man. Thus every happy mean of solid good His life, his studies, and profession yield. With motives hourly new, each rolling day Allures, through wisdom's path and truth's fair field, His feet to yonder skies. Before him heaven Shines bright, the scope sublime of all his prayers, The meed of every sorrow, pain, and toil. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 47 THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.* WHERE yonder humble spire salutes the eye, Us vane slow-turning in the liquid sky, Where, in light gambols, healthy striplings sport, Ambitious learning builds her outer court ; A grave preceptor, there, her usher stands, And rules without a rod her little bands. Some half-grown sprigs of learning graced his brow : Little he Itnew, though much he wish'd to know ; Enchanted hung o'er VIRGIL'S honey'd lay, And smiled to see desipient HORACE play ; Glean'd scraps of Greek ; and, curious, traced afar, Through POPE'S clear glass the bright Maeonian star. Yet oft his students at his wisdom stared, For many a student to his side repair'd ; Surprised, they heard him DILWORTH'S knots untie, And tell what lands beyond the Atlantic lie. Many his faults ; his virtues small and few ; Some little good he did, or strove to do ; Laborious still, he taught the early mind, And urged to manners meek and thoughts refined ; Truth he impress'd, and every virtue praised ; While infant eyes in wondering silence gazed ; The worth of time would day by day unfold, And tell them every hour was made of gold. THE BATTLE OF Al.t Now near the burning domes the squadrons stood, Their breasts impatient for the scenes of blood : On every face a death-like glimmer sate, The unbless'd harbinger of instant fate. [spires, High through the gloom, in pale and dreadful Rose the long terrors of the dark-red fires ; Torches, and torrent sparks, by whirlwinds driven, Stream'd through the smoke, and fired the clouded heaven ; As oft tall turrets sunk, with rushing sound, Broad flames burst forth, and sweep the ethereal round ; The bright expansion lighten'd all the scene, And deeper shadows lengthen'd o'er the green. Loud through the walls, that cast a golden gleam, Crown'd with tall pyramids of bending flame, As thunders rumble down the darkening vales, Roll'd the deep, solemn voice of rushing gales : The bands, admiring, saw the wondrous sight, And expectation trembled for the fight. At once the sounding clarion breathed alarms ; Wide from the forest burst the flash of arms ; Thick gleam'd the helms ; and o'er astonish'd fields, Like thousand meteors rose the flame-bright shields. In gloomy pomp, to furious combat roll'd [gold ; Ranks sheath'd in mail, and chiefs in glimmering In floating lustre bounds the dim-seen steed, And cars unfinish'd, swift to cars succeed : From all the host ascends a dark-red glare, Here in full blaze, in distant twinklings there ; * From " Greenfield Hill." t This and the three following estracts are from " The Conquest of Canaan." Slow waves the dreadful light, as round the shore Night's solemn blasts with deep confusion roar : So rush'd the footsteps of the embattled train, And send an awful murmur o'er the plain. Tall in the opposing van, bold IRAD stood, And bid the clarion sound the voice of blood. Loud blew the trumpet on the sweeping gales, Rock'd the deep groves, and echoed round the vales ; A ceaseless murmur all the concave fills, Waves through the quivering camp, and trembles o'er the hills. High in the gloomy blaze the standards flew ; The impatient youth his burnish'd falchion drew ; Ten thousand swords his eager bands display'd, And crimson terrors danced on every blade. With equal rage, the bold, Ha/orian train Pour'd a wide deluge o'er the shadowy plain ; Loud rose the songs of war, loud clang'd the shields, Dread shouts of vengeance shook the shuddering fields ; With mingled din, shrill, martial music rings, And swift to combat each fierce hero springs. So broad, and dark, a midnight storm ascends, Bursts on the main, and trembling nature rends ; The red foam burns, the watery mountains rise, One deep, unmeasured thunder heaves the skies ; The bark drives lonely ; shivering and forlorn, The poor, sad sailors wish the lingering morn : Not with less fury rush'd the vengeful train ; Not with less tumult roar'd the embattled plain. Now in the oak's black shade they fought conceal'd ; And now they shouted through the open field'; The long, pale splendours of the curling flame Cast o'er their polish'd arms a livid gleam ; An umber'd lustre floated round their way, And lighted falchions to the fierce affray. Now the swift chariots 'gainst the stubborn oak Dash'd ; and the earth re-echoes to the shock. From shade to shade the forms tremendous stream, And their arms flash a momentary flame. Mid hollow tombs as fleets an airy train, Lost in the skies, or fading o'er the plain ; So visionary shapes, around the fight, Shoot through the gloom, and vanish from the sight ; Through twilight paths the maddening coursers bound, The shrill swords crack, the clashing shields resound. There, lost in grandeur, might the eye behold The dark-red glimmerings of the steel and gold ; The chief; the steed ; the nimbly-rushing car ; And all the horrors of the gloomy war. Here the thick clouds, with purple lustre bright, Spread o'er the long, long host, and gradual sunk in night ; Here half the world was wrapp'd in rolling fires, And dreadful valleys sunk between the spires. Swift ran black forms across the livid flame, And oaks waved slowly in the trembling beam : Loud rose the mingled noise ; with hollow sound, Deep rolling whirlwinds roar, and thundering flames resound. As drives a blast along the midnight heath, Rush'd raging IRAD on the scenes of death ; High o'er his shoulder gleam'd his brandish'd blade, And scatter'd ruin round the twilight shade. 48 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. Full on a giant hero's sweeping car He pour'd the tempest of resistless war; His twinkling lance the heathen raised on high, And hurl'd it, fruitless, through the gloomy sky ; From the bold youth the maddening coursers wheel, Gash'd by the vengeance of his slaughtering steel ; 'Twixt two tall oaks the helpless chief they drew ; The shrill car dash'd ; the crack'd wheels rattling flew ; Crush'd in his arms, to rise he strove in vain, And lay unpitied on the dreary plain. THE LAMENTATION OF SELIMA. thou forget, when, call'd from southern bowers, Love tuned the groves, and spring awaked the flowers, How, loosed from slumbers by the morning ray, O'er balmy plains we bent our frequent way 1 On thy fond arm, with pleasing gaze, I hung, And heard sweet music murmur o'er thy tongue ; Hand lock'd in hand, with gentle ardour press'd, Pour'd soft emotions through the heaving breast ; In magic transport heart with heart entwined, And in sweet languor lost the melting mind. 'T was then thy voice, attuned to wisdom's lay, Show'd fairer worlds, and traced the immortal way ; In virtue's pleasing paths my footsteps tried, My sweet companion and my skilful guide ; Through varied knowledge taught my mind to soar, Search hidden truths, and new-found walks explore : While still the tale, by nature learn'd to rove, Slid, unperceived, to scenes of happy love. Till, weak and lost, the faltering converse fell, And eyes disclosed what eyes alone could tell ; In rapturous tumult bade the passions roll, And spoke the living language of the soul. With what fond hope, through many a blissful hour, We gave the soul to fancy's pleasing power ; Lost in the magic of that sweet employ To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy ! We saw mild peace o'er fair Canaan rise, And shower her pleasures from benignant skies. On airy hills our happy mansion rose, Built but for joy, nor room reserved for woes. Round the calm solitude, with ceaseless song, Soft roll'd domestic ecstasy along : Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day, By raptures number'd, lightly danced away : To love, to bliss, the blended soul was given, And each, too happy, ask'd no brighter heaven. Yet then, even then, my trembling thoughts would rove, And steal an hour from IRAD, and from love, Through dread futurity all anxious roam, And cast a mournful glance on ills to come. . . . And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll ? Must no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul 1 Spring charm around me brightest scenes, in vain, And youth's angelic visions wake to pain"! O, come once more ; with fond endearments come ! Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb ; Through favourite walks thy chosen maid attend, Where well known shades for thee their branches bend; Shed the sweet poison from thy speaking eye, And look those raptures lifeless words deny ! Still be the tale rehearsed, that ne'er could tire, But, told each eve, fresh pleasure could inspire ; Still hoped those scenes which love and fancy drew, But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new ! Again all bright shall glow the morning beam, Again soft suns dissolve the frozen stream, Spring call young breezes from the southern skies, And, clothed in splendour, flowery millions rise In vain to thee ! No morn's indulgent ray Warms the cold mansion of thy slumbering clay. No mild, ethereal gale, with tepid wing, Shall fan thy locks, or waft approaching spring : Unfelt, unknown, shall breathe the rich perfume, And unheard music wave around thy tomb. A cold, dumb, dead repose invests thee round ; Still as a void, ere Nature form'd a sound. O'er thy dark region, pierced by no kind ray, Slow roll the long, oblivious hours away. In these wide walks, this solitary round, Where the pale moonbeam lights the glimmering ground, At each sad turn, I view thy spirit come, And glide, half-seen, behind a neighbouring tomb ; With visionary hand, forbid my stay, Look o'er the grave, and beckon me away. PREDICTION TO JOSHUA RELATIVE TO AMERICA. FAR o'er yon azure main thy view extend, Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heaven design'd The last retreat for poor, oppress'd mankind ; Form'd with that pomp which marks the hand divine, And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumber'd shine. Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade ; Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, And fairer lustre purples round the pole. Here, warm'd by happy suns, gay mines unfold The useful iron and the lasting gold ; Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, And mock the splendours of the covenant bow. On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, That smile to see the future harvest nod, In glad succession plants unnumber'd bloom, And flowers unnumber'd breathe a rich perfume. Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, And health, reviving, light her purple flame. Far from all realms this world imperial lies, Seas roll between, and threat'ning tempests rise. Alike removed beyond ambition's pale, And the bold pinions of the venturous sail ; TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 49 Till circling years the destined period bring, And a new MOSKS lift the daring wing, Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores, And hails a new Canaan's promised shores. On yon far strand behold that little train Ascending venturous o'er the unmeasured main ; No dangers fright, no ills the course delay ; 'Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way. Speed speed, ye sons of truth ! let Heaven befriend, Let angels waft you, and let peace attend. O ! smile, thou sky serene ; ye storms, retire ; And airs of Eden every sail inspire. Swift o'er the main behold the canvass fly, And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky ; See verdant fields the changing waste unfold ; See sudden harvests dress the plains in gold; In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend, And dancing woods to spires and temples bend. . . Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise, And Peace, and Right, and Freedom greet the skies ; To morn's far realms her trading ships shall sail, Or lift their canvass to the evening gale : In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar, Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore. And, hark ! what strange, what solemn breaking strain Swells, wildly murmuring, o'er the far, far main ! Down Time's long, lessening vale the notes decay, And, lost in distant ages, roll away. EVENING AFTER A BATTLE. ABOVE tall western hills, the light of day Shot far the splendours of his golden ray ; Bright from the storm, with tenfold grace he smiled, The tumult soften'd, and the world grew mild. With pomp transcendent, robed in heavenly dyes, Arch'd the clear rainbow round the orient skies ; | Its changeless form, its hues of beam divine Fair type of truth and beauty endless shine Around the expanse, with thousand splendours rare; Gay clouds sail wanton through the kindling air; From shade to shade unnumber'd tinctures blend, Unnumber'd forms of wondrous light extend; In pride stupendous, glittering walls aspire, Graced with bright domes, and crown'd with towers of fire; On cliffs cliffs burn ; o'er mountains mountains roll : A burst of glory spreads from pole to pole : Rapt with the splendour, every songster sings, Tops the high bough, and claps his glistening wings ; With new-born green reviving nature bloomsy And sweeter fragrance freshening air perfumes. Far south the storm withdrew its troubled reign, Descending twilight dimm'd the dusky plain ; Black night arose, ...er curtains hid the ground : Less roar'd, and less, the thunder's solemn sound ; The bended lightning shot a brighter stream, _ Or wrapp'd all heaven in one wide, mantling flame ; By turns, o'er plains, and woods, and mountains spread Faint, yellow glimmerings, and a deeper shade. From parting clouds, the moon out-breaking shone, And sate, sole empress, on her silver throne ; In clear, full beauty, round all nature smiled, And claimed, o'er heaven and earth, dominion mild; With humbler glory, stars her court attend, And bless'd, and union'd, silent lustre blend. COLUMBIA. COLUMBIA, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world and the child of the skies; Thy genius commands tb.ee ; with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendours unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time ; Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name ; Be freedom and science, and virtue thy fame. To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; Whelm nations in blood and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. A world is thy realm ; for a world be thy laws, Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause ; On Freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star; New bards and new sages, unrivall'd, shall soar To fame, unextinguish'd when time is no more ; To thee, the last refuge of virtue design'd, Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; Here, grateful, to Heaven with transport shall bring Their incense, more fragrant than odours of spring. Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; The graces of form shall awake pure desire, And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire: Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, And virtue's bright image enstamp'd on the mind, With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, And light up a smile in the aspect of wo. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendour shall flow, And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow, V/hile the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurl'd, Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, From war's dread confusion I pensively stray'd The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired, The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired ; Perfumes, as of Eden, flovv'd sweetly along, And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung : " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." E DAVID HUMPHREYS. [Born 1753. Died 181?.] DAVID HUMPHREYS, LL. D., was the son of a Congregational clergyman, at Derby, in Con- necticut, where he was born in 1753. He was educated at Yale College, with DWIGHT, THUM- BULL, and BARLOW, and soon after being gradu- ated, in 1771, joined the revolutionary array, under General PARSOXS, with the rank of cap- tain. He was for several years attached to the staff of General PUTXAM, and in 1780 was ap- pointed aid-de-camp to General WASHIXGTOX, with the rank of colonel. He continued in the military family of the commander-in-chief until the close of the war, enjoying his friendship and confidence, and afterward accompanied him to Mount Vernon, where he remained until 1784, when he went abroad with FRAXKLIX, ADAMS, and JEFFEHSOX, who were appointed commis- sioners to negotiate treaties of commerce with foreign powers, as their secretary of legation.* Soon after his return to the United States, in 1786, he was elected by the citizens of his native town a member of the Legislature of Connecticut, and by that body was appointed to command a regiment to be raised by order of the national government. On receiving his commission, Co- lonel HUMPHREYS established his head-quarters and recruiting rendezvous at Hartford ; and there renewed his intimacy with his old friends TRUM- BULL and BARLOW, with whom, and Doctor LEMUEL HOPKINS, he engaged in writing the " Anarchiad," a political satire, in imitation of the " Rolliad," a work attributed to SHERIDAX and others, which he had seen in London. He re- tained his commission until the suppression of the insurrection in 1787, and in the following year accepted an invitation to visit Mount Vernon, where he continued to reside until he was ap- pointed minister to Portugal, in 1790. He re- mained in Lisbon seven years, at the end of which period he was transferred to the court of Madrid, and in 1802, when Mr. PIXCKXEY was made minister to Spain, returned to the United States. From 1802 to 1812, he devoted his attention to agricultural and manufacturing pur- suits ; and on the breaking out of the second war * In a letter to Doctor FRANKLIN, written soon after the appointment of HUMPHREYS to this office, General WASHINGTON, says : " His zeal in the cause of his country, his pood sense, prudence, and attachment to me, have rendered him dear to me; and I persuade my- self you will find no confidence which you may think proper to repose in him, misplaced. He possesses an excellent heart, good natural and acquired abilities, and sterling integrity, as well as sobriety, and an obliging disposition. A full conviction of his possessing all these good qualities makes me less scrupulous of recommend- ing him to your patronage and friendship." SPAKKS'S Life of jyas/iinffton, vol. is. p. 40. with Great Britain, was appointed commander of the militia of Connecticut, with the rank of bri- gadier-general. His public services terminated with the limitation of that appointment. He died at New Haven, on the twenty-first day of February, 1818, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. The principal poems of Colonel HUMPHREYS are an "Address to the Armies of the United States," written in 1772, while he was in the army ; " A Poem on the Happiness of America," written during his residence in London and Paris, as secretary of legation ; " The Widow of Main- bar, or The Tyranny of Custom, a Tragedy, imi- tated from the French of M. LE MIERRE," writ- ten at Mount Vernon ; and a " Poem on Agri- culture," written while he was minister at the court of Lisbon. The " Address to the Armies of the United States" passed through many edi- tions in this country and in Europe, and was translated into the French language by the Mar- quis de CHATELLUX, and favourably noticed in the Parisian gazettes. The " Poem on the Hap- piness of America" was reprinted nine times in three years ; and the " Widow of Malabar" is said, in the dedication of it to the author of "McFingal," to have met with "extraordinary success" on the stage. The " Miscellaneous Works of Colonel HUMPHREYS" were published in an octavo volume, in New York, in 1790, and again in 1804. The Works contain, besides the authors poems, an interesting biography of his early friend and commander, General PUTNAM, and several orations and other prose compositions. They are dedicated to the Duke de ROCIIEFOUCAULT, who had been his intimate friend in France. In the dedication he says : " In presenting for your amusement the trifles which have been composed during my leisure hours, I assume nothing be- yond the negative merit of not having ever writ- ten any thing unfavourable to the interests of re- ligion, humanity, and virtue." He seems to have aimed only at an elegant mediocrity, and his pieces are generally simple and correct, in thought and language. He was one of the " four bards with Scripture names," satirized in some verses published in London, commencing " David and Jonathan, Joel and Timothy, Over the water, set up the hymn of the" etc., and is generally classed among the "poets of the Revolution." The popularity he enjoyed while he lived, and his connection with Tut-MuuLL, BARLOW, and DWIGHT, justify the introduction of a sketch of his history and writings into this volume. The following extracts exhibit his style. The first alludes to the departure of the British fleet from New York. 50 DAVID HUMPHREYS. 51 ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. E'EN now, from half the threaten'd horrors freed, See from our shores the lessening sails recede; See the proud flags that, to the wind unfurl'd, Waved in proud triumph round avanquish'd world, Inglorious fly ; and see their haggard crew, Despair, shame, rage, and infamy pursue. Hail, heaven-born peace ! thy grateful blessings pour On this glad land, and round the peopled shore ; Thine are the joys that gild the happy scene, Propitious days, and happy nights serene ; With thee gay Pleasure frolics o'er the plain, And smiling Plenty leads the prosperous train. Then, blest land ! with genius unconfined, With polish'd manners, and the illumined mind, Thy future race on daring wing shall soar, Each science trace, and all the arts explore. Till bright religion, beckoning to the skies, Shall bid thy sons to endless glory rise. WESTERN EMIGRATION. WITH all that 's ours, together let us rise, Seek brighter plains, and more indulgent skies ; Where fair Ohio rolls his amber tide, And nature blossoms in her virgin pride; Where all that Beauty's hand can form to please Shall crown the toils of war with rural ease. The shady coverts and the sunny hills, The gentle lapse of ever-murmuring rills, The soft repose amid the noontide bowers, The evening walk among the blushing flowers, The fragrant groves, that yield a sweet perfume, And vernal glories in perpetual bloom Await you there ; and heaven shall bless the toil : Your own the produce, and your own the soil. There, free from envy, cankering care and strife, Flow the calm pleasures of domestic life ; There mutual friendship soothes each placid breast : Blest in themselves, and in each other blest. From house to house the social glee extends, For friends in war in peace are doubly friends. There cities rise, and spiry towns increase, With gilded domes and every art of peace. There Cultivation shall extend his power, Rear the green blade, and nurse the tender flower ; Make the fair villa in full splendours smile, And robe with verdure all the genial soil. There shall rich Commerce court the favouring gales, And wondering wilds admire the passing sails, Where the bold ships the stormy Huron brave, Where wild Ontario rolls the whitening wave, Where fair Ohio his pure current pours, And Mississippi laves the extended shores. And thou Supreme ! whose hand sustains this ball, Before whose nod the nations rise and fall, Propitious smile, and shed diviner charms On this blest land, the queen of arts and arms ; Make the great empire rise on wisdom's plan, The seat of bliss, and last retreat of man. AMERICAN WINTER. THEX doubling clouds the wintry skies deform, And, wrapt in vapour, comes the roaring storm ; With snows surcharged, from tops of mountains sails, Loads leafless trees, and fills the whiten'd vales. Then Desolation strips the faded plains, Then tyrant Death o'er vegetation reigns ; The birds of heaven to other climes repair, And deepening glooms invade the turbid air. Nor then, unjoyous, winter's rigours come, But find them happy and content with home ; Their granaries fill'd the task of culture past Warm at their fire, they hear the howling blast, While pattering rain and snow, or driving sleet, Rave idly loud, and at their window beat : Safe from its rage, regardless of its roar, In vain the tempest rattles at the door. 'Tis then the time from hoarding cribs to feed The ox laborious, and the noble steed ; 'Tis then the time to tend the bleating fold, To strew with litter, and to fence from cold. The cattle fed, the fuel piled within, At setting day the blissful hours begin ; 'Tis then, sole owner of his little cot, The farmer feels his independent lot ; Hears, with the crackling blaze that lights the wall, The voice of gladness and of nature call; Beholds his children play, their mother smile, And tastes with them the fruit of summer's toil. From stormy heavens the mantling clouds unroll'd, The sky is bright, the air serenely cold. The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snows, For months entire o'er frozen regions blows ; Man braves his blast ; his gelid breath inhales, And feels more vigorous as the frost prevails. REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIERS. O, WHAT avails to trace the fate of war Through fields of blood, and paint each glorious scar ! Why should the strain your former woes recall, The tears that wept a friend's or brother's fall, When by your side, first in the adventurous strife, He dauntless rush'd, too prodigal of life ! Enough of merit has each honour'd name, To shine untarnish'd on the rolls of fame, To stand the example of each distant age, And add new lustre to the historic page ; For soon their deeds illustrious shall be shown In breathing bronze or animated stone, Or where the canvass, starting into life, Revives the glories of the crimson strife. And soon some bard shall tempt the untried themes, Sing how we dared, in fortune's worst extremes ; What cruel wrongs the indignant patriot bore, What various ills your feeling bosoms tore, What boding terrors gloom'd the threatening hour, When British legions, arm'd with death-like power, Bade desolation mark their crimson'd way, And lured the savage to his destined prey. JOEL BARLOW. [Born 1755. Died 1812.] THE author of the " Columbiad" was born in the village of Reading, in Connecticut, in 1755. He was the youngest in a family of ten, and his father died while he was yet a child, leaving to him property sufficient only to defray the costs of his education. On the completion of his prepara- tory studies he was placed by his guardians at Dartmouth College, but was soon induced to re- move to New Haven, where he was graduated, in 1778. Among his friends here were DWIGHT, then a college tutor, Colonel HUMPHREYS, a re- volutionary bard of some reputation, and TRUM- BULL, the author of " McFingal." BARLOW recited an original poem, on taking his bachelor's degree, which is preserved in the " American Poems," printed at Litchfield in 1793. It was his first attempt of so ambitious a character, and possesses little merit. During the vacations of the college he had on several occasions joined the army, in which four of his brothers were serving ; and he participated in the conflict at White Plains, and a number of minor engagements, in which he is said to have displayed much intrepidity. For a short time after completing his academic course, BARLOW devoted his attention chiefly to the law ; but being urged by his friends to qualify himself for the office of chaplain, he undertook the study of theology, and in six weeks became a licensed minister. He joined the army immediately, and remained with it until the establishment of peace, cultivating the while his taste for poetry, by writing patriotic songs and ballads, and composing, in part, his " Vision of Columbus," afterward ex- panded into the " Columbiad." When the army was disbanded, in 1783, he removed to Hartford, to resume his legal studies; and to add to his revenue established "The Mercury," a weekly gazette, to which his writings gave reputation and an immediate circulation. He had previously married at New Haven a daughter of the Honour- able ABRAHAM BALDWIN, and had lost his early patron and friend, the Honourable TITUS HOSMF.R, on whom he wrote an elegant elegy. In 1785 he was admitted to the bar, and in the same year, in compliance with the request of an association of Congregational ministers, he prepared and publish- ed an enlarged and improved edition of WATTS'S version of the Psalms,* to which were appended a * Of the psalms omitted by WATTS and included in this edition, only the eighty-eighth and one hundred and. thirty-seventh were paraphrased by BARLOW. His ver- sion of the latter added much to his reputation, and has been considered the finest translation of the words of DAVID that has been written, though they have received a metrical dress from some of the best poets of England and America. Recently the origin of this paraphrase has been a subject of controversy, but a memorandum found among the papers of the late Judge TRVMBILL, 52 collection of hymns, several of which weie written by himself. "The Vision of Columbus" was published in 1787. It was dedicated to Louis XVI., with strong expressions of admiration and gratitude, and in the poem were corresponding passages of applause; but BAH LOW'S feelings toward the amiable and unfortunate monarch appear to have changed in after time, for in the " Columbiad" he is coldly alluded to, and the adulatory lines are sup- pressed. The -"Vision of Columbus" was re- printed in London and Paris, and was generally noticed favourably in the reviews. After its pub- lication the author relinquished his newspaper and established a bookstore, principally to sell the poem and his edition of the Psalms, and as soon as this end was attained, resumed the practice of the law. In this he was, however, unfortunate, for his forensic abilities were not of the most popular description, and his mind was too much devoted to political and literary subjects to admit of the application to study and attention to business necessary to secure success. He was engaged with Colonel HUMPHREYS, Jons TRUMBULL, and Dr. LEMUEL HOPKIXS, a man of some wit, of the coarser kind, in the " Anarchiad," a satirical poem published at Hartford, which had considerable political influence, and in some other works of a similar description ; but, obtaining slight pe- cuniary advantage from his literary labours, he was induced to accept a foreign agency from the " Sciota Land Company," and sailed for Eu- rope, with his family, in 1788. In France he sold some of the lands held by this association, but deriving little or no personal benefit from the trans- actions, and becoming aware of the fraudulent character of the company, he relinquished his agency and determined to rely on his pen for support. who aided in the preparation of the Connecticut edition of WATTS, settles the question in favour of BARLOW The following is the version to which we have alluded: THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. Alonz the banks where Babel's current flows, Our captive bands in <1e--p despondence stray'd : Where Z.ou's fall in si 1 n-meml.rince rrae, Her frienJs, her cinUren, nm^Ie-I with the dead. The tuneful harp th.it once with joy we strun", VVIieu l-raise employ'd and mirth insp.rej the lay, In mournful s'.l.-nce nu the willows hum;, And growing grief prolong'd the tedious day. Our proud oppressors, to increase our wo, Bid sacred praise in strains melodious flow. While they blaspheme the great Jehovah's name. Bo" how. in heathen chains, and lands unknown, Shall Israel's son? the sacred anthetnt raise ? O haplei< S Jem '. God's terrestrial throne, Thou land of glory, sacrej mount of praise ! If e'er my memory lose thy lovely name, If my cnl.l heart nejlrct'my kindred race, Let dire destruct:on seize this'guilty frame! My hinds shall perish and my voice shall cease '. Yet shall the Lord who hears when Zion calls, Overtake her foes with terror anl dismay ; His arm avenze he- desola el \v..ll, Aiu raise her chiUieu to eternal day. JOEL BARLOW. 53 In 1791, BARLOW published in London " Advice to the Privileged Orders," a work directed against the distinguishing features of kingly and aristo- cratic governments ; and in the early part of the succeeding year, " The Conspiracy of Kings," a poem of about four hundred lines, educed by the first coalition of the continental sovereigns against republican France. In the autumn of 1792, he wrote a letter to the French National Conven- tion, recommending the abolition of the union be- tween the church and the state, and other reforms ; and was soon after chosen by the " London Con- stitutional Society," of which he was a member, to present in person an address to that body. On his arrival in Paris he was complimented with the rights of citizenship, an " honour" which had been previously con%rcd on WASHINGTON and HAMILTON. From this time he made France his home. In the summer of 1793, a deputation, of which his friend GREGORiE,who before the Revo- lution had been Bishop of Blois, was a member, was sent into Savoy, to organize it as a department of the republic. He accompanied it to Chamberry, the capital, where, at the request of its president, he wrote an address to the inhabitants of Piedmont, inciting them to throw off allegiance to " the man of Turin who called himself their king." Here too he wrote "Hasty Pudding," the most popular of his poems. On his return to Paris, BARLOW'S time was principally devoted to commercial pursuits, by which, in a few years, he obtained a considerable fortune. The atrocities which marked the pro- gress of the Revolution prevented his active parti- cipation in political controversies, though he con- tinued under all circumstances an ardent republican. Toward the close of 1795, he visited the North of Europe, on some private business, and on his re- turn to Paris was appointed by WASHINGTON consul to Algiers, with power to negotiate a com- mercial treaty with the dey, and to ransom all the Americans held in slavery on the coast of Barbary. He accepted and fulfilled the mission to the satis- faction of the American Government, concluding treaties with Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli, and liberating more than one hundred Americans, who were in prisons or in slavery to the Mohammedans. He then returned to Paris, where he purchased the splendid hotel of the Count CLERMONT I>E TONNERE, and lived several years in a fashionable and costly manner, pursuing still his fortunate mercantile speculations, revising his " great epic," and writing occasionally for the political gazettes. Finally, after an absence of nearly seventeen years, the poet, statesman, and philosopher re- turned to his native country. He was received with kindness by many old friends, who had cor- responded with him while abroad or been remem- bered in all his wanderings ; and after spending a few months in travel, marking, with patriotic pride, the rapid progress which the nation had made in greatness, he fixed his home on the banks of the Potomac, near the city of Washington, where he built the splendid mansion, known afterward as " Kalorama," and expressed an intention to spend there the remainder of his life. In 1806, he pub- lished a prospectus of a National Institution, at Washington, to combine a university with a naval and military school, academy of fine arts, and learned society. A bill to carry his plan into effect was introduced into Congress, but never be- came a law. In the summer of 1808, appeared the " Colum- biad," in a splendid quarto volume, surpassing in the beauty of its typography and embellishments any work before that time printed in America. From his earliest years BARLOW had been ambitious to raise the epic song of his nation. The " Vision of Columbus," in which the most brilliant events in American history had been described, occupied his leisure hours when in college, and afterward, when, as a chaplain, he followed the standard of the liberating army. That work was executed too hastily and imperfectly, and for twenty years after its appearance, through every variety of for- tune, its enlargement and improvement engaged his attention. The events of the Revolution were so recent and so universally known, as to be inflexible to the hand of fiction ; and the poem could not therefore be modelled after the regular epic form, which would otherwise have been chosen. It is a series of visions, presented by HESPER, the genius of the western continent, to COLUMBUS, while in the prison at Valladolid, where he is introduced to the reader uttering a monologue on his ill-requited services to Spain. These visions embrace a vast variety of scenes, circumstances, and characters : Europe in the middle ages, with her political and religious reformers ; Mexico and the South Ameri- can nations, and their imagined history ; the pro- gress of discovery ; the settlement of the states now composing the federation ; the war of the Revolution, and establishment of republicanism ; and the chief actors in the great dramas which he attempts to present. The poem, having no unity of fable, no regular succession of incidents, no strong exhibition of varied character, lacks the most powerful charms of a narrative ; and has, besides, many dull and spiritless passages, that would make unpopular a work of much more faultless general design. The versification is generally harmonious, but mechani- cal and passionless, the language sometimes in- correct, and the similes often inappropriate and inelegant. Yet there are in it many bursts of elo- quence and patriotism, which should preserve it from oblivion. The descriptions of nature and of personal character are frequently condensed and forceful ; and passages of invective, indignant and full of energy. In his narrative of the expedition against Quebec, under ARNOLD, the poet exclaims : Ah, jrallant troop! deprived of half the praise That deeds like yours in t ther times repays, Since your prime chief (the favourite erst of Fame,) Hath sunk so deep his hateful, hideous name, That every honest must: with horror fliiifrs It forth unsounded from her sacred strings ; Else what liivh tones of rapture must have told The first great actions of a chief so bold : These lines are characteristic of his manner. E2 54 JOEL BARLOW. The " Columbiad'' was reprinted in Paris and London, and noticed in the leading critical gazettes, but generally with little praise. The London " Monthly Magazine" attempted in an elaborate article to prove its title to a place in the first class of epics, and expressed a belief that it was sur- passed only by the "Illiad," the JSneid" and " Paradise Lost." In America, however, it was re- garded by the judicious as a failure, and reviewed with even more wit and severity than in England. Indeed, the poet did not in his own country receive the praise which he really merited ; and faults were imputed to his work which it did not possess. Its sentiments were said to be hostile to Christianity,* and the author was declared an infidel ; but there is no line in the "Columbiad" unfavourable to the religion of New England, the Puritan faith which is the basis of the national greatness ; and there is no good reason for believing that BAR- LOW at the time of his death doubted the creed of which in his early manhood he had been a minister. After the publication of the " Columbiad," BAR- LOW made a collection of documents, with an in- tention to write a history of the United States ; but, in 1811, he was unexpectedly appointed minister plenipotentiary to the French government, and immediately sailed for Europe. His attempts to negotiate a treaty of commerce and indemnifica- tion for spoliations were unsuccessful at Paris ; THE HASTY PUDDING. YE Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise, To cramp the day and hide me from the skies ; Ye Gallic flags, that, o'er their heights unfurl'd, Bear death to kings and freedom to the world, I sing not you. A softer theme I choose, A virgin theme, unconscious of the muse, But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire The purest frenzy of poetic fire. Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd, Who hurl your thunders round the epic field ; Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing Joys that the vineyard and the stillhouse bring ; Or on some distant fair your notes employ, And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy. * It is now generally believed that BARLOW, while in France, abjured the Christian religion. The Reverend THOMAS ROBBIXS, a venerable clergyman of Rochester, Massachusetts, in a letter written in 1S40, remarks that " BARLOW'S deistical opinions were not suspected pre- vious to the publication of his ' Vision of Columbus,' in 17S7 ;" and further, that "when at a later period he lost his character, and became an open and bitter reviler of Christianity, his psalm-book was laid aside ; but for that cause only, as competent judges still maintained that no revision of WATTS possesses as much poetic merit as BARLOW'S." I have seen two letters written by BARLOW during the last year of his life, in which he declares him- self "a sincere believer of Christianity, divested of its and in the autumn of 1812 he was invited by the Duke of BASSANO to a conference with NAPOLEOX at Wilna, in Poland. He started from Paris, and travelled without intermission until he reached Zarnowitch, an obscure village near Cracow, where he died, from an inflammation of the lungs, induced by fatigue and exposure in an inhospitable country, in an inclement season, on the twenty- second day of December, in the fifty-fourth year of his age. In Paris, honours were paid to his memory as an important public functionary and a man of letters ; his eulogy was written by DUPO^T BE NKMOUUS, and an account of his life and writings was drawn up and published, accom- panied by a canto of the " Columbiad," translated into French heroic verse. In America, too, his death was generally lamented, though without any pub- lic exhibition of mourning. BARLOW was much respected in private life for his many excellent social qualities. His manners were usually grave and dignified, though when with his intimate friends he was easy and familiar. He was an honest and patient investigator, and would doubtless have been much more successful as a metaphysical or historical writer than as a poet. As an author he belonged to the first class of his time in America; and for his ardent pa- triotism, his public services, and the purity of his life, he deserves a distinguished rank among the men of our golden age. I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, My morning incense, and my evening meal, The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl, Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul. The milk beside thce, smoking from the kine, Its substance mingled, married in with thine, Shall cool and temper thy superior heat, And save the pains of blowing while I eat. ! could the smooth, the emblematic song Flow like thy genial juices o'er my tongue, Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime, And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme, No more thy awkward, unpoetic name Should shun the muse or prejudice thy fame ; But, rising grateful to the accustom'd car, All bards should catch it, and all realms revere ! Assist me first with pious toil to trace Through wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race ; corruptions." In a letter to M. GREGORIE, published in the second volume of DENNIE'S "Port Folio," paces 471 to 479, he says, "the sect of Puritans, in which I was born and educated, and to which I still adhere, for the same reason that you adhere to the Catholics, a canriction that they are rig-ht," etc. The idea that BARLOW disbelieved in his later years the religion of his youth, was probably first derived from an engraving in the " Vision of Colum- bus," in which the cross, by which he intended to repre- sent monkish superstition, is placed among ihe "symbols of prejudice." He never "lost his diameter" ns a man of honourablesentiments and blameless life; and I could pre- sent numerous other evidences that he did not abandon his religion, were not the above apparently conclusive. JOEL BARLOW. 55 Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, (Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore,) First gave thee to the world ; her works of fame Have lived indeed, but lived without a name. Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, First Icarn'd with stones to crack the well-dried maize, Through the rough sieve to shake the golden shower, In boiling water stir the yellow flour: The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd with haste, Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, And the whole mass its true consistence takes. Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, Rise, like her labours, to the son of song, To her, to them I'd consecrate my lays, And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. Not through the rich Peruvian realms alone The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be known, But o'er the world's wide clime should live secure, Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure. Dear Hasty Pudding, what unpromised joy Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy ! Doom'd o'er the world through devious paths to roam, Each clime my country, and each house my home, My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end: I greet my long-lost, unforgottcn friend. For thee through Paris, that corrupted town, How long in vain I wander'd up and down, Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard, Cold from his cave usurps the morning board. London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea ; No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee ; The uncouth word, a libel on the town, Would call a proclamation from the crown. For climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays, Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous maize : A grain whose rich, luxuriant growth requires Short, gentle showers, and bright, ethereal fires. But here, though distant from our native shore, With mutual glee, we meet and laugh once more. The same ! I know thee by that yellow face, That strong complexion of true Indian race, Which time can never change, nor soil impair, Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air ; For endless years, through every mild domain, Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to reign. But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, In different realms to give thee different names. Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant Pulitnta call; the French, of course, Polante. E'en in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pe.nnsylvanians call thee Mush ! On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn Insult and eat thee by the name Suppaum. All spurious appellations, void of truth ; I've better known thee from my earliest youth: Thy name is Hasty Pudding ! thus our sires Were wont to greet thee fuming from the fires ; And while they argued in thy just defence With logic clear, they thus explained the sense: "In haste the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze, Receives and cooks the ready powder'd maize; In haste 'tis served, and then in equal haste, With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast. No carving to be done, no knife to grate The tender ear and wound the stony plate ; But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip, And taught with art the yielding mass to dip, By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored, Performs the hasty honours of the board." Such is thy name, significant and clear, A name, a sound to every Yankee dear, But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste Preserve my pure, hereditary taste. There are who strive to stamp with disrepute The luscious food, because it feeds the brute ; In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs; With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. What though the generous cow gives me to quaff The milk nutritious; am I then a calf? Or can the genius of the noisy swine, Though nursed on pudding, thence lay claim to mine'? Sure the sweet song I fashion to thy praise, Runs more melodious than the notes they raise. My song, resounding in its grateful glee, No merit claims : I praise myself in thee. My father loved thee through his length of days ! For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize; From thee what health, what vigour he possess'd, Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest; Thy constellation ruled my natal morn, And all my bones were made of Indian corn. Delicious grain ! whatever form it take, To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, In every dish 'tis welcome still to me, But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee. Let the green succotash with thee contend ; Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend ; Let butter drencruthem in its yellow tide, And a long slice of bacon grace their side ; Not all the plate, how famed soc'er it be, Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. Some talk of Hoe-Cake, fair Virginia's pride ! Rich Johnny-Cake this mouth hath often tried; Both please me well, their virtues much the same, Alike their fabric, as allied their fame, Except in dear New England, where the last Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, To give it sweetness and improve the taste. But place them all before me, smoking hot, The big, round dumpling, rolling from the pot ; The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast, With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast; The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides A belly soft the pulpy apple hides; The yellow bread, whose face like amber glows, And all of Indian that the bakepan knows, You tempt me not; my favourite greets my eyes, To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct flies. JOEL BARLOW. To mix the food by vicious rules of art, To kill the stomach and to sink the heart, To make mankind to social virtue sour, Cram o'er each dish, and be what they devour ; For this the kitchen muse first framed her book, Commanding sweat to stream from every cook; Children no more their antic gambols tried, And friends to physic wonder'd why they died. Not so the Yankee : his abundant feast, With simples furnish'd and with plainness dress'd, A numerous offspring gathers round the board, And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; [taste, Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous And health attends them from the short repast. While the full pail rewards the milkmaid's toil, The mother sees the morning caldron boil; To stir the pudding next demands their care; To spread the table and the bowls prepare : To feed the children as their portions cool, And comb their heads, and send them off to school. Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart, For nature scorns not all the aids of art. E'en Hasty Pudding, purest of all food, May still be bad, indifferent, or good, As sage experience the short process guides, Or want of skill, or want of care presides. Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan, To rear the child and long sustain the man ; To shield the morals while it mends the size, And all the powers of every food supplies, Attend the lesson that the muse shall bring; Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing. But since, O man! thy life and health demand Not food alone, but labour from thy hand, First, in the field, beneath the sun's strong rays, Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize; She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. When now the ox, obedient to thy call, Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall, Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain, And plant hi measured hills the golden grain. But when the tender germ begins to shoot, And the green spire declares the sprouting root, Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, The insidious worm, the all-devouring crow. A little ashes sprinkled round the spire, Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire; The feather'd robber, with his hungry maw Swift flies the field before your man of straw, A frightful image, such as schoolboys bring, When met to burn the pope or hang the king. Thrice in the season, through each verdant row, Wield the strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe ; The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, To till the summer corn and roast the winter cakes. Slow springs the blade, while check'd by chilling rains, Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains ; But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, Then start the juices, then the roots expand ; Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold ; The busy branches all the ridges fill, Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. Here cease to vex them ; all your cares are done : Leave the last labours to the parent sun; Beneath his genial smiles, the well-dress'd licit), When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; The suckling ears the silken fringes bend, And, pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend ; The loaded stalk, while still the burden grows, O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows; High as a hop-field waves the silent grove, A safe retreat for little thefts of love, When the pledged roasting-ears invite the maid To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade ; His generous hand unloads the cumbrous hill, And the green spoils her ready basket fill ; Small compensation for the twofold bliss, The promised wedding, and the present kiss. Slight depredations these ; but now the moon Calls from his hollow trees the sly raccoon ; And while by night he bears his prize away, The bolder squirrel labours through the day. Both thieves alike, but provident of time, A virtue rare, that almost hides their crime. Then let them steal the little stores they can, And fill their granaries from the toils of man ; We've one advantage where they take no part- With all their wiles, they ne'er have found the art To boil the Hasty Pudding , here we shine Superior far to tenants of the pine; This envied boon to man shall still belong, Unshared by them in substance or in song. At last the closing season browns the plain, And ripe October gathers in the grain ; Deep-loaded carts the spacious cornhouse fill; The sack distended marches to the mill ; The labouring mill beneath the burden groans, And showers the future pudding from the stones; Till the glad housewife greets the powdcr'd gold, And the new crop exterminates the old. CASTO III. The days grow short; but though the falling sun To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done, Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, And yield new subjects to my various song. For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest home, The invited neighbours to the husking come; A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, Unite their charms to chase the hours away. Where the huge heap lies center'd in the hall, The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, Brown, corn-fed nymphs, and strong, hard-handed Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows, [beaus, Assume their seats, the solid mass attack ; The dry husks rustle, and the corncobs crack ; The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, And the sweet cider trips in silence round. The laws of husking every wight can tell, And sure no laws he ever keeps so well : For each red ear a general kiss he gains, With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains ; JOEL BARLOW. 5i But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, Red as her lips and taper as her waist, She walks the round and culls one favour'd beau, Who leaps the luscious tribute to bestow. Various the sport, as are the wits and brains Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains; Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, And he that gets the last ear wins the day. Meanwhile, the housewife urges all her care, The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare. The sifted meal already waits her hand, The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand, The fire flames high ; and as a pool (that takes The headlong stream that o'er the milldam breaks) Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils, So the vcx'd caldron rages, roars, and boils. Fir-st with clean salt she seasons well the food, Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood. Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand ; To stir it well demands a stronger hand ; The husband takes his turn : and round and round The ladle flies ; at last the toil is crown'd ; When to the board the thronging huskers pour, And take their seats as at the corn before. I leave them to their feast. There still belong More copious matters to my faithful song. For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet, Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. Some with molasses line the luscious treat, And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise ; A great resource in those bleak wintry days, When the chill'd earth lies buried deep hi snow, And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow. Bless'd cow ! thy praise shall still my notes em- ploy, Great source of health, the only source of joy ; Mother of Egypt's god but sure, for me, Were I to leave my God, I 'd worship thee. How oft thy teats these precious hands have press'd ! How oft thy bounties proved my only feast! How oft I 've fed thee with my favourite grain ! And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain ! Yes, swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah ! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own. Milk then with pudding I would always choose; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Well for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide ; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand ; you've got the portion due : So taught our sires, and what they taught is true. There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. The deep-bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop In ample draughts the thin, diluted soup, 8 Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal chV.gs; Where the strong labial muscles must f.mbrace The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the fre'ght, A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. Experienced feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art. These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide, Though not in song ; the muse but poorly shines In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines ; Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose-egg shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side. Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin: Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin ; or, like me, Poise with one hlkd your bowl upon your knee' Just in the zenith your wise head project; Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all ' BURNING OF THE NEW ENGLAND VILLAGES.* THROUGH solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires Climb in tall pyramids above the spires, Concentring all the winds ; whose forces, driven With equal rage from every point of heaven, Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar; Suck up the cinders, send them sailing far, To warn the nations of the raging war ; Bend high the blazing vortex, swell'd and curl'd, Careering, brightening o'er the lustred world : Seas catch the splendour, kindling skies resound, And falling structures shake the smouldering ground. Crowds of wild fugitives, with frantic tread, Flit through the flames that pierce the midnight shade, Back on the burning domes revert their eyes, Where some lost friend, some perish'd infant lies. Their maim'd, their sick, their age-enfeebled sires Have sunk sad victims to the sateless fires ; They greet with one last look their tottering walls, See the blaze thicken, as the ruin falls, Then o'er the country train their dumb despair, And far behind them leave the dancing glare ; Their own crush'd roofs still lend a trembling light, Point their long shadows and direct their flight. Till, wandering wide, they seek some cottage door, Ask the vile pittance due the vagrant poor ; Or, faint and faltering on the devious road, They sink at last and yield their mortal load. * This and the following extracts arc from the " Colum- biad." 58 JOEL BARLOW. TO FREEDOM. SUN of the moral world ! effulgent source Of man's best wisdom and his steadiest force, Soul-searching Freedom ! here assume thy stand, And radiate hence to every distant land ; Point out and prove how all the scenes of strife, The shock of states, the impassion'd broils of life, Spring from unequal sway ; and how they fly Before the splendour of thy peaceful eye ; Unfold at last the genuine social plan, The mind's full scope, the dignity of man, Bold nature bursting through her long disguise, And nations daring to be just arid wise. Yes ! righteous Freedom, heaven and earth and sea Yield or withhold their various gifts for thee ; Protected Industry beneath thy reign Leads all the virtues in her filial train ; Courageous Probity, with brow serene, And Temperance calm presents her placid mien; Contentment, Moderation, Lahmir, Art, Mould the new man and hum tmize his heart ; To public plenty private ease dilates, Domestic peace to harmony of states. Protected Industry, careering far, Detects the cause and cures the rage of war, And sweeps, with forceful arm, to their last graves, Kings from the earth and pirates from the waves. MORGAN AND TELL. in front of his bold riflers towers, His host of keen-eyed marksmen, skill'd to pour Their slugs unerring from the twisted bore. No sword, no bayonet they learn to wield, They gall the flank, they skirt the battling field, Cull out the distant foe in full horse speed, Couch the long tube, and eye the silver bead, Turn as he turns, dismiss the whizzing lead, And lodge the death-ball in his heedless head. So toil'd the huntsman TELL. His quivering dart, Press'd by the bended bowstring, fears to part, Dread the tremendous task, to graze but shun The tender temples of his infant son ; As the loved youth (the tyrant's victim led) Bears the poised apple tottering on his head. The sullen father, with reverted eye, Now marks the satrap, now the bright-hair'd hoy ; His second shaft impatient lies, athirst To mend the expected error of the first, To pierce the monster, mid the insulted crowd, And steep the pangs of nature in his blood. Deep doubling toward his breast, well poised and slow, Curve the strain'd horns of his indignant how ; His left arm straightens as the dexter bends, And his nerved knuckle with the gripe distends ; Soft slides the reed back with the stiff drawn strand, Till the steel point has reach'd his steady hand ; Then to his keen fix'd eye the shank he brings ; Twangs the loud cord, the feather'd arrow sings, Picks off the pippin from the smiling boy, And Uri's rocks resound with shouts of joy. Soon by an equal dart the tyrant bleeds ; The cantons league, the work of fate proceeds ; Till Austria's titled hordes, with their own gore, Fat the fair fields they lorded long before ; On Gothard's height while Freedom first unfurl'd Her infant banner o'er the modern world. THE ZONES OF AMERICA. WHERE Spring's coy steps in cold Canadia stray, And joyless seasons hold unequal sway, He saw the pine its daring mantle rear, Break the rude blast, and mock the brumal year, Shag the green zone that bounds the boreal skies, And bid all southern vegetation rise. Wild o'er the vast, impenetrable round The untrod bowers of shadowy nature frown'd ; Millennial cedars wave their honours wide, The fir's tall boughs, the oak's umbrageous pride, The branching beach, the aspen's trembling shade Veil the dim heaven, and brown the dusky glade. For in dense crowds these sturdy sons of earth, In frosty regions, claim a stronger birth ; Where heavy beams the sheltering dome requires, And copious trunks to feed its wintry fires. But warmer suns, that southern zones emblaze, A cool, thin umbrage o'er their woodland raise ; Floridia's shores their blooms around him spread, And Georgian hills erect their shady head ; Whose flowery shrubs regale the passing air With all the untasted fragrance of the year. Beneath tall trees, dispersed in loose array, The rice-grown lawns their humble garb display ; The infant maize, unconscious of its worth, Points the green spire and bends the foliage forth ; In various forms unbidden harvests rise, Aud blooming life repays the genial skies. Where Mexic hills the breezy gulf defend, Spontaneous groves with richer burdens bend : Anana's stalk its shaggy honours yields ; Acassia's flowers perfume a thousand fields ; Their cluster'd dates the mast-like palms unfold ; The spreading orange waves a load of gold ; Connubial vines o'ertop the larch they climb ; The long-lived olive mocks the moth of time ; Pomona's pride, that old Grenada claims, Here smiles and reddens in diviner flames ; Pimento, citron scent the sky serene ; White, woolly clusters fringe the cotton's green; The sturdy fig, the frail, deciduous cane, And foodful cocoa fan the sultry plain. Here, in one view, the same glad branches bring The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring ; No wintry blasts the unchanging year deform, Nor beasts unsheltcr'd fear the pinching storm ; But vernal breezes o'er the blossoms rove, And breathe the ripen'd juices through the grove. RICHARD ALSOP. [Born 1759. Died 1815.] RICHARD ALSOP was a native of Middletown, Connecticut, where he resided during the greater part of his life. , He commenced writing for the gazettes at a very early age, but was first known to the public as the author of satires on public characters and events, entitled " The Echo," " The Political Greenhouse," etc., printed in periodicals at New York and Hartford, and afterward col- lected and published in an octavo volume, in 1807. In these works he was aided by TRUM- BCLL, HOPKINS, THEODORE DWIGHT, and others, though he was himself their principal author. "The Echo" was at first designed to exhibit the wretched style of the newspaper writers, and the earliest numbers contain extracts from contem- porary journals, on a variety of subjects, "done into heroic verse and printed beside the originals." ALSOP and his associates were members of the Federal party, and the "Echo" contained many ludicrous travesties of political speeches and essays made by the opponents of the administra- tion of JOHN ADAMS. The work had much wit and sprightliness, and was very popular in its time ; but, with the greater part of the characters and circumstances to which it related, it is now nearly forgotten. In 1800, ALSOP published a "Monody on the Death of Washington," which was much admired; and in the following year a translation of the second canto of BERNI'S "Or- lando Inamorato," under the title of " The Fairy FROM 'A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON." BEFORE the splendours of thy high renown, How fade the glow-worm lustres of a crown ! How sink, diminish'd, in that radiance lost, The glare of conquest and of power the boast! Let Greece her ALEXANDER'S deeds proclaim, Or C.-ESAR'S triumphs gild the Roman name; Stript of the dazzling glare around them cast, Shrinks at their crimes humanity aghast ; With equal claim to honour's glorious meed, See ATTILA his course of havoc lead; O'er Asia's realm, in one vast ruin hurl'd, See furious ZINGES' bloody flag unfurl'd. On base far different from the conqueror's claim, Rests the unsullied column of thy fame; Hi* on the graves of millions proudly based, With blood cemented and with tears defaced; Thine on a nation's welfare fixed sublime, By freedom strengthen'd, and revered by time : He, as the comet whose portentous light Spreads baleful splendour o'er the glooms of night, With dire amazement chills the startled breast, While storms and earthquakes dread its course attest; of the Lake," and another of the Poem of Si- LIUS ITALICCS on the Second Punic War. In 1807, he translated from the Italian the History of Chili," by the Abbe MOLINA, to which he added original notes, and others from the French and Spanish versions of the same history. At different periods he translated several less im- portant works from the Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and French languages, and wrote a number of poems and essays for the periodicals. His last publication was "The Adventures of John Jewett," printed in 1815. He died on the twentieth of August, in that year, at Flatbush, Long Island, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. He had, for a considerable period, been writing "The Charms of Fancy," a poem; and besides this, he left manuscript fragments of a poem on the Conquest of Scandinavia by ODIN; "Aris- todemus," a tragedy, from the Italian of MONTI ; the poem of QUINTCS CALABER on the Trojan war, from the Greek, and a prose translation of a posthumous work by FLORIAN. As a poet ALSOP was often elegant, but his verse was generally without energy. Probably no other American of his time was so well acquainted with the litera- ture of England, France, and Italy, and few were more familiar with the natural sciences. He is said to have been deficient in strength and deci- sion of character, but he was amiable and ho- nourable, and had many friends and few enemies. And nature trembles, lest in chaos hurl'd Should sink the tottering fragment of the world ; Thine, like the sun, whose kind, propitious ray, Opes the glad morn, and lights the fields of day, Dispels the wintry storm, the chilling rain, With rich abundance clothes the fertile plain, Gives all creation to rejoice around, And light and life extends, o'er nature's utmost bound. Though shone thy life a model bright of praise, Not less the example bright thy death portrays ; When, plunged in deepest wo around thy bed, Each eye was fix'd, despairing sunk each head, While nature struggled with extremes! pain, And scarce could life's last lingering powers retain ; In that dread moment, awfully serene, No trace of suffering marked thy placid mien, No groan, no murmuring plaint escaped thy tongue ; No longing shadows o'er thy brow were hung ; But, calm in Christian hope, undamp'd with fear, Thou sawest the high reward of virtue near. On that bright meed, in surest trust reposed, As thy firm hand thine eyes expiring closed, Pleased, to the will of Heaven resign'd thy breath, And smiled, as nature's struggles closed in death. 59 ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. [Born 1763. Died 179S.] ST. JOHN HOXF.YWOOD was a native of Lei- cester, Massachusetts, and was educated at Yale College. In 1785, being at that time about twenty years old, he removed to Schenectady, New York, where, during the two succeeding years, he was the principal of a classical school. In 1787 he became a law student in the office of PETER W. YATES, Esquire, of Albany, and on being admitted to the bar removed to Salem, in the same state, where he remained until his death, in September, 1798. He was one of the electors of President of the United States when Mr. ATIAMS became the successor of General WASH- JXGTOX, and he held other honourable offices. He was a man of much professional and general learning, rare conversational abilities, and scru- pulous integrity ; and would probably have been distinguished as a man of letters and a jurist, had he lived to a riper age. The poems embraced in the volume of his writings published in 1801, are generally political, and are distinguished for wit and vigour. The longest in the collection was addressed to M. ADET, on his leaving this coun- try for France. CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS.* OF crimes, empoison'd source of human woes, Whence the black flood of shame and sorrow flows, How best to check the venom's deadly force, To stem its torrent, or direct its course, To scan the merits of vindictive codes, Nor pass the faults humanity explodes, I sing what theme more worthy to engage The poet's song, the wisdom of the sage 1 Ah ! were I equal to the great design, Were thy bold genius, blest BECCAHIA! mine, Then should my work, ennobled as my aim, Like thine, receive the meed of deathless fame. O JAY ! deserving of a purer age, Pride of thy country, statesman, patriot, sage, Beneath whose guardian care oar laws assume A milder form, and lose their Gothic gloom, Read with indulgent eyes, nor yet refuse This humble tribute of an artless muse. Great is the question which the learn'd contest, What grade, what mode of punishment is best; In two famed sects the disputants decide, These ranged on Terror's, those on Reason's side ; Ancient as empire Terror's temple stood, Capt with black clouds, and founded deep in blood ; Grim despots here their trembling honours paid, And guilty offerings to their idol made : The monarch led a servile crowd ensued, Their robes distain'd in gore, in gore imbrued ; O'er mangled limbs they held infernal feast, MOLOCH the god, and DRACO'S self the priest. Mild Reason's fane, in later ages rear'd, With sunbeams crown'd, in Attic grace appear'd ; In just proportion finish'd every part, With the fine touches of enligbten'd art. A thinking few, selected from the crowd, At the fair shrine with filial rev'rence bow'd; The sage of Milan led the virtuous choir, To them sublime he strung the tuneful lyre: * This poem was found among the author's inanii- scriptB, after his decease ; and was, doubtless, unfinished. Of laws, of crimes, and punishments he sung, And on his glowing lips persuasion hung: From Reason's source each inference just he drew, While truths fresh polish'd struck the mind as new ; Full in the front, in vestal robes array 'd, The holy form of Justice stood display'd : Firm was her eye, not vengeful, though severe, And e'er she frown'd she check'd the starting tear. A sister form, of more benignant face, Celestial Mercy, held the second place ; Her hands outspread, in suppliant guise she stood, And oft with eloquence resistless sued ; But where 'twas impious e'en to deprecate, She sigh'd assent, and wept the wretch's fate. In savage times, fair Freedom yet unknown, The despot, clad in vengeance, fill'd the throne; His gloomy caprice scrawl'd the ambiguous code, And dyed each page in characters of blood: The laws transgrcss'd, the prince in judgment sat, And Rage decided on the culprit's fate: Nor stopp'd he here, but, skill'd in murderous art, The scepter'd brute usurp'd the hangman's part ; With his own hands the trembling victim hew'd, And basely wallow'd in a subject's blood. Pleased with the fatal game, the royal mind On modes of death and cruelty refined : Hence the dank caverns of the cheerless mine, Where, shut from light, the famish'd wretches pine; The face divine, in seams unsightly sear'd, The eyeballs gouged, the wheel with gore besmear' d, The Russian knout, the suffocating flame, And forms of torture wanting yet a name. Nor was this rage to savage times confined; It rcach'd to later years and courts refined. Blush, polish'd France, nor let the muse relate The tragic story of your DATMIEN'S fate; The bed of steel, where long the assassin lay, In the dark vault, secluded from the day; The quivering flesh which burning pincers tore, The pitch, pour'd flaming in the recent sore; His carcase, warm with life, convulsed with pain, By steeds dismember'd, dragg'd along the plain. 60 ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. 61 As daring quacks, unskill'd in medic lore, Prescribed the nostrums quacks prescribed before ; Careless of age or sex, vvhate'cr befall, The same dull recipe must serve for all : Our senates thus, with reverence be it said, Have been too long by blind tradition led : ' Our civil code, from feudal dross refined, Proclaims the liberal and enlighten'd mind ; But till of late the penal statutes stood In Gothic rudeness, smear'd with civic blood; What base memorials of a barbarous age, What monkish whimsies sullied every page ! The clergy's benefit, a trifling brand, Jest of the law, a holy sleight of hand: Beneath this saintly cloak what crimes abhorr'd, Of sable dye, were sheltcr'd from the lord ; While the poor starveling, who a cent purloin'd, No reading saved, no juggling trick essoin'd; His was the servile lash, a foul disgrace, Through time transmitted to his hapless race; The fort and dure, the traitor's motley doom, Might blot the story of imperial Rome. What late disgraced our laws yet stand to stain The splendid annals of a GEORGE'S reign. Say, legislators, for what end design'd This waste of lives, this havoc of mankind 1 Say, by what right (one case exempt alone) Do ye prescribe, that blood can crimes atone ? If, when our fortunes frown, and dangers press, To act the Roman's part be to transgress ; For man the use of life alone commands, The fee residing in the grantor's hands. Could man, what time the social pact he seal'd, Cede to the state a right he never held"? For all the powers which in the state reside, Result from compact, actual or implied. Too well the savage policy we trace To times remote, Humanity's disgrace; E'en while I ask, the trite response recurs, Example warns, severity deters. No milder means can keep the vile in awe, And state necessity compels the law. But let Experience speak, she claims our trust; The data false, the inference is unjust. Ills at a distance, men but slightly fear; Delusive Fancy never thinks them near: With stronger force than fear temptations draw, And Cunning thinks to parry with the law. ' My brother swung, poor novice in his art, He blindly stumbled on a hangman's cart ; But wiser I, assuming every shape, As PROTEUS erst, am certain to escape." The knave, thus jeering, on his skill relies, For never villain deem'd himself unwise. When earth convulsive heaved, and, yawning wide, Engulf 'd in darkness Lisbon's spiry pride, At that dread hour of ruin and dismay, 'T is famed the harden'd felon prowl'd for prey ; Nor trembling earth, nor thunders could restrain His d,aring feet, which trod the sinking fane; Whence, while the fabric to its centre shook, By impious stealth the hallow'd vase he took. What time the gaping vulgar throng to see Some wretch expire on Tyburn's fatal tree ; Fast by the crowd the luckier villain clings, And pilfers while the hapless culprit swings. If then the knave can view, with careless eyes, The bolt of vengeance darting from the skies, If Death, with all the pomp of Justice join'd, Scarce strikes a panic in the guilty mind, What can we hope, though every penal code, As DRACO'S once, were stamp'd in chic blood? The blinded wretch, whose mind is bent on ill, Would laugh at threats, and sport with halters still ; Temptations gain more vigour as they throng, Crime fosters crime, and wrong engenders wrong; Fondly he hopes the threaten'd fate to shun, Nor sees his fatal error till undone. Wise is the law, and godlike is its aim, Which frowns to mend, and chastens to reclaim, Which seeks the storms of passion to control, And wake the latent virtues of the soul ; For all, perhaps, the vilest of our race, Bear in their breasts some smother'd sparks of grace ; Nor vain the hope, nor mad the attempt to raise Those smother'd sparks to Virtue's purer blaze. When, on the cross accursed, the robber writhed, The parting prayer of penitence he breathed ; Cheer'd by the Saviour's smile, to grace restored, He died distinguished with his suffering Lord. As seeds long sterile in a poisonous soil, If nurs'd by culture and assiduous toil, May wake to life and vegtfative power, Protrude the germ and yield a fragrant flower : E'en thus may man, rapacious and unjust, The slave of sin, the prey of lawless lust, In the drear prison's gloomy round confined, To awful solitude and toil consign'd; Debarr'd from social intercourse, nor less From the vain world's seductions and caress, With late and trembling steps he measures back Life's narrow road, a long abandon'd track ; By Conscience roused, and left to keen Remorse, The mind at length acquires its pristine force: Then pardoning Mercy, with cherubic smile, Dispels the gloom, and smooths the brow of Toil, Till friendly Death, full oft implored in vain, Shall burst the ponderous bar and loose the chain ; Fraught with fresh life, an offering meet for God, The rescued spirit leaves the dread abode. Nor yet can laws, though SOLOS'S self should frame, Each shade of guilt discriminate aiid name; For senates well their sacred trust fulfil, Who general cures provide for general ill. Much must by his direction be supplied, In whom the laws the pardoning power confide ; He best can measure every varying grade Of guilt, and mark the bounds of light and shade ; Weigh each essoin, each incident review, And yield to Mercy, where she claims her due: And wise it were so to extend his trust, With power to mitigate when 't were unjust Full amnesty to give for though so dear The name of Mercy to a mortal's ear, Yet should the chief, to human weakness steel'd, Rarely indeed to suits for pardon yield ; For neither laws nor pardons can efface The sense of guilt and memorv of disgrace F ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. Say, can the man whom Justice doom'd to shame, With front erect, his country's honours claim ? Can he with cheek unblushing join the crowd, Claim equal rights, and have his claim allow'dl What though he mourn, a penitent sincere ; Though every dawn be usher'd with a tear ; The world, more prone to censure than forgive, Quick to suspect, and tardy to believe, Will still the hapless penitent despise, And watch his conduct with invidious eyes : But the chief end of justice once achieved, The public weal secured, a soul reprieved, 'T were wise in laws, 't were generous to provide Some place where blushing penitence might hide ; Yes, 'twere humane, 'twere godlike to protect Returning virtue from the world's neglect And taunting scorn, which pierce with keener pains The feeling mind, than dungeons, racks, and chains : Enlarge their bounds; admit a purer air; Dismiss the servile badge and scanty fare ; The stint of labour lessen or suspend, Admit at times the sympathizing friend. Repentance courts the shade ; alone she roves By ruin'd towers and night-embrowning groves ; Or midst dark vaults, by Melancholy led, She holds ideal converse with the dead : Lost to the world and each profaner joy, Her solace tears, and prayer her best employ. A RADICAL SONG OF 1786. HUZZA, my Jo Bunkers ! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for WHEELER, SHAYS, PAHSOXS, and DAT;* Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause ; Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws : Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush ; Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush. New laws and new charters our books shall display, Composed by conventions and Counsellor GREY. Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown, We '11 make them to know we can let them alone. Of Glasgow or Pelham we '11 make a seaport, And there we'll assemble our General Court: Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work, And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork ; In Adams or Greenwich he '11 live like a peer On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year. Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we '11 spurn, As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn, And sit the whole term, without pension or fee, Nor CCSHIXG or SEWAL look graver than we. Our wigs, though they 're rusty, are decent enough ; Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff; * Names of the leaders of the insurrection that arose, in 1786, in the state of Massachusetts, chiefly in the coun- ties of Hampshire, Berkshire, and Worcester; which, after convulsing the state for about a year, was finally quelled by a military force under the command of Gene- ral LINCOLN and General SHEPHERD. The leaders fled from the state, and were afterwards pardoned. See Minor's History of the Insurrection in Massachusetts. Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain, That poor people no more shall have cause to com- plain. To Congress and impost we '11 plead a release ; The French we can beat half-a-dozen a piece; We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance ; And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance. Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers ! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for WHEELER, SHAYS, PAUSOXS, and DAY; Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause ; Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws. REFLECTIONS ON SEEING A BULL SLAIN IN THE COUNTRY. THE sottish clown who never knew a charm Beyond the powers of his nervous arm, Proud of his might, with self-importance full, Or climbs the spire, or fights the maddening bull ; The love of praise, impatient of control, O'erflows the scanty limits of his soul ; In uncouth jargon, turbulently loud, He bawls his triumphs to the wondering crowd : " This well-strung arm dispensed the deadly blow, Fell'd the proud bull and sunk his glories low :" Not thoughts more towering fill'd PELIDES' breast, When thus to Greece his haughty vaunts express'd : " I sack'd twelve ample cities on the main, And six lay smoking on the Trojan plain ;" Thus full and fervid throbb'd the pulse of pride, When " Ve.nl, vidi, vici," C;BSAH cried. Each vain alike, and differing but in names; These poets flatter those the mob acclaims ; Impartial Death soon stops the proud career, And bids LEGEXDIIE rot with DUMOUHIER. The God whose sovereign care o'er all extends, Sees whence their madness springs, and where it ends; From his blest height, with just contempt, looks down On thundering heroes and the swaggering clown : But if our erring reason may presume The future to divine, more mild his doom Whose pride was wreck'd on vanquish'd brutes alone, Than his whose conquests made whole nations groan. Can Ganges' sacred wave, or Lethe's flood, Wash clear the garments smear'd with civic blood ? What hand from heaven's dread register shall tear The page where, stamp'd in blood, the conqueror's crimes appear? IMPROMPTU ON AN ORDER TO KILL THE DOGS IN ALBANY. 'Tis done! the dreadful sentence is decreed! The town is mad, and all the dogs must bleed ! Ah me ! what boots it that the dogs are slain, Since the whole race of puppies yet remain ! WILLIAM CLIFFTON. Born 1772. Died 1799.] THE father of WILLIAM CLIFFTON was a wealthy member of the society of Friends, in Philadelphia. The poet, from his childhood, had little physical strength, and was generally a suf- ferer from disease; but his mind was vigorous and carefully educated, and had he lived to a mature age, he would probably have won an en- during reputation as an author. His life was marked by few incidents. He made himself ac- quainted with the classical studies pursued in the universities, and with music, painting, and such field-sports as he supposed he could indulge in with most advantage to his health. He was considered an amiable and accomplished gen- tleman, and his society was courted alike by the fashionable and the learned. He died in December, 1799, in the twenty-seventh year of his age. The poetry of CLIFF-TOW has more energy of thought and diction, and is generally more cor- rect and harmonious, than any which had been previously written in this country. Much of it is satirical, and relates to persons and events of the period in which he lived; and the small volume of his writings published after his death doubtless contains pome pieces which would have been excluded fro', a an edition prepared by him- self, for this reason, and because they were un- finished and not originally intended to meet the eye of the world. TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ.* Ix these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies ; Where few and feeble are the muse's strains, And no fine frenzy riots in the veins, There still are found a few to whom belong The fire of virtue and the soul of song; Whose kindling ardour still can wake the strings, When learning triumphs, and when GIFFOUD sings. To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays, His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys; Pleased, if permitted round thy name to bloom, To boast one effort rescued from the tomb. While this delirious age enchanted seems With hectic Fancy's desultory dreams ; While wearing fast away is every trace Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace, With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, As Horace polish'd, and as Perseus bold, Reclaim the art, assert the muse divine, And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. Since that great day which saw the Tablet rise, A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes, No time has been that touch'd the muse so near, No Age when Learning had so much to fear, As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame, And every rebus-weaver talks of Fame. When Truth in classic majesty appear'd, And Greece, on high, the dome of science rear'd, Patience and perseverance, care and pain Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain: None but the great the sun-clad summit found ; The weak were baffled, and the strong were crown'd. * Prefixed to WILLIAM COBBETT'S edition of the "Ba- riad and Mseviad," published in Philadelphia, in 1799. The tardy transcript's nigh-wrought page confined To one pursuit the undivided mind. No venal critic fatten'd on the trade ; Books for delight, and not for sale were made ; Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought, The chief who govern'd, and the sage who taught : The drama then with deathless bays was wreath'd, The statue quicken'd, and the canvass breathed. The poet, then, with unresisted art, Sway'd every impulse of the captive heart. Touch'd with a beam of Heaven's creative mind, His spirit kindled, and his taste refined : Incessant toil inform'd his rising youth ; Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted truth, Till, all complete, his perfect soul display'd Some bloom of genius which could never fade. So the sage oak, to Nature's mandate true, Advanced but slow, and strengthen'd as it grew ! But when, at length, (full many a season o'er,) Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore ; When steadfast were its roots, and sound its heart, It bade defiance to the insect's art, And, storm and time resisting, still remains The never-dying glory of the plains. Then, if some thoughtless BAVIUS dared appear, Short was his date, and limited his sphere ; He could but please the changeling mob a day, Then, like his noxious labours, pass away : So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour, Scatters its little poison through the skies, Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies. Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore, To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel bore, The sacred plant to hands divine was given, And deathless MAIIO nursed the boon of Heaven. Exalted bard ! to hear thy gentler voice, The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice ; 63 64 WILLIAM CLIFFTON. But when, on some wild mountain's awful form, We hear thy spirit chanting to the storm, Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore, We rage, we sigh, we wonder, and adore. Thus Rome with Greece in rival splendour shone, But claim'd immortal satire for her own; While HORACE pierced, full oft, the wanton breast With sportive censure, and resistless jest ; And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay Thy kindred genius can so well display, With many a well-aim'd thought, and pointed line, Drove the bold villain from his black design. For, as those mighty masters of the lyre, With tempcr'd dignity, or quenchless ire, Through all the various paths of science trod, Their school was NATURE and their teacher GOD. Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head, The savage tempest of the north was spread ; Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came, And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame. But soon the arts once more a dawn diffuse, And DAXTE hail'd it with his morning muse; PETRARCH and BOCCACE join'd the choral lay, And Arno glisten'd with returning day. Thus science rose ; and, all her troubles pass'd, She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last; But FAUSTCS came : (indulge the painful thought,) Were not his countless volumes dearly bought 1 ? For, while to every clime and class they flew, Their worth diminish'd as their numbers grew. Some pressman, rich in HOMER'S glowing page, Could give ten epics to one wondering age ; A single thought supplied the great design, And clouds of Iliads spread from every line. Nor HOMER'S glowing page, nor VIRGIL'S fire Could one lone breast with equal flame inspire, But, lost in books, irregular and wild, The poet wonder'd, and the critic smiled : The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays ; For fools will print, while greater fools will praise. Touch'd with the mania, now, what millions rage To shine the laureat blockheads of the age. The dire contagion creeps through every grade; Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade : And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot. Ere to his breast the wasteful mischief spread, Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed ; And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind, His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind, He laugh'd at toil, with health and vigour bless'd, For days of labour brought their nights of rest: But now in rags, ambitious for a name, The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame, His conscience haunts him with his guilty life, His starving children, and his ruin'd wife. Thus swarming wits, of all materials made, Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid, And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm, Call lust, refinement; anarchy, reform. No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong, Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along : And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom To the dark level of an endless tomb. By arms assail'd we still can arms oppose, And rescue learning from her brutal foes; But when those foes to friendship make pretence, And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, Carouse with passion, laugh at GOD'S control, And sack the little empire of the soul, What warning voice can pave! Alas! 'tis o'er, The age of virtue will return no more; The doating world, its manly vigour flown, Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, Be still the muses' and religion's friend; Again the banner of thy wrath display, And save the world from DARWIN'S tinsel lay. A soul like thine no listless pause should know ; Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow From every conquest still more dreadful come, Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb. MARY WILL SMILE. THE morn was fresh, and pure the gale, When MART, from her cot a rover, Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale To bind the temples of her lover. As near his little farm she stray'd, W r here birds of love were ever pairing, She saw her WIILIAM in the shade, The arms of ruthless war preparing. "Though now," he cried. "I seek the hostile plain, MART shall smile, and all be fair again." She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried, " Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger, Desert thy MART'S faithful side, And bare thy life to every danger? Yet, go, brave youth ! to arms away ! My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away, I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee. Return'd with honour, from the hostile plain, MART will smile, and all be fair again. " The bugles through the forest wind, The woodland soldiers call to battle : Be some protecting angel kind, And guard thy life when cannons rattle !" She sung and as the rose appears In sunshine, when the storm is over, A smile beam'd sweetly through her tears The blush of promise to her lover. Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain, All shall be fair, and MART smile again. WASHINGTON ALLSTON [Born, 1779. Died, 1843.] MR. ALLSTON was born in South Carolina, of a family which has contributed some eminent names to our annals, though none that sheda more lustre upon the parent stock than his own. When very young-, by the advice of physicians, he was sent to Newport, Rhode Island, where he remained until he entered Harvard College in 1796. In his boy- hood he delighted to listen to the wild tales and traditions of the negroes upon his father's planta- tion ; and while preparing for college, and after his removal to Cambridge, no books gave him so much pleasure as the most marvellous and terrible creations of the imagination. At Newport he be- came acquainted with MALHONE, the painter, and was thus, perhaps, led to the choice of his profes- sion. He began to paint in oil before he went to Cambridge, and while there divided his attention between his pencil and his books. Upon being graduated he returned to South Carolina, to make arrangements for prosecuting his studies in Eu> rope. He had friends who offered to assist him with money, and one of them, a Scottish gentle- man named BOWMAN, who had seen and admired a head which he had painted of Peter hearing the cock crow, pressed him to accept an annuity of one hundred pounds while he should remain abroad ; but he declined' it, having already sold his paternal estate for a sum sufficient to defray his looked- for expenses ; and, with his friend MALBONE, em- barked for England in the summer of 1801. Soon after his arrival hi London, he became a student of the Royal Academy, then under the presidency of our countryman, WKST, with whom he contracted an intimate and lasting friendship. His abilities as an artist, brilliant conversation, and gentlemanly manners, made him a welcome guest at the houses of the great painters of the time ; and within a .year from the beginning of his resi- dence in London, he was a successful exhibitor at Somerset House, and a general favourite with the most distinguished members of his profession. In 1804, having been three years in England, he accompanied JOHN VANDEIILYN to Paris. Af- ter passing a few months in that capital, he pro- ceeded to Italy, where he remained four years. Among his fellow-students and intimate asso- ciates here, were VANDERLYN and the Danish sculptor THOIIWALDSEX. Another friend with whom he now became acquainted, was COLE- RIDGE. In one of his letters he says.- "To no other man do I owe so much, intellectually, as to Mr. COLERIDGE, with whom I became acquainted in Rome, and who has honoured me with his friendship for more than five-and-twenty years. He used to call Rome the silent city ; but I never could think of it as such, while with him ; for meet him when or where I would, the fountain of his mind was never dry, but, like the far-reaching aqueducts that once supplied this mistress of the world, its living stream seemed specially to flow for every classic ruin over which we wandered. And when I recall some of our walks under the, pines of the villa Borghese, I am almost tempted to dream that I had once listened to PLATO in the groves of the Academy." In 1809 ALLSTON returned to America, and was soon after married at Boston to a sister of Dr. CHANGING. In 1811 he went a second time to England. His reputation as a painter was now well established, and he gained by his picture of the " Dead Man raised by the Bones of Elisha"* a prize of two hundred guineas, at the British In- stitution, where the first artists in the world were his competitors. A long and dangerous illness succeeded his return to London, and he removed to the village of Clifton, where he wrote " The Sylphs of the Seasons," and some of the other poems included in a volume which he published hi 1813. Within two weeks after the renewal of his residence in the metropolis, in the last-mentioned year, his wife died, very suddenly ; and the event, inducing the deepest depression and melancholy, caused a temporary suspension of his labours. In 1818 he accompanied LESLIE to Paris, and in the autumn of the following year came back to America, having been previously elected an asso- ciate of the English Royal Academy. In 1830 he married a sister of RICHARD H. DANA, and the remainder of his life was tranquilly passed at Cambridgeport, near Boston, where he was sur- rounded by warm and genial friends, in assiduous devotion to his art. He died very suddenly, on the night of the eighth of July, 1843. As a painter ALLSTON had no superior, perhaps not an equal, in his age. He differed from his contemporaries, as he said of MOXALDI, " no less in kind than in degree. If he held any thing in common with others, it was with those of ages past, with the mighty dead of the fifteenth cen- tury. From them he had learned the language of his art, but his thoughts, and their turn of expres- sion, were his own." Among his principal works are " The Dead Man restored to Life by Elisha ;'* the "Angel liberating Peter from Prison;'' "Jacob's Dream ;" " Elijah in the Desert ;" the " Trium. phant Song of Miriam ;" " The Angel Uriel in the Sun ;" " Saul and the Witch of Endor ;" " Spala- tro's Vision of the bloody Hand ;" " Gabriel setting the Guard of the Heavenly Host ;" Anne Page and Slender;" "Rosalie;" "Donna Marcia in the Robber's Cave ;" and " Belshazzar's Feast, or the * This work he subsequently sold to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, for thirty-live hundred dollars, i- 2 65 66 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. } Handwriting on the Wall." The last work, upon which he had been engaged at intervals for nearly twenty years, he left unfinished. Besides the volume of poems already mentioned, and many short pieces which have since been given to the public, Mr. ALLSTON was the author of MONALDI," a story of extraordinary power and interest, in which he displays a deep sensibility to beauty, and philosophic knowledge of human pas- sion. He wrote also a series of discourses on art, and various essays and poems, which are unpublished. Although ALLSTON owed his chief celebrity to his paintings, which will preserve for his name a place in the list of the greatest artists of all the nations and ages, his literary works alone would have given him a high rank among men of genius. A great painter, indeed, is of necessity a poet, though he may lack the power to express fittingly his conceptions in language. ALLSTON had in remarkable perfection all the faculties required for either art "The Sylphs of the Seasons," his longest poem, in which he describes the scenery THE PAINT KING. Ellen was long the delight of the young, JVo damsel could with her compare ; [tongue, Her charms were the theme of the heart and the And bards without number in ecstasies sung The beauties of Ellen the fair. Yet cold was the maid ; and though legions advanced, All drill'd by Ovidean art, And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced, Like shadows they came, and like shadows they From the hard polish'd ice of her heart [glanced Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore A something that could not be found ; Like a sailor she seein'd on a desolate shore, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar Of breakers high dashing around. From object to object still, still would she veer, Though nothing, alas, could she find ; [clear, Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer The bright barren waste of her mind. But rather than sit like a statue so still When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground. One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined} Passed a youth, with a frame in his hand. The casement she closed not the eye of her mind; For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind ; Still before her she saw the youth stand. " Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid, Ah, what with that frame can he do ?" And she knelt to the goddess of secrets and pray'd, When the youth pass'd again, and again he display 'd The frame and a picture to view. of Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, and the effects of each season on the mind, show that he regarded nature with a curious eye, and had power to exhibit her beauties with wonderful dis- tinctness and fidelity. "The Two Painters" is an admirable satire, intended to ridicule attempts to reach perfection in one excellency in the art of painting, to the neglect of every other; the "Paint King" is a singularly wild, imaginative story ; and nearly all his minor poems are strikingly original and beautiful. It was in his paintings, however, that the power and religious grandeur of his ima- gination were most strongly developed. When this work was originally published, I dedicated it to Mr. ALLSTON, with whom I had the happiness to be personally acquainted, addressing him as " the eldest of the living poets, and the most illustrious of the painters" of our country. I retain the dedication in this edition, as an expression of the admiration and reverence in which I, with all who knew him, continue to hold his genius and character. " Oh, beautiful picture !" the fair Ellen cried, " I must see thee again or I die." Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, When the youth, looking back, met her eye. " Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while,) "This picture I see you admire : Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow ; (nay, pardon my smile) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise From the cunning young stripling received, But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, When sparkling with rapture they gazed on her Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived ! [prize 'T was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined, And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone ; Yet he languish'd as though for its beauty he pined, And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'T was the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old ; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd ; " Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold, And press me this day as thy bride." She said : when, behold, from the canvas arose The youth, and he stepp'd fiom the frame: With a furious transport his arms did enclose The love-plighted Ellen: and, clasping, he froze The blood of the maid with his flame ! She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing. Oh, Heaven!" cried she, "who art thoul" From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, As, frowning, he thunder d I am the PAINT KIXG! And mine, lovely maid, thou art now !'' WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 67 Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift The loud-screaming maid like a blast ; And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, While the clouds, wand'ring by him. did fearfully drift To the right and the left as he pass'd. Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, With an eddying whirl he descends ; The air all below him becomes black as night, And the ground where he treads, as if moved with Like the surge of the Caspian, bends, [affright, I am here !" said the fiend, and he thundering At the gates of a mountainous cave; [knocked The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd, While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, Like an island of ice on the wave. [rocked " Oh, merry !" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms, But the PAIXT-KI\G, he scoff'd at her pain. " Prithee, love," said the monster, " what mean these alarms'?" She hears not, she sens not the terrible charms, That work her to horror again. She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes Behold the fair youth she would woo ; Now appears the PAIXT-KIXG in his natural guise ; His face, like a palette of villanous dyes, Black and white, red and yellow, and blue. On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, Sat the fiend, like the grim giant Gog, While aloft to his mouth a hugh pipe he applied, Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried As it looms through an easterly fog. And anon, as he pufF'd the vast volumes, were seen, In horrid festoons on the wall, Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between, Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney By the Devil dressed out for a ball. [Beane, Ah me !" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet, "Must I hang on these walls to be dried 1" " Oh, no !" said the fiend, while he sprung from his A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet ; [seat, Into paint will I grind thee, my bride !" Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, An oil jug he plunged her within ; Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air, All covered with oil to the chin. On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone Then Ellen, all recking, he laid ; With a rock for his mullrr he crushed every bone, But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan ; For life had forsook not the maid. Now reaching his palette, with masterly care Each tint on its surface he spruad ; The blue, of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair, And her lips' and her checks' rosy red. Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, " Now I brave, cruel fairy, thy scorn !'' Whenlo! from a chasm wide-yawning there came A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame, By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, Fan- Gcraldine sat without peer ; Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light, And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, And a beam of the moon was her spear. In an accent that stole on the still charmed air Like the first gentle language of Eve, Thus spake from her chariot the fairy so fair : " I come at the call, but, oh Paint-King, beware, Beware if again you deceive." 'T is true," said the monster, thou queen of my Thy portrait I oft have essay'd; [heart, Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art The least of thy wonderful beauties impart ; And my failure with scorn you repaid. " Now I swear by the light of the comet-king's tail !" And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, " If again with these magical colours I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine ! Thy promise with justice I claim, And thou, queen of fairies, shalt ever be mine, The bride of my bed ; and thy portrait divine Shall fill all the earth with my fame." He spake ; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form On the canvas enchantingly glow'd ; His touches they flew like the leaves in a storm ; And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm Contending in harmony flow'd. And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem To the figure of Geraldine fair : With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem Each muscle, each feature ; in short not a gleam Was lost of her beautiful hair. 'T was the fairy herself ! but, alas, her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack ; And who shall describe the terrific surprise That seized the PAIKT-KIXO when, behold, he des- Not a speck on his palette of black ! [cries I am lost !" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief Whisk away from his sight with a bound. " I am lost !" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone ; Then rising the fairy in ire With a touch of her finger she looscn'd her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) And she swell'd to a column of fire. Her spear, now a thunder-bolt, flash'd in the air, And sulphur the vault fill'd around : She smote the grim monster ; and now by the hair High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair Down the depths of the chasm profound. Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, " Come forth !" said the good Geraldine ; When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, With grace more than ever divine ! 68 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS, A POET'S DREAM. LONG has it been my fate to hear The slave of Mammon, with a sneer, My indolence reprove. Ah, little knows he of the care, The toil, the hardship that I bear While lolling in my elbow-chair, And seeming scarce to move : For, mounted on the poet's steed, I there my ceaseless journey speed O'er mountain, wood, and stream : And oft, within a little day, Mid comets fierce, 't is mine to stray, And wander o'er the milky-way To catch a poet's dream. But would the man of lucre know What riches from my labours flow A DREAM is my reply. And who for wealth has ever pined, That had a world within his mind, Where every treasure he may find, And joys that never die ! One night, my task diurnal done, (For I had travell'd with the sun O'er burning sands, o'er snows,) Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest ; My wonted prayer to Heaven address'd ; But scarce had I my pillow press'd, When thus a vision rose : Methought, within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, I suddenly awoke. It seem'd of sable night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke. There motionless I stood alone, Like some strange monument of stone Upon a barren wild ; Or like (so solid and profound The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round) A man that's buried under ground, Where pyramids are piled. Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I pass'd, And now I heard, as from a blaa, A voice pronounce my name : Nor long upon my ear it dwelt, When round me 'gan the air to melt, And motion once again I felt Quick circling o'er my frame. Again it call'd ; and then a ray, That seem'd a gushing fount of day, Across the cavern stream'd. Half-struck with terror and delight, I hail'd the little blessed light, And follow'd till my aching sight An orb of darkness seem'd. Nor long I felt the blinding pain ; For soon upon a mountain plain I gazed with wonder new. There high a castle rear'd its head ; And far below a region spread, Where every season seem'd to shed Its own peculiar hue. Now, at the castle's massy gate, Like one that's blindly urged by fate, A bugle-horn I blew. The mountain-plain it shook around, The vales return'd a hollow sound, And, moving with a sigh profound, The portals open flew. Then entering, from a glittering hall I heard a voice seraphic call, That bade me " Ever reign ! All hail !" it said in accent wild, " For thou art Nature's chosen child, Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defiled, Hail, lord of this domain !" And now I paced a bright saloon, That seem'd illumined by the moon, So mellow was the light. The walls with jetty darkness teem'd, While down them crystal columns stream'd, And each a mountain torrent seem'd, High-flashing through the night. Rear'd in the midst, a double throne Like burnish'd cloud of evening shone ; While, group'd the base around, Four damsels stood of fairy race ; Who, turning each with heavenly grace Upon me her immortal face, Transfix'd me to the ground. And thus the foremost of the train : "Be thine the throne, and thine to reign O'er all the varying year ! But ere thou rulest, the Fates command, That of our chosen rival band A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand, Thy sovereignty to share. " For we, the sisters of a birth, Do rule by turns the subject earth To serve ungrateful man ; But since our varied toils impart No joy to his capricious heart, 'Tis now ordain'd that human art Shall rectify the plan." Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene, " 'T is I thy joyous heart, I ween, With sympathy shall move : For I with living melody Of birds in choral symphony, First waked thy soul to poesy, To piety and love. " When thou, at call of vernal breeze, And beckoning bough of budding trees, Hast left thy sullen fire ; WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 69 And stretch'd thce in some mossy dell, And heard the browsing wether's bell. Blithe echoes rousing from their cell To swell the tinkling choir : Or heard from branch of flowering thorn The song of friendly cuckoo warn The tardy-moving swain ; Hast bid the putple swallow hail ; And seen him now through ether sail, Now sweeping downward o'er the vale, And skimming now the plain ; Then, catching with a sudden glance The bright and silver-clear expanse Of some broad river's stream, Beheld the boats adown it glide, And motion wind again the tide, Where, chain'd in ice by winter's pride, Late roll'd the heavy team : " Or, lured by some fresh-scented gale That woo'd the moored fisher's sail To tempt the mighty main, Hast watch'd the dim, receding shore, Now faintly seen the ocean o'er, Like hanging cloud, and now no more To bound the sapphire plain ; Then, wrapt in night, the scudding bark, (That seem'd, self-poised amid the dark, Through upper air to leap,) Beheld, from thy most fearful height, The rapid dolphin's azure light Cleave, like a living meteor bright, The darkness of the deep: 'T was mine the warm, awakening hand That made thy grateful heart expand, And feel the high control Of Him, the mighty Power that moves Amid the waters and the groves, And through his vast creation proves His omnipresent soul. " Or, brooding o'er some forest rill, Fringed with the early daffodil, And quivering maiden-hair, When thou hast mark'd the dusky bed, With leaves and water-rust o'erspread, That seem'd an amber light to shed On all was shadow'd there ; " And thence, as by its murmur call'd, The current traced to where it brawl'd Beneath the noontide ray ; And there beheld the checker'd shade Of waves, in many a sinuous braid, That o'er the sunny channel play'd, With motion ever gay : " 'T was I to these the magic gave, That made thy heart, a willing slave, To gentle Nature bend ; And taught thee how with tree and flower, And whispering gale, and dropping shower, In converse sweet to pass the hour, As with an early friend : " That mid the noontide, sunny haze Did in thy languid bosom raise The raptures of the boy ; When, waked as if to second birth, Thy soul through every pore look'd forth, And gazed upon the beauteous earth With myriad eyes of joy : " That made thy heart, like HIS above, To flow with universal love For every living thing. And, ! if I, with ray divine, Thus tempering, did thy soul refine, Then let thy gentle heart be mine, And bless the Sylph of Spring." And next the Sylph of Summer fair ; The while her crisped, golden hair Half-veil'd her sunny eyes : " Nor less may I thy homage claim, At touch of whose exhaling flame The fog of Spring, that chill'd thy frame, In genial vapour flies. " Oft, by the heat of noon oppress'd With flowing hair and open vest, Thy footsteps have I won To mossy couch of welling grot, Where thou hast bless'd thy happy lot, That thou in that delicious spot Mayst see, not feel, the sun : Thence tracing from the body's change, In curious philosophic range, The motion of the mind ; And how from thought to thought it flew, Still hoping in each vision new The fairy land of bliss to view, But ne'er that land to find. " And then, as grew thy languid mood, To some embowering, silent wood I led thy careless way ; Where high from tree to tree in air Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare, So bright ! as if, entangled there, The sun had left a ray : " Or lured thee to some beetling steep, To mark the deep and quiet sleep That wrapt the tarn below ; And mountain blue and forest green Inverted on its plane serene, Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen That glazed the painted show ; " Perchance, to mark the fisher's skiff Swift from beneath some shadowy cliff Dart, like a gust of wind ; And, as she skimm'd the sunny lake, In many a playful wreath her wake Far-trailing, like a silvery snake, With sinuous length behind. "Not less, when hill, and dale, and heath Still Evening wrapt in mimic death, Thy spirit true I proved : 70 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. Around thee as the darkness stole, Before thy wild, creative soul I bade each fairy vision roll Thine infancy had loved. " Then o'er the silent, sleeping land, Thy fancy, like a magic wand, Forth call'd the elfin race : And now around the fountain's brim In circling dance they gayly skim ; And now upon its surface swim, And water-spiders chase ; " Each circumstance of sight or sound Peopling the vacant air around With visionary life: For if amid a thicket stirr'd, Or flitting bat, or wakeful bird, Then straight thy eager fancy heard The din of fairy strife ; " Now, in the passing beetle's hum The elfin army's goblin drum To pigmy battle sound ; And now, where dripping dew-drops plash On waving grass, their bucklers clash, And now their quivering lances dash, Wide-dealing death around : " Or if the moon's effulgent form The passing clouds of sudden storm In quick succession veil ; Vast serpents now, their shadows glide, And, coursing now the mountain's side, A band of giants huge, they stride O'er hill, and wood, and dale. " And still on many a service rare Could I descant, if need there were, My firmer claim to bind. But rest I most my high pretence On that, my genial influence, Which made the body's indolence The vigour of the mind." And now, in accents deep and low, Like voice of fondly-cherish'd wo, The Sylph of Autumn sad : " Though I may not of raptures sing, That graced the gentle song of Spring, Like Summer, playful pleasures bring, Thy youthful heart to glad ; " Yet still may I in hope aspire Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, And purifying love : For I with vision high and holy, And spell of quickening melancholy, Thy soul from sublunary folly First raised to worlds above. " What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear, And fruits of various hue, And harvests rich of golden grain, That dance in waves along the plain To merry song of reaping swain, Beneath the welkin blue ; " Witli these I may not urge my suit, Of Summer's patient toil the fruit, For mortal purpose given ; Nor may it fit my sober mood To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, Or dyes of many-colour'd wood, That mock the bow of heaven. " But, know, 't was mine the secret power That wak'd thee at the midnight hour In bleak November's reign : 'T was I the spell around thee cast, When thou didst hear the hollow blast In murmurs tell of pleasures past, That ne'er would come again : " And led thee, when the storm was o'er, To hear the sullen ocean roar, By dreadful calm oppress'd ; Which still, though not a breeze was there, Its mountain-billows heav'd in air, As if a living thing it were, That strove in vain for rest. " 'T was I, when thou, subdued by wo, Didst watch the leaves descending slow, To each a moral gave ; And as they moved in mournful train, With rustling sound, along the plain, Taught them to sing a seraph's strain Of peace within the grave. " And then, upraised thy streaming eye, I met thee in the western sky In pomp of evening cloud ; That, while with varying form it roll'd, Some wizard's castle seern'd of gold, And now a crimson'd knight of old, Or king in purple proud. "And last, as sunk the setting sun, And Evening with her shadows dun The gorgeous pageant past, 'T was then of life a mimic show, Of human grandeur here below, Which thus beneath the fatal blow Of Death must fall at last. " 0, then with what aspiring gaze Didst thou thy tranced vision raise To yonder orbs on high, And think how wondrous, how sublime 'T were upwards to their spheres to climb, And live, beyond the reach of Time, Child of Eternity !" And last the Sylph of Winter spake; The while her piercing voice did shake The castle-vaults below. " O, youth, if thou, with soul refin'd, Hast felt the triumph pure of mind, And learn'd a secret joy to find In deepest scenes of wo ; " If e'er with fearful car at eve Hast heard the wailing tempests grieve Through chink of shatter'd wall ; WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 71 The while it conjured o'er thy brain Of wandering ghosts a mournful train, That low in fitful sobs complain Of Death's untimely call : Or feeling, as the storm increased, The love of terror nerve thy breast, Didst venture to the coast ; To see the mighty war-ship leap From wave to wave upon the deep, Like chamois goat from steep to steep, Till low in valley lost ; " Then, glancing to the angry sky, Behold the clouds with fury fly The lurid moon athwart; Like armies huge in battle, throng, And pour in volleying ranks along, While piping winds in martial song To rushing war exhort : " 0, then to me thy heart be given, To me, ordain'd by Him in heaven Thy nobler powers to wake. And O ! if thou, with poet's soul, High brooding o'er the frozen pole, Hast felt beneath my stern control The desert region quake ; "Or from old Hecla's cloudy height, When o'er the dismal, half-year's night He pours his sulphurous breath, Hast known my petrifying wind Wild ocean's curling billows bind, Like bending sheaves by harvest hind, Erect in icy death ; " Or heard adown the mountain's steep The northern blast with furious sweep Some cliff dissever'd dash ; And seen it spring with dreadful bound From rock to rock, to gulf profound, While echoes fierce from caves resound The never-ending crash : " If thus, with terror's mighty spell Thy soul inspired, was wont to swell, Thy heaving frame expand ; O, then to me thy heart incline ; For know, the wondrous charm was mine, That fear and joy did thus combine In magic union bland. " Nor think confined my native sphere To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear, Or desolation wild : For I of pleasures fair could sing, That steal from life its sharpest sting, And man have made around it cling, Like mother to her child. " When thou, beneath the clear blue sky, So calm, no cloud was seen to fly, Hast gazed on snowy plain, Where Nature slept so pure and sweet, She seem'd a corse in winding-sheet, Whose happy soul had gone to meet The blest, angelic train ; " Or mark'd the sun's declining ray In thousand varying colours play O'er ice-incrusted heath, In gleams of orange now, and green, And now in red and azure sheen, Like hues on dying dolphin seen, Most lovely when in death ; " Or seen, at dawn of eastern light The frosty toil of fays by night On pane of casement clear, Where bright the mimic glaciers shine, And Alps, with many a mountain pine, And armed knights from Palestine In winding march appear : "'Twas I on each enchanting scene The charm bestow'd that banished spleen. Thy bosom pure and light. But still a nobler power I claim ; That power allied to poets' fame, Which language vain has dared to name The soul's creative might "Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair, And joyous Spring demand a share Of Fancy's hallow'd power, Yet these I hold of humbler kind, To grosser means of earth confined, Through mortal sense to reach the mind, By mountain, stream, or flower. "But mine, of purer nature still, Is that which to thy secret will Did minister unseen, Unfelt, unheard ; when every sense Did sleep in drowsy indolence, And silence deep and night intense Enshrouded every scene ; " That o'er thy teeming brain did raise The spirits of departed days Through all the varying year ; And images of things remote, And sounds that long had ceased to float, With every hue, and every note, As living now they were : " And taught thee from the motley mass Each harmonizing part to class, (Like Nature's self employ'd ;) And then, as work'd thy wayward will, From these, with rare combining skill, With new-created worlds to fill Of space the mighty void. " then to me thy heart incline ; To me, whose plastic powers combine The harvest of the mind ; To me, whose magic coffers bear The spoils of all the toiling year, That still in mental vision wear A lustre more refined." She ceased And now, in doubtful mood, All motionless and mute I stood, Like one by charm oppress'd : 72 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. By turns from each to each I roved, And each by turns again I loved ; For ages ne'er could one have proved More lovely than the rest. " blessed band, of birth divine, What mortal task is like to mine !" And further had I spoke, When, lo ! there pour'd a flood of light So fiercely on my aching sight, I fell beneath the vision bright, And with the pain awoke. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.* ALL hail ! thou noble land, Our fathers' native soil ! stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown by toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ; For thou, with magic might, Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er ! The genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime ; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim-. Then let the world combine O'er the main our naval line, Like the milky-way, shall shine Bright in fame ! Though ages long have pass'd Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravell'd seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame By its chains ] While the language free and bold Which the bard of Avon sung, In which our MILTON told How the vault of heaven rung, When Satan, blasted, fell with his host j While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast ; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul. Still cling around our hearts, Between let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun : yet, still, from either beach, The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are one !" *This poem was first published in COLERIDGE'S "6y- billine Leaves," in 1810. THE SPANISH MAID. FIVE weary months sweet Inez number'd From that unfading bitter day When last she heard the trumpet bray That call'd her Isidor away That never to her heart has slumber'd ; She hears it now, and sees, far bending Along the mountain's misty side, His plumed troop, that, waving wide, Seems like a rippling, feathery tide, Now bright, now with the dim shore blending ; She hears the cannon's deadly rattle And fancy hurries on to strife, And hears the drum and screaming fife Mix with the last sad cry of life. O, should he should he fall in battle ! Yet still his name would live in story, And every gallant bard in Spain Would fight his battles o'er again. And would not she for such a strain Resign him to his country's glory 1 Thus Inez thought, and pluck'd the flower That grew upon the very bank Where first her ear bewilder'd drank The plighted vow where last she sank In that too bitter parting hour. But now the sun is westward sinking ; And soon amid the purple haze, That showers from his slanting rays, A thousand loves there meet her gaze, To change her high heroic thinking. Then hope, with all its crowd of fancies, Before her flits and fills the air ; And, deck'd in victory's glorious gear, In vision Isidor is there. Then how her heart mid sadness dances ! Yet little thought she, thus forestalling The coming joy, that in that hour The future, like the colour'd shower That seems to arch the ocean o'er, Was in the living present falling. The foe is slain. His sable charger All fleck'd with foam comes bounding on , The wild Morena rings anon, And on its brow the gallant Don, And gallant steed grow larger, larger ; And now he nears the mountain-hollow; The flowery bank and little lake Now on his startled vision break And Inez there. He's not awake Ah, what a day this dream will follow ! But no he surely is not dreaming. Another minute makes it clear. A scream, a rush, a burning tear From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear That bliss like his is only seeming. *! s WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF THE ANGEL AND CHILD. I STOOD alone ; nor word, nor other sound, Broke the mute solitude that closed me round ; As when the air doth take her midnight sleep, Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep, So slept she now at noon. But not alone My spirit then : a light within me shone That was not mine; and feelings 'undefined, And thoughts flow'd in upon me not my own. 'T was that deep mystery for a"ye unknown The living presence of another's mind. . .'fr-' j Another mind was there the gift of few That by its own strong will can all that's true In its own nature unto others give, And mingling life with life, seem there to live. I felt it now in mine ; and oh ! how fair, How beautiful the thoughts that met me there Visions of Love, and Purity, and Truth ! Though form distinct had each,they seem'd,as'twere, Imbodied all of one celestial air To beam for ever in coequal youth. And thus I learn'd as in the mind they moved These stranger Thoughts the one the other loved; That Purity loved Truth, because 't was true, And Truth, because 'twas pure, the first did woo; While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain ; Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless, Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain Of melting sounds they seem'd; then, changed again, One angel form they took Self-Happiness. This angel form the gifted Artist saw, That held me in his spell. 'T was his to draw The veil of sense, and see the immortal race, The Forms spiritual, that know not place. He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth, And stay'd it by his will, and gave it birth E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell, The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth The shape ethereal fix, and body forth A being of the skies with man to dwell. And then another form beside it stood ; 'T was one of this our earth though the warm blood Had from it pass'd exhaled as in a breath Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death. Its little " dream of human life" had fled ; And yet it seem'd not number'd with the dead, But one emerging to a life so bright That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread, Its very consciousness did seem to shed Rays from within, and clothe it all in light. Now touch'd the Angel Form its little hand, Turning upon it with a look so bland, And yet so full of majesty, as less Than holy natures never may impress And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook. The Creature of the Earth now felt that look, And stood in blissful awe as one above Who saw his name in the Eternal Book, And Him that open'd it ; e'en Him that took The Little Child, and bless'd it in his love. 10 SONNETS. ON A FALLING GROUP IN THE LAST JTJDG ML NT OF MICHAEL ANGKLO. How vast, how dread, o'erwhclming is the thought Of space interminable! to the soul A circling weight that crushes into naught Her mighty faculties ! a wond'rous whole, Without or parts, beginning, or an end ! How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send The fancy e'en amid the waste profound ! Yet, born as if all daring to astound, Thy giant hand, O AXGELO, hath hurl'd E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight, Down the dread void fall endless as their fate ! Already now they seem from world to world For ages thrown ; yet doom'd, another past, Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last ! ON REMBRANT : OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE OF JACOB'S DREAM. As in that twilight, superstitious age, When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind, W r hen e'en the learned philosophic sage, Wont with the stars thro' boundless space to range, Listen'd with reverence to the changeling's tale ; E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange ! E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail ; That like the rambling of an idiot's speech, No image giving of a thing on earth, Nor thought significant in reason's reach, Yet in their random shadowings give birth To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb. ON THE PICTURES BY RUBENS, IN THE LUX- EMBOURG GALLERY. THEH.F. is a charm no vulgar mind can reach, No critic thwart, no mighty master teach ; A charm how mingled of the good and ill ! Yet still so mingled that the mystic whole Shall captive hold the struggling gazer's will, Till vanquish'd reason own its full control. And such, O RCJIESS, thy mysterious art, The charm that vexes, yet enslaves the heart ! Thy lawless style, from timid systems free, Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea, High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge Impending hangs ; yet, ere the foaming surge Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste Back from the shore impels the wat'ry waste. TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. FHO-M one unused in pomp of words to raise A courtly monument of empty praise, Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile, Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile,, Accept, O WEST, these unaffected lays, Which genius claims and grateful justice pays. Still green in age, thy vig'rous powers impart The youthful freshness of a blameless heart: For thine, unaided by another's pain, The wiles of envy, or the sordid train G 74 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. Of selfishness, has been the manly race Of one who felt the purifying grace Of honest fame ; nor found the cflbrt vain E'en for itself to love thy soul-ennobling ait ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF AEOLUS, BY PELIGRINO TIBALDI. FrLL well, TIBALDI, did thy kindred mind The mighty spell of BOJJAHOTI own. Like one who, reading magic words, receives The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown, 'T was thine, deciphering Nature's mystic leaves, To hold strange converse with the viewless wind ; To see the spirits, in imbodied forms, Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. For, lo ! obedient to thy bidding, teems Fierce into shape their stern, relentless lord : His form of motion ever-restless seems ; Or, if to rest inclined his turbid soul, On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word To subject winds that sweep the desert pole. ON THE DEATH OF COLERIEGE. AjfDthouartgone,mostloved,mosthonour'dFriend! No never more thy gentle voice shall blend With air of earth its pure ideal tones Binding in one, as with harmonious zones, The heart and intellect. And I no more Shall with thee gaze on that unfathom'd deep, The human soul ; as when, push'd off the shore, Thy mystic hark would through the darkness sweep, Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seem'd As on some starless sea all dark above, All dark below yet, onward as we drove, To plough up light that ever round us stream'd. But he who mourns is not as one bereft Of all he loved : thy living truths are left. THE TUSCAN MAID. How pleasant and how sad the turning tide Of human life, when side by side The child and youth begin to glide Along the vale of years; The pure twin-being for a little space, With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face, Too young for wo, though not for tears. This turning tide is URSULITSA'S now; The time is mark'd upon her brow ; Now every thought and feeling throw Their shadows on her face ; And so are every thought and feeling join'd, 'T were hard to answer whether heart or mind Of either were the native place. The things that once she loved are still the same ; Yet now there needs another name To give the feeling which they claim, While she the feeling gives ; She cannot call it gladness or delight ; And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light On e'en the humblest thing that lives. She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by, And sees it sip the flowret nigh; Yet not, as onre, with eager cry She grasps the pretty thing ; Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood So poised in air, as if on air it stood To show its gold and purple wing. She hears the bird without a wish to snare, But rather on the azure air To mount, and with it wander there To some untrodden land ; As if it told her in its happy song Of pleasures strange, that never can belong To aught of sight or touch of hand. Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove, And outward things around her move, Pure ministers of purer love, And make the heart her home ; Or to the meaner senses sink a slave, To do their bidding, though they madly crave Through hateful scenes of vice to roam. But, UnscLisA, thine the better choice; Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice : Thy heart may still in earth rejoice And all its beauty love ; But no, not all this fair, enchanting earth, With all its spells, can give the rapture birth That waits thy conscious soul above. ROSALIE. O, pom upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain, That seems from other worlds to plain ; Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs, And dropped them from the skies. No never came from aught below This melody of wo, That makes my heart to overflow As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light if light it be That veils the world I see. For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this So like angelic bliss. So, at that dreamy hour of day, When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play So thought the gentle ROSALIE As on her maiden revery First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul. JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. [Born 1779.] Mr. PAULDING is known by his numerous novels and other prose writings, much better than by his poetry ; yet his early contributions to our poetical literature, if they do not bear witness that he pos- sesses, in an eminent degree, " the vision and the faculty divine," are creditable for their patriotic spirit and moral purity. He was born in the town of Pawling, the original mode of spelling his name, in Duchess county, New York, on the 22d of August, 1779, and is descended from an old and honourable family, of Dutch extraction. His earliest literary productions were the papers entitled " Salmagundi," the first series of which, in two volumes, were written in conjunction with WASHINGTON IBVING, in 1807. These were suc- ceeded, in the next thirty years, by the following works, in the order in which they are named: John Bull and Brother Jonathan, in one volume ; The Lay of a Scotch Fiddle, a satirical poem, in one volume ; The United States and England, in one volume ; Second Series of Salmagundi, in two ,. ., ODE TO JAMESTOWN. Or.n cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling a while, ere she unfurl'd Her gallant wing and soar'd away ; All hail ! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest ! What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As, wandering these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound ! The wonders of an age combined, In one short moment memory supplies ; They throng upon my waken'd mind, As time's dark curtains rise. The volume of a hundred buried years, Condensed in one bright sheet, appears. I hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little barque Scudding along the crested wave, Freighted like old Noah's ark, As o'er the drowned earth 'twas hurl'd, With the forefathers of another world. I see a train of exiles stand, Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The daring pioneers of fate, Who braved the perils of the sea and earth, And gave a boundless empire birth. volumes ; Letters from the South, in two volumes ; The Backwoodsman, a poem, in one volume; Koningsmarke, or Old Times in the New World, a novel, in two volumes ; John Bull in America, in one volume ; Merry Tales of the Wise Men of Gotham, in one volume ; The Traveller's Guide, or New Pilgrim's Progress, in one volume ; The Dutchman's Fireside, in two volumes ; Westward Ho ! in two volumes ; Slavery in the United States, in one volume ; Life of Washington, in two vo- lumes ; The Book of St. Nicholas, in one volume ; and Tales, Fables, and Allegories, originally pub- lished in various periodicals, in three volumes. Beside these, and some less pre tensive works, he has written much in the gazettes on political and other questions agitated in his time. Mr. PAULDING has held various honourable offices in his native state ; and in the summer of 1838, he was appointed, by President VAN BUREN, Secretary of the Navy. He continued to be a member of the cabinet until the close of Mr. VAN BUHEN'S administration, in 1841. I see the sovereign Indian range His woodland empire, free as air; I see the gloomy forest change, The shadowy earth laid bare ; And, where the red man chased the bounding deer, The smiling labours of the white appear. I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, As the pale faces sweat to raise Their scanty fields of corn, While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food. A moment, and the pageant's gone ; The red men are no more ; The pale-faced strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore ; And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdain'd, Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd. The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy woodman's axe ; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields. Then growing hamlets rear their heads, And gathering crowds expand, Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land, Till what was once a world of savage strife, Teems with the richest gifts of social life. 75 76 JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empires still another breeds, A giant progeny, Destined their daring race to run, Each to the regions of yon setting sun. Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, J. glance towards this lonely place, And find it, these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found. Their names have been forgotten long ; The stone, but not a word, remains; They cannot live in deathless song, Nor breathe in pious strains. Yet this sublime obscurity, to me More touching is, than poet's rhapsody. They live in millions that now breathe ; They live in millions yet unborn, And pious gratitude shall wreathe As bright a crown as e'er was worn, And hang it on the green-leaved bough, That whispers to the nameless dead below. No one that inspiration drinks ; No one that loves his native land ; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here. The mighty shade now hovers round Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career, Is written on this sacred ground In letters that no time shall sere ; Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, And founded Christian empires in the new. And she ! the glorious Indian maid, The tutelary of this land, The angel of the woodland shade, The miracle of God's own hand, Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourges of her race. Sister of charity and love, Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, Dear goddess of the sylvan grove, Flower of the forest, nature's pride, He is no man who does not bend the knee, And she no woman who is not like thce ! Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock To me shall ever sacred be I care not who my themes may mock, Or sneer at them and me. I envy not the brute who here can stand, Without a thrill for his own native land. And if the recreant crawl her earth, Or breathe Virginia's air, Or, in New England claim his birth, From the old pilgrims there, He is a bastard, if he dare to mock Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock. PASSAGE DOWN THE OHIO.* As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide, Oarless and sailless, silently they glide, How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair Was the lone land that met the stranger there ! No smiling villages or curling smoke The busy haunts of busy men bespoke ; No solitary hut, the banks along, Sent forth blithe labour's homely, rustic song ; No urchin gamboll'd on the smooth, white sand, Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand, While playmate dog plunged in the clear blue wave, And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save. Where now are seen, along the river side, Young, busy towns, in buxom, painted pride, And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd, To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound. Nothing appear'd but nature unsubdued, One endless, noiseless woodland solitude, Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be As level and as lifeless as the sea ; They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone, Heirs of the earth the land was all their own ! 'T was evening now : the hour of toil was o'er, Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore, Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep, And spring upon and murder them in sleep ; So through the livelong night they held their way, And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day; So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign, They cared not though the day ne'er came again. The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above, Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove, That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell, Whisper'd it loved the gentle visit well That fair-faced orb alone to move appear'd, That zephyr was the only sound they heard. Nodeep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray M, No lights upon the shore or waters play'd, No loud laugh broke upon the silent air, To tell the wanderers, man was nestling there All, all was still, on gliding bark and shore, As if the earth now slept to wake no more. EVENING. 'T WAS sunset's hallow'd time and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky : Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd lo rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. * This, and the two following extracts, are from the " Backwoodsman." JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 77 Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way ; Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade ; The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, And pale, and paler wax the changeful clouds. Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm ; The silent dews of evening dropp'd like balm ; The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, To chase the viewless insect through the skies ; The bat began his lantern-loving flight,. The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear ; The buzzing beetle forth did gayly hie, With idle hum, and careless, blundering eye ; The little trusty watchman of pale night, The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, And took his merry airy circuit round The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, Where blossom'd clover, bathed in palmy dew, In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew. CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow ; The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape smiled upon the day. As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep, winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capp'd with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting-place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the. rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet, oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, Or man, or beast alas ! was neither there Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air ; 'T was a vast, silent, mansion rich and gay, Whose occupant was drown'd the other day ; A churchyard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom Amid the melancholy of the tornb ; A charnel-house, where all the human race Had piled their bones in one wide resting-place ; Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, And sadly sought the lifeless world below. THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL. DHINK ! drink ! to whom shall we drink ? To friend or a mistress 1 Come, let me think ! To those who are absent, or those who are here 1 To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear 1 Alas ! when I look, I find none of the last ! The present is barren let 's drink to the past. Come ! here 's to the girl with a voice sweet and low, The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow, Who erewhile in the days of my youth that are fled, Once slept on my bosom, and pillow'd my head ! Would you know where to find such a delicate prize? Go seek in yon churchyard, for there she lies. And here 's to the friend, the one friend of my youth, With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth, Who travell'd with me in the sunshine of life, And stood by my side in its peace and its strife ! Would you know where to seek a blessing so rare ] Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there. And here 's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine, With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine, Who came but to see the first act of the play, Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away. Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have hied 1 Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. A bumper, my boys ! to a gray -headed pair, Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care, God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down, On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown! Would you know whom I drink to ? go seek mid the dead, You will find both their names on the stone at their head. And here 's but, alas ! the good wine is no more, The bottle is emptied of all its bright store ; Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled, And nothing is left of the light that it shed. Then, a bumper of tears, boys ! the banquet here ends, With a health to our dead, since we '\p no living friends. o2 LEVI FRISBIE. [Born 1784. Died 1822.] PROFESSOR FHISBIE was the son of a respect- able clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He entered Harvard University in 1 798, and was gradu- ated in 1802. His father, like most of the cler- gymen of New England, was a poor man, and unable fully to defray the costs of his son's edu- cation ; and Mr. FHISBIE, while an under-graduate, provided in part for his support by teaching a school during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. His friend and biographer, Professor ANDREWS NORTON, alludes to this fact as a proof of the falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united with correct morals, and good manners, pass un- questioned all the artificial barriers of society, and their claim to distinction is recognised more wil- lingly than any other. Soon after leaving the university, Mr. FHISBIE commenced the study of the law ; but an affection of the eyes depriving him of their use for the purposes of study, he abandoned his professional pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Pro- fessor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Profes- sor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and a few poems, was published in 1823. A CASTLE IN THE AIR. I 'LL tell you, friend, what sort of wife, Whene'er I scan this scene of life, Inspires my waking schemes, And when I sleep, with form so light, Dances before my ravish'd sight, In sweet aerial dreams. The rose its blushes need not lend, Nor yet the lily with them blend, To captivate my eyes. Give me a cheek the heart obeys, And, sweetly mutable, displays Its feelings as they rise ; Features, where, pensive, more than gay, Save when a rising smile doth play, The sober thought you see ; Eyes that all soft and tender seem, And kind affections round them beam, But most of all on me; A form, though not of finest mould, Where yet a something you behold Unconsciously doth please ; Manners all graceful without art, That to each look and word impart A modesty and ease. But still her air, her face, each charm Must speak a heart with feeling warm, And mind inform the whole ; With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Her voice, her beaming eye must show An all-inspiring soul. Ah ! could I such a being find, And were her fate to mine but join'd By Hymen's silken tie, To her myself, my all I 'd give, For her alone delighted live, For her consent to die. Whene'er by anxious care oppress' d, On the soft pillow of her breast My aching head I 'd lay ; At her sweet smile each care should cease, Her kiss infuse a balmy peace, And drive my griefs away. In turn, I'd soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share ; Should sickness e'er invade, My voice should soothe each rising sigh, My hand the cordial should supply; I 'd watch beside her bed. Should gathering clouds our sky deform, My arms should shield her from the stonn ; And, were its fury hurl'd, My bosom to its bolts I 'd bare ; In her defence undaunted dare Defy the opposing world. Together should our prayers ascend; Together would we humbly bend, To praise the Almight, name; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upwards in her native sky, "My soul should catch the flame. Thus nothing should our hearts divide, But on our years serenely glide, And all to love be given ; And, when life's little scene was o'er, We 'd part to meet and part no more, But live and love in heaven. 78 JOHN PIETIPONT. [Born 1785.] THE author of the "Airs of Palestine," is a native of Litchfield, Connecticut, and was bom on the sixth of April, 1785. His great-grandfather, the Reverend JAMES PIERPONT, was the second minis- ter of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale College ; his grandfather and his father were men of intelligence and integrity; and his mother, whose maiden name was ELIZABETH COLLINS, had a mind thoroughly imbued with the religious sentiment, and was distinguished for her devotion to maternal duties. In the following lines, from one of his recent poems, he acknowledges the in- fluence of her example and teachings on his own character : " She led me first to God ; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew. For, when she used to leave The fireside, every eve, I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. " That dew, that bless'd my youth, Her holy love, her truth, Her spirit of devotion, and the tears That she could not suppress, Hath never ceased to bless My soul, nor will it, through eternal years. 'How often has the thought Of my mourn'd mother brought Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power The tempter to repel ! Mother, thou knowest well That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!" Mr. PIEHPOXT entered Yale College when fifteen years old, and was graduated in the summer of 1804. During a part of 1805, he assisted the Reverend Doctor BACKUS, in an academy of which he was principal previous to his election to the presidency of Hamilton College ; and in the au- tumn of the same year, following the example of many young men of New England, he went to the southern states, and was for nearly four years a private tutor in the family of Colonel WILLIAM: ALLSTOS, of South Carolina, spending a portion of his time in Charleston, and the remainder on the estate of Colonel ALLSTON, on the Waccamaw, near Georgetown. Here he commenced his legal studies, which he continued after his return to his native state in 1809, in the school of Justices REEVE and GOULD; and in 1812, he was ad- mitted to the bar, in Essex county, Massachusetts. Soon after the commencement of the second war with Great Britain, being appointed to address the Washington Benevolent Society of Newbu- ryport, his place of residence, he delivered and afterward published "The Portrait," the earliest of the poems in the recent edition of his works. In consequence of the general prostration of business in New England during the war, and of his health, which at this time demanded a more active life, he abandoned the profession of law, and became interested in mercantile transactions, first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore ; but these resulting disastrously, in 1816, he sought a solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year published "The Airs of Palestine." The first edition appeared in an octavo volume, at Balti- more ; and two other editions were published in Boston, in the following year. The "Airs of Palestine" is a poem of about eight hundred lines, in the heroic measure, in which the influence of music is shown by examples, prin- cipally from sacred history. The religious sub- limity of the sentiments, the beauty of the language, and the finish of the versification, placed it at once, in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion on the subject, before any poem at that time pro- duced in America. As a work of art, it would be nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduction of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity of the ten-syllable verse, induced by the intention of the author to recite it in a public assembly. He says hi the preface to the third edition, that he was "aware how difficult even a good speaker finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous effects of a regular cadence," and " the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly gliding river, to break the current, which, without it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody, which might otherwise become monotonous." The following passage, descriptive of a moonlight scene in Italy, will give the reader an idea of its manner : " On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws. Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone, at night, the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen ; he sees her image on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest ; Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echo'd from the shore ; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen ! How dark the mountain's shade ! how still the scene ! Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wind, that glassy river. " Hark ! 't is a convent's bell : its midnight chime ; For music measures even the inarch of time : O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise : the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar : a low and solemn swell, 79 80 JOHN PIERPONT. A Mineral dirge, umi paue nuns, niueu in wn Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, Soon after the publication of the " Airs of Pales- tine," Mr. PIEHPOITT entered seriously upon the study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, and afterward as a member of the theological school connected with Harvard College. He left that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, was ordained. as minister of the Hollis Street Uni- tarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Re- verend Doctor HOLLET, who had recently been elected to the presidency of the Transylvania Uni- versity, in Kentucky. In 1835 and 1836, in consequence of impaired health, he spent a year abroad, passing through the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour into the East, visiting Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, Constantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some of the other cities of Greece ; of his travels in which, traces will occasionally be found in some of the short poems which he has written since his return. Mr. PIEBPOST has written in almost every metre, and many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, are remarkably spirited and melodious. Seve- ral of them, distinguished alike for energy of thought and language, were educed by events con- nected^with the moral and religious enterprises of the time, nearly all of which are indebted to his constant and earnest advocacy for much of their prosperity. In the preface to the collection of his poems pub- lished in 1840, he says, It gives a true, though an all too feeble expression of the author's feeling and faith, of his love of right, of freedom, and man, and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred of every thing that is at war with them ; and of his faith in the providence and gracious promises of God. Nay, the book is published as an expres- sion of his faith in man; his faith that every line, written to rebuke high-handed or under-handed wrong, or to keep alive the fires of civil and reli- gious liberty, written for solace in affliction, for support under trial, or as an expression, or for the excitement of Christian patriotism or devotion ; or even with no higher aim than to throw a little sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it is going through some of the wearisome passages of life's history, will be received as a proof of the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellow- men, of his desire to serve them, and consequently of his claim upon them for a charitable judgment, at least, if not even for a respectful and grateful remembrance." "PASSING AWAY." WAS it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he, his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore 1 Hark ! the notes, on my ear that play, Are set to words : as they float, they say, " Passing away ! passing away !" But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear ; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear, As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung ; (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say, " Passing away ! passing away !" 0, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow ! And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo ! she had changed : in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride ; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, " Passing away ! passing away !" While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought, or care, stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimm'd, as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face: Yet one couldn't but love her, For she look'd like a mother, whose first babe lay Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day ; And she seem'd, in the same silver tone to say, " Passing away ! passing away !" JOHN PIERPONT. 81 While yet I look'd, what a change there came ! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan : Stooping and staff'd was her withcr'd frame, Yet, just as busily, swung she on ; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept, And still there came that silver tone From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone, (Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay,) " Passing away ! passing away ! FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTEN- NIAL CELEBRATION. Two hundred years ! two hundred years ! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon ; His dance, his yell, his council-fire, The altar where his victim lay, His death-song, and his funeral pyre, That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone, That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God. And war that since o'er ocean came, And thunder'd loud from yonder hill, And wrapp'd its foot in sheets of flame, To blast that ark its storm is still. Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, That live in story and in song, Time, for the last two hundred years, Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 'T is like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old ; 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks, 'T is like a tale round watchfires told. Then what are we 1 then what are we ? Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told. God of our fathers, in whose sight The thousand years that sweep away Man and the traces of his might Arc but the break and close of day Grant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children in all time To share thine own eternity. 11 MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead ! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair ; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes he is not there ! I walk my parlour floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; I 'in stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there ! I thread the crowded street; A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair : And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid ; Closed arc his eyes ; cold is his forehead ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed, So long watch'd over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my bov, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there ! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though he is not there ! Not there ! Where, then, is he 1 The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; he is not there ! He lives ! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I sec it written, Thou shall see me there ! " (Yes, we all live to God ! FATHER, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! 82 JOHN PIERPONT. FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE MASSA- CHUSETTS MECHANICS' CHARITA- BLE ASSOCIATION. LOUD o'er thy savage child, O God, the night-wind roar'd, As, houseless, in the wild He bow'd him and adored. Thou saw'st him there, As to the sky He raised his eye In fear and prayer. Thine inspiration came ! And, grateful for thine aid, An altar to thy name He built beneath the shade : The limbs of larch That darken'd round, He bent and bound In many an arch ; Till in a sylvan fane Went up the voice of prayer, And music's simple strain Arose in worship there. The arching boughs, The roof of leaves That summer weaves, O'erheard his vows. Then beam'd a brighter day ; And Salem's holy height And Greece in glory lay Beneath the kindling light. Thy temple rose On Salem's hill, While Grecian skill Adorn'd thy foes. Along those rocky shores, Along those olive plains, Where pilgrim Genius pores O'er Art's sublime remains, Long colonnades Of snowy white Look'd forth in light Through classic shades. Forth from the quarry stone The marble goddess sprung ; And, loosely round her thrown, Her marble vesture hung ; And forth from cold And sunless mines Came silver shrines And gods of gold. The Star of Bethlehem burn'd ! And where the Stoic trod, The altar was o'erturn'd, Raucd " to an unknown God." A. .d now there are No idol fanes On all the plains Beneath that star. To honour thee, dread Power ! Our strength and skill combine; And temple, tomb, and tower Attest these gifts divine. A swelling dome For pride they gild, For peace they build An humbler home. By these our fathers' host Was led to victory first, When on our guardless coast The cloud of battle burst ; Through storm and spray, By these controll'd, Our natives hold Their thundering way. Great Source of every art ! Our homes, our pictured halls, Our throng'd and busy mart, That lifts its granite walls, And shoots to heaven Its glittering spires, To catch the fires Of morn and even ; These, and the breathing forms The brush or chisel gives, With this when marble warms, With that when canvass lives ; These all combine In countless ways To swell thy praise, For all are thine. HER CHOSEX SPOT. WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone Among these shades. A voice divine Whisper'd, " This spot shall be thine own ; Here shall thy wasting form recline, Beneath the shadow of this pine." "Thy will be done!" the sufferer said. This spot, was hallow'd from that hour ; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower. By the pale moon herself more pale And spirit-like these walks ghe trod ; And, while no voice, from swell or vale, Was heard, she knelt upon this sod And gave her spirit back to God. That spirit, with an angel's wings, Went up from the young mother's bed : So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. She's lost to earth and earthly things ; But "weep not, for she is not dead, She slcepeth !" Yea, she sleepeth here, The fir^t that in these grounds hath slept. This grave, first watcr'd with the tear That child or widow'd man hath wept, Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. JOHN PIERPONT. 83 The babe that lay on her cold breast A rosebud dropp'd on drifted snow Its young hand in its father's press'd. Shall learn that she, who first caress'd Its infant check, now sleeps below. And often shall he come alone, When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shrill say, " This was my mother's choice For her own grave : O, be it mine ! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine." THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore : Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day When the Mayflower moor'd below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapp'd the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide ; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. The Piltrrim exile, sainted name ! The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; But the Pilgrim, where is he? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, Go, stand on the hill whore they lie. The earliest ray of the goldrn day On that hallow'd Fpol is cast ; And tha evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot lart. The Pilgrim fpirit has not fled ; It walks in noon's broad lieht ; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With their holy stars, by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Ti'.l the waves of the bay, whore the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. THE winds and waves were roaring ; The Pilgrims met for prayer ; And here, their God adoring, They stood, in open air. When breaking day they greeted, And when its close was calm, The leafless woods repeated The music of their psalm. Not thus, O God, to praise thee, Do we, their children, throng; The temple's arch we raise thee Gives back our choral song. Yet, on the winds that bore thee Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee From hearts as true as theirs ! What have we, Lord, to bind us To this, the Pilgrims' shore ! Their hill of graves behind us, Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes, Be thou their guard, God ! We would not, Holy Father, Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather Where graves and griefs are not ; The shore where true devotion Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, And see no other ocean Than that of love divine. THE EXILE AT REST. His falchion flash'd along the Nile ; His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, His eagle flag unroll'd and froze. Here sleeps he now alone : not one Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, Hath ever seen or sought his grave. Here sleeps he now alone ; the star That led him on from crown to crown Hath sunk ; the nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down. He sleeps alone : the mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps his mortal form in death. High is his couch ; the ocean flood Far, far below by storms is cnrl'd, As round him heaved, while high he stood, A stormy and inconstant world. Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, And from Siberia's wastes of snow, And Europe's fields, a voice that bids The world he awed to mourn him ? No : 84 JOHN PIERPONT. The only, the perpetual dirge To this, when Egypt's AHHAHAM* That's heard there, is the seabird's cry, The sceptre and the sword The mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. Shakes o'er her head, her holy men Have bow'd before the Lord. Jerusalem, I would have seen - Thy precipices steep, JERUSALEM. The trees of palm that overhang Thy gorges dark and deep, JERUSALEM, Jerusalem, How glad should I have been, The goats that cling along thy cluTs, And browse upon thy rocks, Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thy shepherds and their flocks. Thine aged walls have seen ! Could I have gazed upon the dome Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells : I would have mused, while night hung out Her silver lamp so pale, Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides Could I have stood on Olivet, The city's wall sublime, Where once the Saviour trod, Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks And, from its height, look'd down upon Defy the scythe of time. The city of our God ; For is it not, Almighty God, The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive trees Thy holy city still, Though there thy prophets walk no more, That crowns Moriah's hill 1 ' Are shading yet, and in their shade I would have sought the breeze, That, like an angel, bathed the brow, Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, And bore to heaven the prayer The streets of Salem now, Of Jesus, when in agony, Nor are their voices lifted up He sought the Father there. On Zion's sadden'd brow ; Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres I would have gone to Calvary, And, where the MAHYS stood, With pious sorrow kept, Where once the same Jerusalem, Bewailing loud the Crucified, As near him as they could, That kill'd them, came and wept. I would have stood, till night o'er earth But still the seed of ABRAHAM Her heavy pall had thrown, With joy upon it look, And lay their ashes at its feet, And thought upon my Saviour's cross, And learn'd to bear my own. That Kedron's feeble brook Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Still washes, as its waters creep Thy cross thou bearest now ! Along their rocky bed, An iron yoke is on thy neck, And Israel's Gon is worshipp'd yet And blood is on thy brow ; Where Zion lifts her head. Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, Yes ; every morning, as the day Breaks over Olivet, The holy name of ALLAH comes Thou didst reject as dross, And now thy cross is on thee laid The crescent is thy cross ! From every minaret ; It was not mine, nor will it be, At every eve the mellow call To sec the bloody rod Floats on the quiet air, That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, " Lo, GOD is GOD ! Before him come, Thou city of our GOD ! Before him come, for prayer !" But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murder'd seers, I know, when at that solemn call And voices that went up from it The city holds her breath, That OH AII'S mosque hears not the name Are ringing in my ears, Of Him of Nazareth ; Went up that day, when darkness fell But ABRAHAM'S GOD is worshipp'd there From all thy firmament, Alike by age and youth, And shrouded thee at noon ; and when And worshipp'd, hopeth charity, Thy temple's vail was rent, " In spirit and in truth." And graves of holy men, that touch'd Thy feet, gave up their dead : Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, And bent her queenly neck HlS BLOOD IS OX THY IIEAI)! To '.' im who was, at once, her priest And king, MKLCHISEDEK, * Tliis name is now generally written IBRAHIM. JOHN PIERPONT. 85 THE POWER OF MUSIC.* HEAR yon poetic pilgrim-)- of the west Chant music's praise, and to her power attest ; Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws; Who hangs the canvass where ATALA glows, On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded : Who, for the son of OUTALISSI, twines Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss That Time already sprinkles on the cross Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps, And Superstition o'er her victim weeps; Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, Among Scioto's monumental mounds; Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below, By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, Lost in those towering tombs of other times ; For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame, No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame. With sacred lore this traveller beguiles His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves, Or through the wide and green savanna roves, His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest breath of Idumea's airs. Now he recalls the lamentable wail That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, A note for SATAN'S and for HEROD'S ear. Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, The pilgrim stands ; and o'er his memory rushes The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd, And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. How fondly then, from all but hope exiled, To Zion's wo recurs religion's child! He sees the tear of JUDAH'S captive daughters Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters; While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung, Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'ef the billow, And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. And could not music soothe the captive's wo ? But should that harp be strung for JUDAH'S foe] While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanced between a revery and a dream, Backward he springs; and through his bounding heart The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, Just in the act, with greenly vcnom'd fangs, To strike the foot that heedless o'er him hangs. * From "Airs of Palestine.' t Chateaubriand. Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ; His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides ; Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, And freezing poisons thickens on his gums; Hisparch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry ; A spark of hell lies burning on his eye : While, like a vapour o'er his writhing rings. Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings. Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers, The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight, Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, From his soft flute throws music's air around, And meets his foe upon enchanted ground. See ! as the plaintive melody is flung, The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue ; The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold ; A softer lustre twinkles in his eye; His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye ; His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, And his relaxing circles roll in light. Slowly the charm retires : with waving sides, Along its track the graceful listener glides ; While music throws her silver cloud around, And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound. OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM. STRAXGER, there is bending o'er thee Many an eye with sorrow wet ; All our stricken hearts deplore thee ; Who, that knew thee, can forget ? Who forgot that thou hast spoken ? Who, thine eye, that noble frame ? But that golden bowl is broken, In the greatness of thy fame. Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither On the spot where thou shall rest ; 'T is in love we bear thee thither, To thy mourning mother's breast. For the stores of science brought us, For the charm thy goodness gave To the lessons thou hast taught us, Can we give thee but a grave 7 Nature's priest, how pure and fervent Was thy worship at her shrine ! Friend of man, of God the servant, Advocate of truths divine, Taught and charm'd as by no other We have been, and hoped to be; But, while waiting round thee, brother, For thy light, 'tis dark with thee. Dark with thee? No; thy Creator, All whose creatures and whose laws Thou didst love, shall give thee greater Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. To thy God, thy godlike spirit Back we give, in filial trust; Thy cold clay, we Grieve to bear it To its chamber, bnf we must. II 86 JOHN PIERPONT. THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.* Thou liquid fire ! like that which glow'd On Melita's surf-beaten shore, Tnou, who on the whirlwind ridest, Thou 'st been upon my guests bcstow'd, At whose word the thunder roars, But thou shalt warm my house no more. Who, in majesty, presidest For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls, O'er the oceans and their shores ; Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls ! From those shores, and from the oceans, We, the children of the sea, Come to pay thee our devotions, What, though of gold the goblet be, Emboss'd with branches of the vine, Beneath whose burnish'd leaves we see And to give this house to thee. Such clusters as pour'd out the wine ? When, for business on great waters, Among those leaves an adder hangs ! We go down to sea in ships, I fear him ; for I 've felt his fangs. And our weeping wives and daughters Hang, at parting, on our lips, This, our Bethel, shall remind us, That there's One who heareth prayer, And that those we leave behind us Are a faithful pastor s care. The Hebrew, who the desert trod, And felt the fiery serpent's bite, Look'd up to that ordain'd of GOD, And found that life was in the sight. So, the itwm-bitten's fiery veins Cool, when he drinks what GOD ordains. Visions of our native highlands, In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd, Ye gracious clouds ! ye deep, cold wells ! Winds that come from spicy islands When we long have lain becalm'd, Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip ! Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells Are not to our souls so pleasant As the offerings we shall bring Hither, to the Omnipresent, Gush o'er your granite basin's lip ! To you I look ; your largess give, And I will drink of you, and live. For the shadow of his wing. t When in port, each day that 's holy, To this house we '11 press in throngs ; FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. When at sea, with spirit lowly, We'll repeat its sacred songs. DAT of glory ! welcome day ! Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, Lose its flag behind the seas ; Homeward bound, we '11 greet with gladness Its first floating on the breeze. Freedom's banners greet thy ray ; See ! how cheerfully they play With thy morning breeze, On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd, Homeward bound ! with deep emotion, We remember, Lord, that life Is a voyage upon an ocean, On the heights where squadrons wheel'd, When a tyrant's thunder peal'd O'er the trembling seas. Heaved by many a tempest's strife. GOD of armies ! did thy " stars Be thy statutes so engraven In their courses" smite his cars, On our hearts and minds, that we, Blast his arm, and wrest his bars Anchoring in Death's quiet haven, From the heaving tide 1 All may make our home with thee. On our standard, lo ! they burn, And, when days like this return, * Sparkle o'er the soldiers' urn THE SPARKLING BOWL. Who for freedom died. THOU sparkling bowl ! thou sparkling bowl ! GOD of peace ! whose spirit fills All the echoes of our hills, Though lips of bards thy brim may press, All the murmurs of our rills, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll, Now the storm is o'er ; And song and dance thy power confess, O, let freemen be our sons ; I will not touch thee ; for there clings And let future WASHINGTO^S A scorpion to thy side, that stings ! Rise, to lead their valiant ones, Thou crystal glass ! like Eden's tree, Till there's war no more. Thy melted ruby tempts the eye, And, as from that, there comes from thee By the patriot's hallow'd rest, Bv the warrior's gorv breast,^ The voice, " Thou shalt not surely die." I dare not lift thy liquid gem ; A snake is twisted round thy stem ! Never let our graves be press'd By a despot's throne ; By the Pilgrims' toils and cares, * Written for the dedication of the eanmn's Bethel, under tl;e direction of the Boston Port Society, Septem- By their battles and their prayers, By their ashes. let our heirs ber fourth, 1833. Bow to thee alone. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [Born, 1785. Died, 1842-1 Mn. WoonwonTH was a native of Scituatc, in Massachusetts. After learning in a country town the art of printing, he went to New York, where he was editor of a newspaper during our second war with England. He subsequently published a weekly miscellany entitled "The Ladies' Lite- rary Gazette," and in 1823, associated with Mr. GKOUGE P. Monnis, he established "The New York Mirror," long the most popular journal of literature and art in this country. For several years before his death he was an invalid, and in this period a large number of the leading gentle- men of New York acted as a committee for a complimentary benefit given for him at the Park Theatre, the proceeds of which made more plea- sant his closing days. He died in the month of December, 1843, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, much respected by all who knew him, for his THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I liail'd as a treasure, For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket that hangs in the well ! modesty and integrity as well as for his literary abilities. Mr. WoonwonTn wrote many pieces for the stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic life. He dwelt always with delight upon the scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was compelled to make his home amid the strife and tumult of a city. He was the poet of the " com- mon people," and was happy in the belief that " The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never heard of Thanatopsis." Some of his pieces have certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection might be made from his voluminous writings that would be very honourable to his talents and his feelings. There has been no recent edition of any of his works. THE NEEDLE. THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille ; And seek admiration by vauntingly telling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; But give me the fair one, in country or city, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, While plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art If Love have a potent, a magical token, A talisman, ever resistless and true A charm that is never evaded or broken, A witchery certain the heart to subdue 'Tis this and his armoury never has furnish'd So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart ; Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnish'd, And Oh ! it is certain of touching the heart. The bright little needle the swift-flying needle-, The needle directed by beauty and art. Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball. As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, Each cheerfully active and playing her part, Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. ANDREWS NORTON. [Born 1786.] MH. NORTOJT was born at Hingham, near Bos- ton, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterward tutor and librarian in Harvard Uni- versity. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman. Mr. NORTON is author of "The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels," published, in an octavo volume, in 1837; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited rare scholarship and argumentative 'abilities. His poetical writings are not numerous. TO ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 0, STAY thy tears ! for they are blest Whose days are past ; whose toil is done. Here midnight care disturbs our rest ; Here sorrow dims the noonday sun. For labouring Virtue's anxious toil, For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh, For Faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, Heaven grants the recompense, to die. How blest are they whose transient years Pass like an evening meteor's flight ; Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears ; Whose course is short, unclouded, bright. How cheerless were our lengthen'd way, Did heaven's own light not break the gloom ; Stream downward from eternal day, And cast a glory round the tomb ! Then stay thy tears ; the blest above Have hail'd a spirit's heavenly birth ; Sung a new song of joy and love, And why should anguish reign on earth 1 WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. FAREWELL ! before we meet again, Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown, That lie in distant years of pain, I have to journey on alone ; To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, Perchance with joys thou canst not share ; And when we both were wont to kneel, To breathe alone the silent prayer ; But ne'er a deeper pang to know, Than when I watch'd thy slow decay, Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow, And felt at last each hope give way. But who the destined hour may tell, That bids the loosen'd spirit fly 1 E'en now this pulse's feverish swell May warn me of mortality. , But chance what may, thou wilt no more With sense and wit my hours beguile, Infonn with learning's various lore, Or charm with friendship's kindest smile Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, Should friends desert, and life decline, I shall not know thy soothing power, Nor hear thee say, " My heart is thine." If thou hadst lived, thy well-earn'd fame Had bade my fading prospect bloom, Had cast its lustre o'er my name, And stood the guardian of my tomb. Servant of GOD ! thy ardent mind, With lengthening years improving still, Striving, untired, to serve mankind, Had thus perform'd thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given ; 'T was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to the blow ; With patient smile and steady eye, To meet each pang that sickness gave, And see with lingering step draw nigh The form that pointed to the grave. Servant of GOD ! thou art not there ; Thy race of virtue is not run ; What blooms on earth of good anu fair, Will ripen in another sun. Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears! ANDREWS NORTON. 89 Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return To when in summer's moonlight walk, Of all that now is thine to learn, We framed no light nor fruitless talk. We spake of knowledge, such as soars From world to world with ceaseless flight ; And love, that follows and adores, As nature spreads before her sight. How vivid still past scenes appear ! I feel as though all were not o'er ; As though 'twere strange I cannot hear Thy voice of friendship yet once more. But I shall hear it ; in that day Whose setting sun I may not view, When earthly voices die away, Thine will at last be heard anew. We meet again ; a little while, And where thou art I too shall be. And then, with what an angel smile Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me ! A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the deep-blue sky ! In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softcn'd sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; The wind flows cool, the scented ground Is breathing odours on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest to gaze below a while, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth from off the scene, Its floating veil of mist is flung ; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on nature yet the same Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, Fresh in her youth, from GOD'S own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above ; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. HYMN. Mr GOD, I thank thee ! may no thought E'er deem thy chastisements severe ; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; The sun shines bright, and man is gay ; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom That darkens o'er his little day. Full many a throb of grief and pain Thy frail and erring child must know ; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow. Thy various messengers employ ; Thy purposes of love fulfil ; And, mid the wreck of human joy, May kneeling faith adore thy will ! TO MRS. ON HER DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. FAREWELL ! farewell ! for many a day Our thoughts far o'er the sea will roam ! Blessings and payers attend thy way ; Glad welcomes wait for thee at home. While gazing upon Alpine snows, Or lingering near Italian shores ; Where Nature all her grandeur shows, Or art unveils her treasured stores ; When mingling with those gifted minds That shed their influence on our race, Thine own its native station finds, And takes with them an honour'd place ; Forget not, then, how dear thou art To many friends not with thee there ; To many a warm and anxious heart, Object of love, and hope, and prayer. When shall we meet again? some day, In a bright morning, when the gale Sweeps the blue waters as in play ; Then shall we watch thy coming sail '.' When shall we meet again, and where? We trust not hope's uncertain voice; To faith the future all is fair: She speaks assured ; Thou shalt rejoice.' Perhaps our meeting may be when, Mid new-born life's awakening glow, The loved and lost appear again, Heaven's music sounding sweet and low 90 ANDREWS NORTON. HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH. WHERE ancient forests round us spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall, On the lone mountain's silent head, There are thy temples, GOD of all ! Beneath the dark-blue, midnight arch, Whence myriad suns pour down their rays, Where planets trace their ceaseless march, Father ! we worship as we gaze. The tombs thine altars are ; for there, When earthly loves and hopes have fled, To thee ascends the spirit's prayer, Tnou GOD of the immortal dead ! All space is holy ; for all space Is fill'd by thee ; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place, Where thy own words of love are taught. Here be they taught ; and may we know That faith thy servants knew of old ; Which onward bears through weal and wo, Till Death the gates of heaven unfold ! Nor we alone ; may those whose brow Shows yet no trace of human cares, Hereafter stand where we do now, And raise to thee still holier prayers ! FORTITUDE. FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way Be rough, like that thy SAVIOUR trod ; Though cold and stormy lower the day, This path of suffering leads to GOD. Nay, sink not ; though from every limb Are starting drops of toil and pain ; Thou dost but share the lot of Him With whom his followers are to reign. Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone, Must bear the sorrows that assail ; Look upward to the eternal throne, And know a Friend who cannot fail. Bear firmly ; yet a few more days, And thy hard trial will be past ; Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze, Thy feet will rest on heaven at last. Christian ! thy Friend, thy Master pray'd, When dread and anguish shook his frame ; Then met his sufferings undismay'd ; Wilt thou not strive to do the same ? O ! think' st thou that his Father's love Shone round him then with fainter rays Than now, when, throned all height above, Unceasing voices hymn his praise 1 Go, sufferer ! calmly meet the woes Which GOD'S own mercy bids thee bear ; Then, rising as thy SAVIOUR rose, Go ! his eternal victory share. THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. ANOTHER year ! another year ! The unceasing rush of time sweeps on ; Whelm'd in its surges, disappear Man's hopes and fears, forever gone ! 0, no ! forbear that idle tale ! The hour demands another strain, Demands high thoughts that cannot quail, And strength to conquer and retain. 'T is midnight from the dark-blue sky, The stars, which now look down on earth, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, And given to countless changes birth. And when the pyramids shall fall, And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, The dwellers on this alter'd ball May still behold them glorious there. Shine on ! shine on ! with you I tread The march of ages, orbs of light ! A last eclipse o'er you may spread, To me, to me, there comes no night O ! what concerns it him, whose way Lies upward to the immortal dead, That a few hairs are turning gray, Or one more year of life has fled 1 Swift years ! but teach me how to bear, To feel and act with strength and skill, To reason wisely, nobly dare, And speed your courses as ye will. When life's meridian toils are done, How calm, how rich the twilight glow ! The morning twilight of a sun Which shines not here on things below. But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain To leave, or lose wife, children, friends ! What then shall we not meet again Where parting comes not, sorrow ends ? The fondness of a parent's care, The changeless trust which woman gives, The smile of childhood, it is there That all we love in them still lives. Press onward through each varying hour ; Let no weak fears thy course delay ; Immortal being ! feel thy power, Pursue thy bright and endless way. ANDREWS NORTON. 91 TO MRS. -, JUST AFTER HER MAR- RIAGE. NAT ! ask me not now for some proof that my heart Has learn'd the dear lesson of friendship for thee; Nay ! ask not for words that might feebly impart The feelings and thoughts which thy glance cannot see. Whate'er I could wish thee already is thine ; The'fair sunshine within sheds its beams through thine eye ; And Pleasure stands near thee, and waits but a sign To all whom thou lovest at thy bidding to fly. Yet, hereafter, thy bosom some sadness may feel, Some cloud o'er thy heart its chill shadow may throw ; Then, ask if thou wilt, and my words shall reveal The feelings and thoughts which thou now canst not know FUNERAL HYMN. HE has gone to his Gon ; he has gone to his home; No more amid peril and error to roam; His eyes are no longer dim ; His feet will no more falter ; No grief can follow him ; No pang his cheek can alter. There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below ; For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow ; But the harps of heaven are ringing; Glad angels come to greet him, And hymns of joy are singing, While old friends press to meet him. ! honour'd, beloved, to earth unconfined, Thou hast soared on high, thou hast left us behind. But our parting is not forever, We will follow thee by heaven's light, Where the grave cannot dissever The souls whom GOD will unite. A WINTER MORNING. THE keen, clear air the splendid sight We waken to a world of ice ; Where all things are enshrined in light, As by some genie's quaint device. 'T is winter's jubilee this day His stores their countless treasures yield ; See how the diamond glances play, In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field. The cold, bare spot where late we ranged, The naked woods, are seen no more ; This earth to fairy land is changed, With glittering silver sheeted o'er. A shower of gems is strew'd around ; The flowers of winter, rich and rare ; Rubies and sapphires deck the ground, The topaz, emerald, all are there. The morning sun, with cloudless rays, His powerless splendour round us streams ; From crusted boughs, and twinkling sprays, Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams. With more than summer beauty fair, The trees in winter's garb are shown ; What a rich halo melts in air, Around their crystal branches thrown ! And yesterday how changed the view From what then charm'd us ; when the sky Hung, with its dim and watery hue, O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh. The distant groves, array'd in white, Might then like things unreal seem, Just shown a while in silvery light, The fictions of a poet's dream ; Like shadowy groves upon that shore O'er which Elysium's twilight lay, By bards and sages feign'd of yore, Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day. GOD of Nature ! with what might Of beauty, shower'd on all below, Thy guiding power would lead aright Earth's wanderer all thy love to know ! RICHARD H. DANA. [Born ITS7.] WILLIAM: DAKA, Esquire, was sheriff of Mid- dlesex during the reign of Queen ELIZABETH. His only descendant at that time living, RICHARD DANA, came to America about the middle of the seventeenth century, and settled at Cambridge, then called Newtown, near Boston. A grandson of this gentleman, of the same name, was the poet's grandfather. He was an eminent member of the bar of Massachusetts, and an active whig during the troubles in Boston immediately before the Revolution. He married a sister of EDMUND TEOWBRIDGE, who was one of the king's judges, and the first lawyer in the colony. FRANCIS DANA, the father of RICHARD H. DANA, after being graduated at Harvard College, studied law with his uncle, Judge TROWBRIDGE, and became equally distinguished for his professional abilities. He was appointed envoy to Russia during the Revolution, was a member of Congress, and of the Massachusetts Convention for adopting the national constitution, and afterward Chief Jus- tice of that Commonwealth. He married a daugh- tei of the Honourable WILLIAM ELLERY, of Rhode Island, one of the signers of the Declara- tion of Independence, and through her the subject of this sketch is lineally descended from ANNE BHADSTHEET, the wife of Governor BUADSTREET, and daughter of Governor DUDLEY, who was the most celebrated poet of her time in America. Thus, it will be seen, our author has good blood in his veins: an honour which no one pretends to despise who is confident that his grandfather was not a felon or a boor. RICHARD HENRY DANA was born at Cam- bridge, on the fifteenth of November, 1787. When about ten years old he went to Newport, Rhode Island, where he remained until a year or two before he entered Harvard College. His health, during his boyhood, was too poor to admit of very constant application to study ; and much of his time was passed in rambling along the rock- bound coast, listening to the roar and dashing of the waters, and searching for the wild and pic- turesque ; indicating thus early that love of na- ture which is evinced in nearly all his subsequent writings, and acquiring that perfect knowledge of the scenery of the sea which is' shown in the " Buccaneer," and some of his minor pieces. On leaving college, in 1807, he returned to Newport, and passed nearly two years in studying the Latin language and literature, after which he went to Baltimore, and entered as a student the law office of General ROBERT GOOD HUE HABPER. The ap- proach of the second war with Great Britain, and the extreme unpopularity of all persons known to belong to the federal party, induced him to return to Cambridge, where he finished his course of .study and opened an office. He soon became a member of the legislature, and was for a time a warm partisan. Feeble health, and great constitutional sensi- tiveness, the whole current of his mind and feel- ings, convinced him that he \va-; unfitted for his profession, and he closed his office to assist his relative, Professor EDWARD T. CHANMNR, in the management of the North American Review," which had then been established about two years. While connected with this periodical he wrote several articles which (particularly one upon HAZLITT'S British Poets) excited much atten- tion among the literary men of Boston and Cam- bridge. The POPE and Queen ANNE school was then triumphant, and the dicta of JEFFREY were law. DANA praised WOHDSWOIITH and COLE- RIDGE, arid saw much to admire in BYRON; he thought poetry was something more than a recrea- tion; that it was something superinduced upon the realities of life ; he believed the ideal and the spiritual might be as real as the visible and the tangible ; thought there were truths beyond the understanding and the senses, and not to be reached by ratiocination ; and indeed broached many paradoxes not to be tolerated then, but whicfc now the same community has taken up and carried to an extent at that time unthought of. A strong party rose against these opinions, and DAXA had the whole influence of the university, of the literary and fashionable society of the city, and of the press, to contend against. Being in a minority with the "North American Club," he in 1819 or 1820 gave up all connection with the Review, which passed into the hands of the ETE- RETTS and others, and in 1821 began "The Idle Man," for which he found a publisher in Mr. CHARLES WILEY, of New York. This was read and admired by a class of literary men, but it was of too high a character for the period, and on the publication of the first number of the second vo- lume, DANA received from Mr. WIUEY informa- tion that he was "writing himself into debt," and gave up the work. In 1825, he published his first poetical produc- tion, "The Dying Raven," in the "New York Review," then edited by Mr. BUY ANT;* and two * While DANA was a member of the " North American Club," the poem entitled "Thinatopsis" was offered for publication in the Review. Our critic, with one or two others, read it, and concurred in the belief that it could not have been written by an American. There was a finish and completeness about it, added to the grandeur and beauty of the ideas, to which, it was supposed, none of our own writers h;ul attained. DANA was informed, however, that the author of it was a member of the Mas- sachusetts Sonatp, then in session, and he walked imme- diately from Cambridge to the State House in Boston to obtain a view of the remarkable man. A plain, miildle- aged gentleman, with a business-like aspect, was pointed M RICHARD H. DANA. 93 years after gave to the public, in a small volume, "The Buccaneer, and other Poems." This was well received, the popular taste having, in the five years which had elapsed since the publication of the "Idle Man," been considerably improved; but as his publishers failed soon after it was printed, the poet was not made richer by his toil. In 1833 he published his " Poems and Prose Writings," including "The Buccaneer," and other pieces em- braced in his previous volume, with some new poems, and the "Idle Man," except the few papers written for it by his friends. For this he received from his bookseller about enough to make up for the loss he had sustained by the "Idle Man." His case illustrates the usual extent of the rewards of exertion in the higher departments of literature in this country. Had his first work been successful, he would probably have been a voluminous writer. In 1839, he delivered in Boston and New York a scries of lectures on English poetry, and the great masters of the art, which were warmly ap- plauded by the educated and judicious. These have not yet been printed. The longest and most remarkable of DANA'S poems is the "Buccaneer," a story in which he has depicted with singular power the stronger and darker passions. It is based on a tradition of a murder committed on an island on the coast of New England, by a pirate, whose guilt in the end THE BUCCANEER. " Boy with thy blac herd, I rede that thou Win, And sone set the to shrive, With sorrow of thi syn ; Ze met with the merchandes And made tham ful bare : It es gude reason and right That ze evill misfare." LAURENCE MINOT. THE island lies nine leagues away. Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck, with her glossy breast, Sits swinging silently ; How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. out to him ; a single glance was sufficient ; the legislator could not be the author of Thanatopsis ; and he returned without seeking an introduction. A slight and natural mistake of names had misled his informant. The real author being at length discovered, a correspondence en- sued ; and BRYANT hein? invited to deliver the Phi Beta Kappa poem at Cambridge, they became personally ac- quuinted, and a friendship sprung up which has lasted until the present time. meets with strange and terrible retribution. In attempting to compress his language he is some- times slightly obscure, and his verse is occasionally harsh, but never feeble, never without meaning. The "Buccaneer" is followed by a poem of very different character, entitled "The Changes of Home," in which is related the affection of two young persons, in humble life, whose marriage is deferred until the lover shall have earned the means of subsistence ; his departure in search of gain ; his return in disappointment ; his second departure, and death in absence a sad history, and one that is too often lived. " Factitious Life," " Thoughts on the Soul," and " The Hus- band's and Wife's Grave," are the longest of his other poems, and, as well as his shorter pieces, they are distinguished for high religious purpose, profound philosophy, simple sentiment, and pure and vigorous diction. All the writings of DANA belong to the perma- nent literature of the country. His prose and poetry will find every year more and more readers. Something resembling poetry " is oftentimes borne into instant and turbulent popularity, while a work of genuine character may be lying neglected by all except the poets. But the tide of time flows on, and the former begins to settle to the bottom, while the latter rises slowly and steadily to the surface, and goes forward, for a spirit is in it." And inland rests the green, warm dell ; The brook comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale among the rocks. Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale ; Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet ; Curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men ; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear ; A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear : Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. Twelve years are gone since MATTHEW LEE Held in this isle unquestion'd sway ; A dark, low, brawny man was he ; His law " It is my way." Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph spoke. n. Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil, He little reck'd of good or harm, Fierce both in mirth and toil ; Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were : Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear. 94 RICHARD H. DANA Amid the uproar of the storm, And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, Were seen LEE'S face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air; Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge ? There's blood and hair, MAT, on thy axe's edge. " Nay, ask him yonder ; let him tell ; I make the brute, not man, my mark. Who walks these cliffs, needs heed him well ! Last night was fearful dark. Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel ? An ugly gash ! These rocks they cut like steel. He wiped his axe ; and, turning round, Said, with a cold and harden'd smile, The hemp is saved the man is drown'd. Wilt let him float a while 1 Or give him Christian burial on the strand '! He '11 find his fellows peaceful 'neath the sand." LEE'S waste was greater than his gain. " I '11 try the merchant's trade," he thought, Though less the toil to kill, than feign Things sweeter robb'd than bought. But, then, to circumvent them at their arts !" Ship mann'd, and spoils for cargo, LEE departs. 'T is fearful, on the broad-back'd waves, To feel them shake, and hear them roar; Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves: Around, no cheerful shore. Yet mid this solemn world what deeds are done 1 The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight's won ; And wanton talk, and laughter heard, Where speaks GOD'S deep and awful voice. There's awe from that lone ocean-bird ; Pray ye, when ye rejoice ! "Leave prayers to priests," cries LEE; "I'm ruler here ! These fellows know full well whom they should fear !" The ship works hard ; the seas run high ; Their white tops, flashing through the night, Give to the eager, straining eye, A wild and shifting light "Hard at the pumps! The leak is gaining fast! Lighten the ship ! The devil rode that blast !" Ocean has swallow'd for its food Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee ; MAT, could its waters wash out blood, It had been well for thee. Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear Hast thou for sin? Then wait thine hour of fear. The sea has like a plaything toss'd That heavy hull the livelong night. The man of sin he is not lost ; Soft breaks the morning light. Torn spars and sails her cargo in the deep The ship makes port with slow and labouring sweep. XII. Within a Spanish port she rides. Angry and sour'd, LEE walks her deck. " Then peaceful trade a curse betides 1 And thou, good ship, a wreck ! Ill luck in change ! Ho ! cheer ye up, my men ! Rigg'd, and at sea, we'll to old work again!" XIII. A sound is in the Pyrenees ! Whirling and dark, comes roaring down A tide, as of a thousand seas, Sweeping both cowl and crown. On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood. Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood, And wrath and terror shake the land ; The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights ; Soon comes the tread of that stout band Bold ARTHUR and his knights. Awake ye, MEHLIX ! Hear the shout from Spain ! The spell is broke! ARTHUR is come again! Too late for thee, thou young fair bride : The lips are cold, the brow is pale, That thou didst kiss in love and pride : He cannot hear thy wail, Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmur'd sound : His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. He fell for Spain her Spain no more ; For he was gone who made it dear ; And she would seek some distant shore. At rest from strife and fear, And wait, amid her sorrows, till the day His voice of love should call her thence away. LEE feign'd him grieved, and bow'd him low. 'T would Jby his heart could he but aid So good a lady in her wo, He meekly, smoothly said. With wealth and servants she is soon aboard, And that white steed she rode beside her lord. The sun goes down upon tho son ; The shadows gather round her home. " How like a pall are ye to me ! My home, how liko a tomb ! ! blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head. Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." RICHARD H. DANA. 95 And now the stars arc burning bright; Yet still she's looking toward the shore Beyond the waters black in night. " I ne'er shall see thee more ! Ye 're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow ; And I 'm alone scarce know I where to go." Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea ! The wash of waters lulls thee now ; His arm no more will pillow thee, Thy fingers on his brow. He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. The ground is his the sea must be thy grave. The moon comes up ; the night goes on. Why, in the shadow of the mast, Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone 1 Thy pledge, man ; keep it fast ! Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, LEE ; Helpless, alone and, then, her trust in thee. xxn. When told the hardships thou hadst borne, Her words to thee were like a charm. With uncheer'd grief her heart is worn ; Thou wilt not do her harm ! He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light, And growls an oath " It is too still to-night !" xxiii. He sleeps ; but dreams of massy gold, And heaps of pearl. He stretch'd his hands. He hears a voice " 111 man, withhold !" A pale one near him stands. Her breath conies deathly cold upon his cheek ; Her touch is cold. He wakes with piercing shriek. XXIV. He wakes ; but no relentings wake Within his angry, restless soul. What, shall a dream MAT'S purpose shake ? The gold will make all whole. Thy merchant trade had nigh unmann'd thee, lad ! What, balk my chance because a woman's sad !" XXV. He cannot look on her mild eye ; Her patient words his spirit quell. Within that evil heart there lie The hates and fears of hell. His speech is short ; he wears a surly brow. There 's none will hear her shriek. What fear ye now 1 XXTI. The workings of the soul ye fear ; Ye fear the power that goodness hath ; Ye fear the Unseen One, ever near, Walking his ocean path. From out the silent void there comes a cry Vengeance is mine ! Thou, murderer, too, shalt die!" XXVII. Nor dread of ever-during wo, Nor the sea's awful solitude, Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego. Then, bloody hand, to blood ! The scud is driving wildly overhead ; The stars burn dim ; the ocean moans its dead. XXVIII. Moan for the living ; moan our sins, The wrath of man, more fierce than thine. Hark ! still thy waves ! The work begins LEE makes the deadly sign. The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand Speak fearful meanings through that silent band. They 're gone. The helmsman stands alone : And one leans idly o'er the bow. Still as a tomb the ship keeps on ; Nor sound nor stirring now. Hush, hark ! as from the centre of the deep Shrieks fiendish yells ! They stab them in their The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry, The panting, throttled prayer for life, The dying's heaving sigh, The murderer's curse, the dead man's fix'd, still glare, And fear's and death's cold sweat they all are there ! XXXI. On pale, dead men, on burning cheek, On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, On hands that with the warm blood reek, Shines the dim cabin lamp. LEE look'd. " They sleep so sound," he, laughing, said, " They '11 scarcely wake for mistress or for maid." XXXII. A crash ! They 've forced the door, and then One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream Comes thrilling through the growl of men. 'Tis hers ! O GOD, redeem From worse than death, thy suffering, helpless child! That dreadful shriek again sharp, sharp, and wild! XXXIII. It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash, A loose-robed form, with streaming hair, Shoots by. A leap a quick, short splash ! 'T is gone ! There 's nothing there ! The waves have swept away the bubbling tide. Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride *, xxxiv. She's sleeping in her silent cave. Nor hears the stern, loud roar above, Nor strife of man on land or wave. Young thing ! her home of love She soon has reach'd ! Fair, unpolluted thing ! They harm'd her not ! Was dying suffering 1 RICHARD H. DANA. XXXT. O, no ! To live when joy was dead ; To go with one lone, pining thought To mournful love her being wed Feeling what death had wrought ; To live the child of wo, yet shed no tear, Bear kindness, and yet share no joy nor fear ; To look on man, and deem it strange That he on things of earth should brood, When all its throng'd and busy range To her was solitude 0, this was bitterness ! Death came and press'd Her wearied lids, and brought her sick heart rest. Why look ye on each other so, And speak no word ? Ay, shake the head ! She 's gone where ye can never go, What fear ye from the dead ? They tell no tales ; and ye are all true men ; But wash away that blood ; then, home again ! 'Tis on your souls ; it will not out! LEE, why so lost ? 'Tis not like thee! Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout 1 " That pale one in the sea ! I mind not blood. But she I cannot tell! A spirit was't? it flash'd like fires of hll ! "And when it pass'd there was no tread ! It leap'd the deck. Who heard the sound? I heard none! Say, what was it fled? Poor girl! And is she drown'd? Went down these depths? How dark they look, and cold! She's yonder! stop her! Now! there! hold her, hold !" xt. They gazed upon his ghastly face. "What ails thee, LEE ; and why that glare?" "Look! ha, 'tis gone, and not a trace! No, no, she was not there ! Who of you said ye heard her when she fell ? 'Twas strange I'll not be fool'd Will no one tell?" XLI. He paused. And soon the wildness pass'd. Then came the tingling flush of shame. Remorse and fear are gone as fast. "The silly thing's to blame To quit us so. 'T is plain she loved us not ; Or she 'd have stay'd a while, and shared my cot" And then the ribald laugh'd. The jest, Though old and foul, loud laughter drew; And fouler yet came from the rest Of that infernal crew. Note, heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust! Lust panders murder murder panders lust! Now slowly up they bring the dead From out that silent, dim-lit room. No prayer at their quick burial said ; No friend to weep their doom. The hungry waves have seized them one by one ; And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on. XLIV. Cries LEE, " We must not be betray'd. 'T is but to add another corse ! Strange words, 't is said, an ass once bray'd : I '11 never trust a horse ! Out ! throw him on the waves alive ! He '11 swim ; For once a horse shall ride ; we all ride him." xiv. Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came As rang far o'er the waters wide. It shook with fear the stoutest frame: The horse is on the tide ! As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry Comes lower now, and now 'tis near and high. And through the swift wave's yesty crown His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light, And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down, Now heaves again to sight, Then drifts away ; and through the night they hear Far off that dreadful cry. But morn is near. O hadst thou known what deeds were done, When thou wast shining far away, Would' st thou let fall, calm-coming sun, Thy warm and silent ray ? The good are in their graves ; thou canst not cheer Their dark, cold mansions : Sin alone is here. " The deed 's complete ! The gold is ours ! There, wash away that bloody stain ! Pray, who 'd refuse what fortune showers ? Now, lads, we '11 lot our gain. Must fairly share, you know, what's fairly got? A truly good night's work ! Who says 't was not ?" There's song, and oath, and gaining deep, Hot words, and laughter, mad carouse ; There 's naught of prayer, and little sleep ; The devil keeps the house ! LEE cheats!" cried JACK. LEE struck him to the heart. "That's foul!" one mutter'd. "Fool! you take your part ! i.. " The fewer heirs the richer, man ! Hold forth thy palm, and keep thy prate! Our life, we read, is but a span. What matters, soon or late?" And when on shore, and asked, Did many die ? " Near half my crew, poor lads !" he 'd say, and sigh. RICHARD H. DANA. 97 Within our bay, one stormy night, The isle-men saw boats make for shore, With here and there a dancing light, That flash'd on man and oar. When hail'd, the rowing stopp'd, and all was dark. " Ha ! lantern-work ! We '11 home ! They 're play- ing shark !" LIT. Next day, at noontime, toward the town, All stared and wonder'd much to see MAT and his men come strolling down. The boys shout, " Here comes LEE !" " Thy ship, good LEE 1" " Not many leagues from shore Our ship by chance took fire." They learn'd no He and his crew were flush of gold. " You did not lose your cargo, then ?" " Learn, where all 's fairly bought and sold, Heaven prospers those true men. Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook Our ways of sin, and honest courses took ! " Wouldst see my log-book 1 Fairly writ With pen of steel, and ink of blood ! How lightly doth the conscience sit ! Learn, truth's the only good." And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer, He fled repentance, if he 'scaped not fear. Remorse and fear he drowns in drink. " Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew! It thicks the blood to mope and think. Here's merry days, though few!" And then he quaffs. So riot reigns within ; So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin. MAT lords it now throughout the isle. His hand falls heavier than before. All dread alike his frown or smile. None come within his door, Save those who dipp'd their hands in blood with him ; Save those who laugh'd to see the white horse swim. "To-night's our anniversary; And, mind me, lads, we '11 have it kept With royal state and special glee ! Better with those who slept Their sleep that night, had he be now, who slinks ! And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks !" LTiir. The words they speak, we may not speak. The tales they tell, we may not tell. Mere mortal man, forbear to seek The secrets of that hell ! Their shouts grow loud : 'Tis near mid-hour of night : What means upon the waters that red light 1 13 Not bigger than a star it seems : And, now, 'tis like the bloody moon: And, now, it shoots in hairy streams Its light ! 'twill reach us soon ! A ship ! and all on fire ! hull, yards, and mast ! Her sheets are sheets of flarne! She's nearing fast! LX. And now she rides, upright and still, Shedding a wild and lurid light Around the cove, on inland hill, Waking the gloom of night. All breathes of terror ! men, in dumb amaze, Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze. It scares the sea-birds from their nests ; They dart and wheel with deafening screams ; Now dark and now their wings and breasts Flash back disastrous gleams. O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth 1 The world, man, is wailing o'er thy birth. And what comes up above the wave, So ghastly white 1 A spectral head ! A horse's head ! (May Heaven save Those looking on the dead The waking dead !) There, on the sea, he stands The Spectre-Horse ! He moves ; he gains the sands ! Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides Are streaming with a cold, blue light. Heaven keep the wits of him who rides The Spectre-Horse to-night ! His path is shining like a swift ship's wake ; Before LEE'S door he gleams like day's gray break. LXIT. The revel now is high within ; It breaks upon the midnight air. They little think, mid mirth and din, What spirit waits them there. As if the sky became a voice, there spread A sound to appal the living, stir the dead. The spirit-steed sent up the neigh. It seem'd the living trump of hell, Sounding to call the damn'd away, To join the host that fell. It rang along the vaulted sky : the shore Jarr'd hard, as when the thronging surges roar. It rang in ears that knew the sound ; And hot, fiush'd cheeks are blanch'd with fear. And why does LEE look wildly round 1 Thinks he the drown'd horse near? He drops his cup his lips are stiff with fright. Nay, sit thee down ! It is thy banquet night. I 98 RICHARD H. DANA. " I cannot sit. I needs must go : The spell is on my spirit now. I go to dread I go to wo !" O, who so weak as thou, Strong man ! His hoof upon the door-stone, see, The shadow stands ! His eyes are on thee, LEE ! Thy hair pricks up ! 0, 1 must bear His damp, cold breath ! It chills my frame ! His eyes their near and dreadful glare Speak that I must not name !" Thou 'rt mad to mount that horse ! " A power within, I must obey cries, < Mount thee, man of sin !' " He's now upon the spectre's back, With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 'T is fearful speed ! the rein is slack Within his senseless hold ; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides, Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides. He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! And now they 're on the hanging steep ! And, now ! the living and the dead, They '11 make the horrid leap ! The horse stops short : his feet are on the verge. He stands, like marble, high above the surge. And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling- flame. From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet's the same ! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip ! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! What see you, LEE 1 the bodies of the drown'd 1 " I look, where mortal man may not Into the chambers of the deep. I see the dead, long, long forgot ; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." Thou mild, sad mother waning moon, Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines toward him. Quit him not so soon ! \ Mother, in mercy, stay ! Despair and death are with him ; and canst thou, With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now 1 1XXV. O, thou wast born for things of love ; Making more lovely in thy shine Whate'er thou look'st on. Hosts above, In that soft light of thine, Burn softer : earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. Thou 'rt going down ! hast left him unforgiven ! I.XXVI. The far, low west is bright no more. How still it is ! No sound is heard At sea, or all along the shore, But cry of passing bird. Thou living thing and dar'st thou come so near These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear ? Now long that thick, red light has shone On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, On man and horse, that seem of stone, So motionless are they. But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : The night is going faint, gray dawn returns. That spectre-steed now slowly pales ; Now changes like the moonlit cloud ; That cold, thin light, now slowly fails. Which wrapp'd them like a shroud. Both ship and horse are fading into air. Lost, mazed, alone see, LEE is standing there ! 1XXIX. The morning air blows fresh on him : The waves dance gladly in his sight ; The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim O, blessed morning light ! He doth not hear their joyous call ; he sees No beauty in the wave ; nor feels the breeze. LXXX. For he 's accursed from all that 's good ; He ne'er must know its healing power ; The sinner on his sins must brood, And wait, alone, his hour. A stranger to earth's beauty human love ; There 's here no rest for him, no hope above ! The hot sun beats upon his head ; He stands beneath its broad, fierce blaze, As stiff and cold as one that's dead : A troubled, dreamy maze Of some unearthly horror, all he knows Of some wild horror past, and coming woes. LXXXII. The gull has fount! her place on shore ; The sun gone down again to rest ; And all is stilt but ocean's roar : There stands the man unbless'd. But, see, he moves he turns, as asking where His mates ! Why looks he with that piteous stare ? RICHARD H. DANA. 99 Go, get thee home, and end thy mirth ! Go, call the revellers again ! They 're fled the isle ; and o'er the earth Are wanderers like Cain. As he his door-stone pass'd, the air blew chill. The wine is on the board ; LEE, take thy fill ! LXXXIV. "There's none to meet me, none to cheer; The seats are empty lights burnt out ; And I, alone, must sit me here : Would I could hear their shout !" He ne'er shall hear it more more taste his wine ! Silent lie sits within the still moonshine. Day came again ; and up he rose, A weary man from his lone board ; Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose Did that long night afford. No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast ! He walks within the day's full glare A darken'd man. Where'er he comes, All shun him. Children peep and stare ; Then, frighten'd, seek their homes. Through all the crowd a thrilling horror ran. They point, and say, "There goes the wicked man !" LXXXYII. He turns and curses in his wrath Both man and child ; then hastes away Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path ; But there he cannot stay : Terror and madness drive him back to men; His hate of man to solitude again. LXXXVIII. Time passes on, and he grows bold His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud ; None dare from LEE the hand withhold ; He rules and scoffs the crowd. But still at heart there lies a secret fear; For now the year's dread round is drawing near. LXXXIX. He swears, but he is sick at heart ; He laughs, but he turns deadly pale ; His restless eye and sudden start These tell the dreadful tale That will be told: it needs no words from thee, Thou self-sold slave to fear and misery. Bond-slave of sin, see there that light! Ha ! take me take me from its blaze !" Nay, thou must ride the steed to-night ! But other weary days And nights must shine and darken o'er thy head, Ere thou shalt go with him te meet the dead. Again the ship lights all the land ; Again LEE strides the spectre-beast; Again upon the clitf they stand. This once he '11 be released ! Gone horse and ship; but LEE'S last hope is o'er; Nor laugh, nor scoff, nor rage can help him more. His spirit heard that spirit say, " Listen ! I twice have come to thee. Once more and then a dreadful way ! And thou must go with me !" Ay, cling to earth, as sailor to the rock ! Sea-swept, suck'd down in the tremendous shock. He goes ! So thou must loose thy hold, And go with Death ; nor breathe the balm Of early air, nor light behold, Nor sit thee in the calm Of gentle thoughts, where good men wait their close. In life, or death, where Icok'st thou for repose 1 XCIT. Who's sitting on that long, black ledge, Which makes so far out in the sea; Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge ? Poor, idle MATTHEW LEE! So weak and pale 1 A year and little more, And bravely did he lord it round this shore ! xcv. And on the shingles now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; Now walks the beach ; then stops by fits, And scores the smooth, wet sands ; Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds The isle ; then home from many weary rounds. They ask him why he wanders so, From day to day, the uneven strand 1 I wish, I wish that I might go ! But I would go by land ; And there's no way that t can find I 've tried All day and night!" He seaward look'd, and sigh'd. xcvrr. It brought the tear to many an eye That, once, his eye had made to quail. "LEE, go with us; our sloop is nigh; Come ! help us hoist her sail." He shook. "You know the spirit-horse I ride! He '11 let me on the sea with none beside !" He views the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. ! 't is a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings, Making it light around them as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep. 100 RICHARD H. DANA. And where the far-off sand-bars lift Their hacks in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine Into the air; then rush to mimic strife Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life But not to LEE. He sits alone; No' fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by wo, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye. 0, how his worn thoughts crave Not joy again, but rest within the grave. The rocks are dripping in the mist That lies so heavy off the shore ; Scarce seen the running breakers ; list Their dull and smother'd roar ! LEE hearkens to their voice. " I hear, I hear Your call. Not yet ! I know my time is near !" en. And now the mist seems taking shape, Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, Enormous thing! There's no escape; 'T is close upon the coast. LEE kneels, but cannot pray. Why mock him so 1 The ship has clear'd the fog, LEE, see her go ! cm. A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, Chants to his ear a plaining song ; Its tones come winding up the heights, Telling of wo and wrong; And he must listen, till the stars grow dim, The song that gentle voice doth sing to Mm. civ. O, it is sad that aught so mild Should bind the soul %vith bands of fear; That strains to soothe a little child, The man should dread to hear! But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace un- strung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. In thick, dark nights he 'd take his scat High up the cliffs, and feel them shake, As swung the sea with heavy beat Below and hear it break With savage roar, turn pause and gather strength, And then, come tumbling in its swollen length. But he no more shall haunt the beach, Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown, Nor go the round of all that reach, Nor feebly sit him down, Watching the swaying weeds : another day, And he '11 have gone far hence that dreadful way. CVII. To-night the charmed number 's told. "Twice have I come for thee," it said. " Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come ! live one, to the dead !" So hears his soul, and fears the coming night ; Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light. CVIIT. Again he sits within that room : All day he leans at that still board ; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weaken'd with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor, shatter'd wretch, there waits he that pale horse. Not long he waits. Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west sun shone And bathed them in his flood Of airy glory 1 Sudden darkness fell ; And down they went, peak, tower, citadel. The darkness, like a dome of stone, Ceils up the heavens. 'T is hush as death All but the ocean's dull, low moan. How hard LEE draws his breath ! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, LEE ! up ! man thee for thine hour! 'T is close at hand ; for there, once more, The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame And shafts of fire she show'd before ; Twice thus she hither came ; But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws A wasting light ! then, settling, down she goes. CXIT. And where she sank, up slowly came The Spectre-Horse from out the sra. And there he stands ! His pale sides flame. He '11 meet thee shortly, LEE. He treads the waters as a solid floor ; He 's moving on. LEE waits him at the door. cxni. They 're met. " I know thou comest for me, LEE'S spirit to the spectre said ; " I know that I must go with thee Take me not to the dead. It was not I alone that did the deed !" Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral steed. cxir. LET. cannot turn. There is a force In that fix'd eye, which holds him fast. How still they stand ! the man and horse. " Thine hour is almost past." "0, spare me," cries the wretch, "thou fearful one !" " My time is full I must not go alone." RICHARD H. DANA. 101 " I 'm weak and faint. 0, let me stay !" " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee !" The horse and man are on their way ; He bears him to the sea. Hark ! how the spectre breathes through this still night : Sec, from his nostrils streams a deathly light ! CXVI. He 's on the beach ; but stops not there ; He 's on the sea ! that dreadful horse ! LEE flings and writhes in wild despair ! In vain ! The spirit-corse Holds him by fearful spell ; he cannot leap. Within that horrid light he rides the deep. cxvir. It lights the sea around their track The curling comb, and dark steel wave ; There, yet, sits LEE the spectre's back Gone ! gone ! and none to save ! They 're seen no more ; the night has shut them in. May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin! CXTIII. The earth has wash'd away its stain ; The sealed-up sky is breaking forth, Mustering its glorious hosts again, From the far south and north ; The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. 0, whither on its waters rideth LEE 1 THE OCEAN.* Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains And flings to break his strong and viewless chains ; Foams in his wrath ; and at his prison doors, Hark ! hear him ! how he beats and tugs and roars, As if he would break forth again and sweep Each living thing within his lowest deep. Type of the Infinite ! I look away Over thy billows, and I cannot stay My thought upon a resting-place, or make A shore beyond my vision, where they break ; But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain To think ; then rests, and then puts forth again. Thou hold'st me by a spell ; and on thy beach I feel all soul ; and thoughts unmeasured reach Far back beyond all date.. And, O ! how old Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast roll'd. Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn, Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn ; Waiting, thou mighty minister of death, Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath. * From " Factitious Life.' At last thou didst it well ! The dread command Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land ; And then once more, unto the silent heaven Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. And though the land is throng'd again, O Sea ! Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call, Share thy own spirit : it is sadness all ! How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down Yonder tall cliff he with the iron crown. And see ! those sable pines along the steep, Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep ! Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge Over the dead, with thy low beating surge. DAYBREAK. " The Pilfjrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising: the name of the chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang." The Pilgrim's Progress. Now, brighter than the host that all night long, In fiery armour, far up in the sky Stood watch, thou comest to wait the morning's song, Thou comest to tell me day again is nigh, Star of the dawning ! Cheerful is thine eye ; And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; Thou bid'st me turn to GOD, and seek my rest in Him. Canst thou grow sad, thou say'st, as earth grows bright 1 And sigh, when little birds begin discourse In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh source 1 With creatures innocent thou must perforce A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, Of ills and pains of life must be the cure, And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure. I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue, Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red ; Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew ; And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed. Still save the bird that scarcely lifts its song The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead The silent city emptied of its throng, And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. But wrong, arid hate, and love, and grief, and mirth Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil and strife, With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth With discord strange, and all that man calls life. With thousand scatter'd beauties nature 's rife ; 102 RICHARD H. DANA. And airs and woods and streams breathe harmonies; Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties : He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. It is because man useth so amiss Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad ; Else why should she in such fresh hour as this Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, From her fair face 1 It is that man is mad ! Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine When nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. Thou look'st toward earth ; but yet the heavens are thine ; While I to earth am hound: When will the heavens be mine ? If man would but his finer nature learn, And not in life fantastic lose the sense Of simpler things; could nature's features stern Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense I should not yearn for GOD to take me hence, But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bow'd, Remembering humbly why it is, and whence : But when I see cold man of reason proud, My solitude is sad I'm lonely in the crowd. But not for this alone, the silent tear Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, Nor for this solemn hour : fresh life is near ; But all my joys ! they died when newly born. Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn, And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye Shall see them pass. Breathe calm my spirit's torn ; Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high ! Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. And when I grieve, O, rather let it be That I whom nature taught to sit with her On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir Of woods and waters feel the quickening spur To my strong spirit; who, as my own child, Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur A beauty see that I this mother mild Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce and wild ! How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft Shot 'thwart the earth ! In crown of living fire Up comes the day ! As if they conscious quaff 'd The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain desire ! The dusky lights are gone ; go thou thy way ! And pining discontent, like them, expire ! Be call'd my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day ; And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.* 0, LISTED, man ! A voice within us speaks the startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices * From the "Husband's and Wife's Grave." Hymn it around our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touch'd when the mild sturs Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality ! Thick, clustering orbs, arid this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. O, listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating in day's setting glories; night, Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ; Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast, mystic instrument, are touch'd By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee : The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice 1 And with that boding cry O'er the waves dost thou fly ? ! rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : Thy wail What does it bring to me 7 Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad : as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery the Word. Of thousands, thou both sepulchre and pall, Old ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells A tale of mourning tells Tells of man's wo and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thce, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light Where birds of summer sing. RICHARD H. DANA. 103 THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. THOUGH I am humble, slight me not, But love me for the Poet's sake ; Forget me not till he's forgot ; I, care or slight, with him would take. For oft he pass'd the blossoms by, And gazed on me with kindly look ; Left flaunting flowers and open sky, And woo'd me by the shady brook. And like the brook his voice was low : So soft, so sad the words he spoke, That with the stream they seem'd to flow : They told me that his heart was broke ; They said, the world he fain would shun, And seek the still and twilight wood His spirit, weary of the sun, In humblest things found chiefest good ; That I was of a lowly frame, And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But flutter'd out its idle hour; That I was kind to old decay, And wrapt it softly round in green, On naked root and trunk of gray Spread out a garniture and screen : They said, that he was withering fast, Without a sheltering friend like me ; That on his manhood fell a blast, And left him bare, like yonder tree ; That spring would clothe Ms boughs no more, Nor ring his boughs with song of bird Sounds like the melancholy shore Alone were through his branches heard. Methought, as then, he stood to trace The wither'd steins, there stole a tear*- That I could read in his sad face, Brother, our sorrows make us near. And then he stretch'd him all along, And laid his head upon my breast, Listening the water's peaceful song, How glad was I to tend his rest ! Then happier grew his soothed soul. He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole, Whispering, Above is brighter day ! He praised my varied hues the green, The silver hoar, the golden, brown ; Said, Lovelier hues were never seen : Then gently press'd my tender down. And where I sent up little shoots, He call'd them trees, in fond conceit : Like silly lovers in their suits He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat. I said, I'd deck me in the dews, Could I but chase away his care, And clothe me in a thousand hues, To bring him joys that I might share. He answer'd, earth no blessing had To cure his lone and aching heart That I was one, when he was sad, Oft stole him from his pain, in part. But e'en from thee, he said, I go, To meet the world, its care and strife, No more to watch this quiet flow, Or spend with thee a gentle life. And yet the brook is gliding on, And I, without a care, at rest, While back to toiling life he's gone, Where finds his head no faithful breast. Deal gently with him, world, I pray ; Ye cares, like soften'd shadows come ; His spirit, wellnigh worn away, Asks with ye but awhile a home. Oh, may I live, and when he dies Be at his feet an humble sod ; Oh, may I lay me where he lies, To die when he awakes in God ! WASHINGTON ALLSTON. I LOOK through tears on Beauty now; And Beauty's self, less radiant, looks on me, Serene, yet touch'd with sadness is the brow (Once bright with joy) I see. Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad 1 Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone At which my heart and earth and skies were glad That link'd us all in one. It is not on the mountain's breast; It comes not to me with the dawning day; Nor looks it from the glories of the west, As slow they pass away. Nor on those gliding roundlets bright That steal their play among the woody shades, Nor on thine own dear children doth it light The flowers along the glades. And alter'd to the living mind (The great high-priestess with her thought-bom race Who round thine altar aye have stood and shined) The comforts of thy face. Why shadow'd thus thy forehead fair? Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom? And spreads away upon the genial air, Like vapours from the tomb 1 Why should ye shine, you lights above ? Why, little flowers, open to the heat ] No more within the heart ye iilled with love The living pulses beat Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand ! The fine beholding eye whose constant look Was turn'd on thee is dark. and cold the hand That gave all vision took. Nay, heart, be still ! Of heavenly birth Is Beauty sprung. Look up ! behold the place ! There he who reverent traced her steps on earth Now sees her face to face. RICHARD HENRY WILDE. [Born about 17S9.] I BKi.ir.vE Mr. WILDE is a native of Baltimore, and that he was born about the year 1789.* His family are of Saxon origin, and their ancient name was DE WILDE ; but his parents were natives of Dublin, and his father was a wholesale hardware merchant and ironmonger in that city during the American war; near the close of which he emi- grated to Maryland, leaving a prosperous business and a large capital in the hands of a partner, by whose bad management they were in a few years both lost The childhood of RICHARD HENHY WILDE was passed in Baltimore. He was taught to read by his mother, and received instruction in writing and Latin grammar from a private tutor until he was about seven years old. He afterward attended an academy ; but his father's affairs becoming em- barrassed, in his eleventh year he was taken home and placed in a store. His constitution was at first tender and delicate. In his infancy he was not expected to live from month to month, and he suffered much from ill health until he was fif- teen or sixteen. This induced quiet, retiring, soli- tary, and studious habits. His mother's example gave him a passion for reading, and all his leisure was devoted to books. The study of poetry was his principal source of pleasure, when he was not more than twelve years old. About this time his father died ; and gathering as much as she could from the wreck of his property, his mother removed to Augusta, Georgia, and commenced there a small business for the support of her family. Here young WILDE, amid the drudgery of trade, taught himself book-keeping, and became familiar with the works in general literature which he could obtain in the meagre libraries of the town, or from his personal friends. The expenses of a large family, and various other causes, reduced the little wealth of his mother; her business became unprofitable, and he resolved to study law. Unable, however, to pay the usual fee for instruction, he kept his design a secret, as far as possible ; borrowed some elementary books from his friends, and studied incessantly, tasking himself to read fifty pages, and write five pages of notes, in the form of questions and answers, each day, besides attending to his duties in the store. And, to overcome a natural diffidence, in- creased by a slight impediment in his speech, he appeared frequently as an actor at a dramatic so- ciety, which he had called into existence for this * Most of the facts in this notice of Mr. WILDE were communicated to me by an eminent citizen of Georgia, who has long been intimately acquainted with him. He was uncertain whether Mr. W. was born before the ar- rival of his parents in America, but believed he was not. purpose, and to raise a fund to establish a public library. All this time his older and graver acquaintances, who knew nothing of his designs, naturally con- founded him with his thoughtless companions, who sought only amusement, and argued badly of his future life. He bore the injustice in silence, and pursued his secret studies for a year and a half; at the end of which, pale, emaciated, feeble, and with a consumptive cough, he sought a distant court to be examined, that, if rejected, the news of his defeat might not reach his mother. When he arrived, he found he had been wrongly informed, and that the judges had no power to admit him. He met a friend there, however, who was going to the Greene Superior Court; and, on being in- vited by him to do so, he determined to proceed im- mediately to that place. It was the March term, for 1809, Mr. Justice EARLY presiding; and the young applicant, totally unknown to every one, save the friend who accompanied him, was at in- tervals, during three days, subjected to a most rigorous examination. Justice EAHLY was well known for his strictness, and the circumstance of a youth leaving his own circuit excited his suspi- cion ; but every question was answered to the satisfaction and even admiration of the examin- ing committee ; and he declared that " the young man could not have left his circuit because he was unprepared." His friend certified to the correctness of his moral character; he was ad- mitted without a dissenting voice, and returned in triumph to Augusta. He was at this time under twenty years of age. His health gradually improved ; he applied him- self diligently to the study of belles lettres, and to his duties as an advocate, and rapidly rose to emi- nence ; being in a few years made attorney-gene- ral of the state. He was remarkable for industry in the preparation of his cases, sound logic, and general urbanity. In forensic disputation, he never indulged in personalities, then too common at the bar, unless in self-defence ; but, having studied the characters of his associates, and stored his memory with appropriate quotations, his ridicule was a formidable weapon against all who attacked him. In the autumn of 1 S 1 5, when only a fortnight over the age required by law. Mr. WILDE was elected a member of the national House of Representatives. At the next election, all the representatives from Georgia, but one, were defeated, and Mr. WILDE returned to the bar, where he continued, with the exception of a short service in Congress in 1825, until 1828, when he again became a representa- tive, and so continued until 1835. I have not room to trace his character as a politician very closely. On the occasion of the Force Bill, as it RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 105 was called, he seceded from a majority of Con- felicity. Having completed his work on TASSO, gress, considering it a measure calculated to pro- he turned his attention to the life of DANTE ; and duce civil war, and justified himself in a speech having learned incidentally one day, in conversa- of much eloquence. His speeches on the tariff, tion with an artist, that an authentic portrait of the relative advantages and disadvantages of a this great poet, from the pencil of GIOTTO, proba- small-note currency, and on the removal of the bly still existed in the Burgello, (anciently both deposites by General JACKSON, show what are the prison and the palace of the republic,) on a his pretensions to industry and sagacity as a poli- wall, which by some strange neglect or inadver- tician.* tence had been covered with whitewash, he set on Mr. WILDE'S opposition to the Force Bill and foot a project for its discovery and restoration, the removal of the deposites rendered him as un- which, after several months, was crowned with popular with the JACKSON party in Georgia, as his complete success. This discovery of a veritable letter from Virginia had made him with the nul- portrait of DANTE, in the prime of his days, says lifiers, and at the election of 1834 he was left out Mr. iHYisrOj-j- produced throughout Italy some of Congress. This afforded him the opportunity such sensation as, in England, would follow the he had long desired of going abroad, to recruit his sudden discovery of a perfectly well-authenticated health, much impaired by long and arduous public likeness of SHAKSPEAHE ; with a difference in in- service, and by repeated attacks of the diseases in- tensity, proportioned to the superior sensitiveness cident to southern climates. He sailed for Europe of the Italians. Mr. WILDE returned to this country in June, 1835, spent two years in travelling through in the autumn of 1840, and is now, I believe, en- England, France, Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, gaged in his biographical work concerning DANTE. and settled during three years more in Florence. Mr. WILDE'S original poems and translations Here he occupied himself entirely with literature. are always graceful and correct. Those that The romantic love, the madness, and imprison- have been published were mostly written while he ment of TASSO had become a subject of curious was a member of Congress, during moments of controversy, and he entered into the investigation relaxation, and they have never been printed col- " with the enthusiasm of a poet, and the patience lectively. Specimens of his translations are ex- and accuracy of a case-hunter," and produced a cluded, by the plan of this work. His versions work, published since his return to the United from the Italian, Spanish, and French languages, States, in which the questions concerning TASSO are among the most elegant and scholarly produc- are most ably discussed, and lights are thrown upon tions of their kind, that have been published. them by his letters, and by some of his sonnets, Mr. WILDE was married in 1818, and was left which last are rendered into English with rare a widower in 1827. He has two sons. f)T)F TO FASF P>MM*M*WW*4 And when within the narrow bed, \JULJ i \j j-.n.oj_j. To Fame and Memory ever dead, I NEVEH bent at Glory's shrine; My senseless corpse is thrown : To \Vealth I never bow'd the knee * Nor stately column, sculptured bust, Beauty has heard no vows of mine ; Nor urn that holds within its trust I love thee, EASE, and only thee; Beloved of the gods and men, SistePbf Joy and Liberty, \Vhen wilt thou visit me agen ; The poor remains of mortal dust, Nor monumental stone, Nor willow, waving in the gale, Nor feeble fence, with whiten'd pale, In shady wood, or silent glen, By falling stream, or rocky den, Like those where once I found thee, when, Despite the ills of Poverty, And Wisdom's warning prophecy, I liscen'd to thy siren voice, And made thee mistress of my choice ! Nor rustic cross, memorial frail, Shall mark the grave I own. No lofty deeds in armour wrought ; No hidden truths in science taught ; No undiscover'd regions sought ; No classic page, with learning fraught, Nor eloquence, nor verse divine, Nor daring speech, nor high design, I chose thee, EASE ! and Glory fled ; Nor patriotic act of mine For me no more her laurels spread ; On History's page shall ever shine : Her golden crown shall never shed But, all to future ages lost, Its beams of splendour on my head. Nor even a wreck, tradition toss'd, Of what I was when valued most * To sliow his standing in the House of Representa- By the few friends whose love I boast, tives, it niiiy be proper to state, that, in 1834, he \vns In after years shall float to shore, voted for as Speaker, with the following result, on the And serve to tell the name I bore. first ballot: R. II. WILDE, C4 ; J. K. POLK, 42; J. B. SUTHERLAND, 31; JOHN BELL, 30; scattering, 32. Ulti- mately Mr. BELL was elected. t Knickerbocker Magazine, October, 1841. 14 106 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. I chose thee, EASE ! and Wealth withdrew, Indignant at the choice I made, And, to her first resentment true, My scorn with tenfold scorn repaid. Now, noble palace, lofty dome, Or cheerful, hospitable home, Are comforts I must never know : My enemies shall ne'er repine At pomp or pageantry of mine, Nor prove, by bowing at my shrine, Their souls are abject, base, and low. No wondering crowd shall ever stand With gazing eye and waving hand, To mark my train, and pomp, and show : And, worst of all, I shall not live To taste the pleasures Wealth can give, When used to soothe another's wo. The peasants of my native land Shall never bless my open hand ; No wandering bard shall celebrate His patron's hospitable gate : No war-worn soldier, shatter'd tar, Nor exile driven from afar, Nor hapless friend of former years, Nor widow's prayers, nor orphan's tears, Nor helpless age relieved from cares, Nor innocence preserved from snares, Nor houseless wanderer clothed and fed, Nor slave from bitter bondage led, Nor youth to noble actions bred, Shall call down blessings on my head. I chose thee, EASE ! and yet the while, So sweet was Beauty's scornful smile, So fraught with every lovely wile, Yet seemingly so void of guile, It did but heighten all her charms; And, goddess, had I loved thee then But with the common love of men, My fickle heart had changed agen, Even at the very moment when I woo'd thee to my longing arms: For never may I hope to meet A smile so sweet, so heavenly sweet. I chose thee, EASE ! and now for me No heart shall ever fondly swell, No voice of rapturous harmony Awake the music-breathing shell ; Nor tongue, or witching melody Its love in faltering accents tell ; Nor flushing cheek, nor languid eye, Nor sportive smile, nor artless sigh, Confess affection all as well. No snowy bosom's fall and rise Shall e'er again enchant my eyes ; No melting lips, profuse of bliss, Shall ever greet me with a kiss ; Nor balmy breath pour in my ear The trifles Love delights to hear : But, living, loveless, hopeless, I Unmounied and unloved must die. I chose thee, EASE ! and yet to me Coy and ungrateful thou hast proved ; Though I have sacrificed to thee Much that was worthy to be loved. But corne again, and I will yet Thy past ingratitude forget : O ! come again ! thy witching powers Shall claim my solitary hours : With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen, And conscience clear, and health serene, And friends, and books, to banish spleen, My life should be, as it had been, A sweet variety of joys; And Glory's crown, and Beauty's smile, And treasured hoards should seem the while The idlest of all human toys. SOLOMON AND THE GENIUS.* SPIRIT OF THOUGHT ! Lo ! art thou here 1 Lord of the false, fond, ceaseless spell That mocks the heart, the eye, the ear Art thou, indeed, of heaven or hell 1 In mortal bosoms dost thou dwell, Self-exiled from thy native sphere 1 Or is the human mind thy cell Of torment 1 To inflict and bear Thy doom ? the doom of all who fell 1 Since thou hast sought to prove my skill, Unquestion'd thou shall not depart, Be thy behests or good or ill, No matter what or whence thou art ! I will commune with thee apart, Yea ! and compel thee to my will If thou hast power to yield my heart What earth and Heaven deny it still. I know thee, Spirit ! thou hast been Light of my soul by night and day ; All-seeing, though thyself unseen ; My dreams my thoughts andwhat are they, But visions of a calmer ray 1 All ! all were thine and thine between Each hope that melted fast away, The throb of anguish, deep and keen ! With thee I 've search'd the earth, the sea, The air, sun, stars, man, nature, time, Explored the universe with thee,^ Plunged to the depths of wo and crime, Or dared the fearful height to climb, Where, amid glory none may see And live, the ETERNAL reigns sublime, Who is, and was, and is to be ! And I have sought, with thee have sought, Wisdom's celestial path to tread, Hung o'er each page with learning fraught; Question'd the living and the dead : * The Moslem imagine that SOLOMON arquired do- minion over all the orders of the genii good and evil. It is even believed he sometimes condescended to con- verse with his new subjects. On this supposition he has been represented interrogating a genius, in the very wise, but very disagreeable mood of mind which led to the conclusion that "All is vanity !" Touching the said genius, the author has not been able to discover whether he or she (even the sex is equivocal) was of Allah or Eblis, and, therefore, left the matter where he found it in discreet doubt. RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 107 The patriarchs of ages fled- The prophets of the time to come All who one ray of light could shed Beyond the cradle or the tomb. And I have task'd my busy brain To learn what haply none may know, Thy birth, seat, power, thine ample reign O'er the heart's tides that ebb and flow, Throb, languish, whirl, rage, freeze, or glow Like billows of the restless main, Amid the wrecks of joy and wo By ocean's caves preserved in vain. And oft to shadow forth I strove, To my mind's eye, some form like thine, And still my soul, like NOAH'S dove, Return'd, but brought, alas ! no sign : Till, wearying in the mad design, With fever'd brow and throbbing vein, I left the cause to thread the mine Of wonderful effects again ! But now I see thee face to face, Thou art indeed, a thing divine ; An eye pervading time and space, And an angelic look are thine, Ready to seize, compare, combine Essence and form 'and yet a trace Of grief and care a shadowy line Dims thy bright forehead's heavenly grace. Yet thou must be of heavenly birth, Where naught is known of grief and pain ; Though I perceive, alas ! where earth And earthly things have left their stain : From thine high calling didst thou deign To prove in folly or in mirth With daughters of the first-born CAIN, How little HUMAN LOVE is worth ] Ha ! dost thou change before mine eyes ! Another form ! and yet the same, But lovelier, and of female guise, A vision of ethereal flame, Such as our heart's despair can frame, Pine for, love, worship, idolize, Like HERS, who from the sea-foam came, And lives but in the heart, or skies. SPIHIT or CHANGE ! I know thee too, I know thee by thine Iris bow, By thy cheek's ever-shifting hue, By all that marks thy steps below ; By sighs that burn, and tears that glow False joys vain hopes that mock the heart ; From FANCY'S urn these evils flow, SPIRIT OF LIES ! for such thou art ! Saidst thou not once, that all the charms Of life lay hid in woman's love, And to be lock'd in Beauty's arms. Was all men knew of heaven above ? And did I not thy counsels prove, And all their pleasures, all their pain 1 No more ! no more my heart they move, For I, alas ! have proved them vain ! Didst thou not then, in evil hour, Light in my soul ambition's flame 1 Didst thou not say the joys of power, Unbounded sway, undying fame, A monarch's love alone should claim? And did I not pursue e'en these 1 And are they not, when won, the samel All VANITY OF VANITIES ! Didst not, to tempt me once again, Bid new, deceitful visions rise, And hint, though won with toil and pain, " Wisdom's the pleasure of the wise !" And now, when none beneath the skies Are wiser held by men than me, What is the value of the prize 1 It too, alas ! is VANITY ! Then tell me since I 've found on earth Not one pure stream to slake this thirst, Which still torments us from our birth, And in our heart and soul is nursed ; This hopeless wish wherewith we're cursed, Whence came it, and why was it given 1 Thou speak'st not ! Let me know the worst! Thou pointest ! and it is to HEAVEN ! A FAREWELL TO AMERICA.* FAREWELL ! my more than fatherland ! Home of my heart and friends, adieu ! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you ! How often, o'er the waters blue, Send back a sigh to those I leave, The loving and beloved few, W T ho grieve for me, for whom I grieve ! We part ! no matter how we part, There are some thoughts we utter not, Deep treasured in our inmost heart, Never reveal'd, and ne'er forgot ! Why murmur at the common lot ? We part ! I speak not of the pain, But when shall I each lovely spot And each loved face behold again 1 It must be months, it may be years, It may but no ! I will not fill Fond hearts with gloom, fond eyes with tears, Curious to shape uncertain ill." f Though humble, few and far, yet, still Those hearts and eyes are ever dear ; Theirs is the love no time can chill, The truth no chance or change can sear ! All I have seen, and all I see, Only endears them more and more ; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er ! Farewell, my more than native shore ! I do not seek or hope to find, Roam where I will, what I deplore To leave with them and thee behind ! * Written on board ship Westminster, at sea, off the Highlands of Neversink, June 1, 1835 108 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. FAINT and sad was the moonbeam's smile, Sullen the moan of the dying wave ; Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle, As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON'S grave. And is it here that the hero lies, Whose name has shaken the earth with dread 1 And is this all that the earth supplies A stone his pillow the turf his bed 1 Is such the moral of human life 1 Are these the limits of glory's reign 1 Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife, And a thousand battles been all in vain 1 Is nothing left of his victories now But legions broken a sword in rust A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow A name and a requiem dust to dust 1 Of all the chieftains whose thrones he rear'd, Was there none that kindness or faith could bind? Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared, Had none one spark of his Roman mind ? Did Prussia cast no repentant glance 1 Did Austria shed no remorseful tear, When England's truth, and thine honour, France, And thy friendship, Russia, were blasted here 1 No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven, Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock ; And glorious TITAN, the unforgiven, Was doom'd to his vulture, and chains, and rock. And who were the gods that decreed thy doom 1 A German C^USAII a Prussian sage The dandy prince of a counting-room And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age. Men call'd thee Despot, and call'd thee true ; But the laurel was earn'd that bound thy brow; And of all who wore it, alas ! how few Were freer from treason and guilt than thou ! Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde ! Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore 1 Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword Was never so false to its trust before. Where was thy veteran's boast that day, "The old Guard dies, but it never yields!" O ! for one heart like the brave DESSAIX, One phalanx like those of thine early fields ! But, no, no, no ! it was Freedom's charm Gave them the courage of more than men ; You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm, Though you were invincible only then. Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow ; One struggle, and France all her faults repairs But the wild FATETTE, and the stern CAU.NOT Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs ! STANZAS. Mr life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, Is scattcr'd on the ground to die ! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night arc shed, As if she wept the waste to see But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf ' That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail its date is brief, Restless and soon to pass away ! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand ; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me! TO LORD BYRON. 'tis thine alone, on eagles' pinions, In solitary strength and grandeur soaring, To dazzle and delight all eyes ; outpouring The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions ; Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions, Nature, man, time, the universe exploring ; And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions, Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing : ! how I love and envy thee thy glory, To every ace and clime alike belonging ; Link'd by all tongues with every nation's glory. Thou TACITUS of song ! whose echoes, thronging O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary And forests with the name my verse is wronging. TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. WING'D mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ] Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, YORICK. of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! For such thou art by day but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy JACQ.UES complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. IBorn 1789. Died 1841.] THE author of " Hadad" was descended from an ancient and honourable Irish family, in the county of Derry, and his ancestors emigrated to this country and settled in Connecticut in 1720. A high order of intellect seems to have been their right of inheritance, for in every generation we find their name prominent in the political history of the state. The grandfather of the poet, the Honourable WILLIAM HILLHOUSE, was for more than fifty years employed in the public service, as a representative, as a member of the council, and in othnr offices of trust and honour. His father, the Honourable JAMES HILLHOCSE, who died in 1833, after filling various offices in his native state, and being for three years a member of the House of Representatives, was in 1794 elected to the Senate of the United States, where for sixteen years he acted a leading part in the politics of the country. His wife, the mother of the subject of this sketch, was the daughter of Colonel MELANC- Tnox WOOLSET, of Dosoris, Long Island. She was a woman distinguished alike for mental su- periority, and for feminine softness, purity, and delicacy of character. Although educated in re- tirement, and nearly self-taught, her son was accus- tomed to say, when time had given value to his opinions, that she possessed the most elegant mind he had ever met with; and much of the nice dis- crimination, and the finer and more delicate ele- ments of his own character, were an inheritance from her. - Among the little occasional pieces which he wrote entirely for the family circle, was one composed on visiting her birth-place, after her death, which I have been permitted* to make public. "As yonder frith, round green Dnsoris roll'd, Reflects the parting glories of the skies, Or quivering glances, like the paly gold, When on its breast the midnight moonbeam lies; "Thus, though hedimm'd by many a changeful year, The hues of feeling varied in her cheek, That, brightly fltish'd, or glittering with a tear, Seem'd the rapt poet's, or the seraph's meek. "I have fulfill'd her charge, dear scenes, adieu! The tender charge to see her natal spot ; My tears have flow'd, while busy Fancy drew The picture of her childhood's happy lot. "Would I could paint the ever-varyins grace, The ethereal glow and lustre of her mind, Which own'd not time, nor bore of age a trace, Pure as the sunbeam, gentle and refined!" * I am indebted for the materials for this biognphy to the poet's intimate friend, the Reverend \Vn.i. IAM Ix- ORAIIAM KII-P, Rector of St. Paul's Church, in Albany, New York, who kindly consented to write out the cha- racter of the poet, as he appeared at home, and as none but his associates could know him, for this work. Mr. HILLHOCSE was born in New Haven, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1789. The home of such parents, and the society of the intelligent circle they drew about them, (of which President DWIGHT was the most distinguished ornament,) was well calculated to cherish and cultivate his peculiar tastes. In boyhood he was remarkable for great activity and excellence in all manly and athletic sports, and for a peculiarly gentlemanly deportment. At the age of fifteen he entered Yale College, and in 1808 he was graduated, with high reputation as a scholar. From his first junior exhibition, he had been distinguished for the ele- gance and good taste of his compositions. Upon taking his second degree, he delivered an oration on " The Education of a Poet," so full of beauty ^ that it was long and widely remembered, and in- duced an appointment by the Phi Beta Kappa Society, (not much in the habit of selecting juve- nile writers,) to deliver a poem before them at their next anniversary. It was on this occasion that he wrote "The Judgment," which was pro- nounced before that society at the commencement of 1812. A more difficult theme, or one requiring loftier powers, could not have been selected. The re- flecting mind regards this subject in accordance with some preconceived views. That Mr. HILL- HOUSE felt this difficulty, is evident from a remark in his preface, that in selecting this theme, " he exposes his work to criticism on account of its theology, as well as its poetry; and they who think the former objectionable, will not easily be pleased with the latter." Other poets, too, had essayed their powers in describing the events of the Last Day. The public voice, however, has decided, that among all the poems on this great subject, that of Mr. HILLHOUSE stands unequalled. His object was, to present such a view of the last grand spectacle as seemed the most susceptible of poetical embellishment;" and rarely have we seen grandeur of conception and simplicity of de- sign so admirably united. His representation of the scene is vivid and energetic ; while the man- ner in which he has grouped and contrasted the countless array of characters of every age, displays the highest degree of artistic skill. Each character he summons up appears before us, with historic costume and features faithfully preserved, and we seem to gaze upon him as a reality, and not merely as the bold imagery of the poet. " For nil appear'd As in their days of earthly pride ; the clank Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings." His description of the last setting of the sun in the west, and the dreamer's farewell to the even- ing star, as it was fading forever from his sight, K 100 110 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. are passages of beauty which it would be difficult to find surpassed. About this period Mr. HILLHOUSE passed three years in Boston, preparing to engage in a mercan- tile life. During the interruption of business which took place in consequence of the last war with England, he employed a season of leisure passed at home, in the composition of several dramatic pieces, of which " Demetria" and " Percy's Masque" best satisfied his own judgment. When peace was restored, he went to New York, and embarked in commerce, to which, though at variance with his tastes, he devoted himself with fidelity and perse- verance. In 1819, he visited Europe, and though the months passed there were a season of great anxiety and business occupations, he still found time to see much to enlarge his mind, and accu- mulated stores of thought for future use. Among other distinguished literary men, from whom while in London he received attentions, was ZACART MACAULAY, (father of the Hon. T. BABBINGTOJT MACAULAY,) who subsequently stated to some American gentlemen, that "he considered Mr. HILLHOUSE the most accomplished young man with whom he was acquainted." It was during his stay in England that Percy's Masque" was revised and published. The subject of this drama is the successful attempt of one of the Percies, the son of Shakspeare's Hotspur, to recover his an- cestral home. The era chosen is a happy one for a poet. He is dealing with the events of an age where every thing to us is clothed with a roman- tic interest, which invests even the most common every-day occurrences of life. "They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd." Of this opportunity he fully availed himself, in the picture he has here given us of the days of chivalry. As a mere work of art, "Percy's Masque" is one of the most faultless in the lan- guage. If subjected to scrutiny, it will bear the strictest criticism by which compositions of this kind can be tried. We cannot detect the violation of a single rule which should be observed in the construction of a tragedy. When, therefore, it was republished in this country, it at once gave its author an elevated rank as a dramatic poet. In 1822, Mr. HILLHOCSE was united in mar- riage to CORX ELIA, eldest daughter of ISAAC LAW- HENCE, of New York. He shortly afterward returned to his native town, and there, at his beautiful place, called Sachem's Wood, devoted himself to the pursuits of a country gentleman and practical agriculturist. His taste extended also to the arts with which poetry is allied; and in the embellishment of his residence, there was exhibited evidence of the refinement of its accom- plished occupant. Here, with the exception of a few months of the winter, generally spent in New York, he passed the remainder of his life. " And never," remarks his friend, the Reverend Mr. KIPP, " has a domestic circle been anywhere gathered, uniting \ftithin itself more of grace, and elegance, and intellect. He who formed its centre and its charm, possessed a character combining most beau- tifully the high endowments of literary genius, with all that is winning and brilliant in social life. They who knew him best in the sacred relations of his own fireside, will never cease to realize, that in him their circle lost its greatest ornament. All who were accustomed to meet his cordial greeting, to listen to his fervid and eloquent conversation, to be delighted with the wit and vivacity of his playful moments ; to witness the grace and ele- gance of his manners, the chivalric spirit, the indomitable energy and high finish of the whole character, can tell how nobly he united the com- bined attractions of the poet, the scholar, and the perfect gentleman. Never, indeed, have we met with one who could pour forth more eloquently his treasures, drawn from the whole range of Eng- lish literature, or bring them to bear more ad- mirably upon the passing occurrences of the day. Every syllable, too, which he uttered, conveyed the idea of a high-souled honour, which we asso- ciate more naturally with the days of old romance, than with these selfish, prosaic times. His were indeed < high thoughts, seated in a heart of cour- tesy.' " "Hadad" was written in 1824, and printed in the following year. This has generally been esteemed HILLHO USE'S masterpiece. As a sacred drama, it is probably unsurpassed. The scene is in Judea, in the days of David ; and as the agency of evil spirits is introduced, an opportunity is af- forded to bring forward passages of strange sub- limity and wildness. For a work like this, HILL- HOUSE was peculiarly qualified. A most intimate acquaintance with the Scriptures enabled him to introduce each minute detail in perfect keeping with historical truth, while from the same study he seems also to have imbibed the lofty thoughts, and the majestic style of the ancient Hebrew prophets. In 1840, he collected, and published in two volumes, the works which at that time he was willing to give to the world. In addition to those I have already mentioned, was "Demetria," a domestic tragedy, now first revised and printed, after an interval of twenty-six years since its first composition, and several orations, delivered in New Haven, on public occasions, or before literary societies in other parts of the country. The manly eloquence of the latter, is well calculated to add the reputation of an accomplished ora- tor, to that which he already enjoyed as a poet. These volumes contain nearly all that he left us. It is a mistake, however, to suppose that he passed his life merely as a literary man. The early part of it was spent in the anxieties of business, while, through all his days, literature, instead of being his occupation, was merely the solace and delight of his leisure moments. About this time his friends beheld, with anxiety, the symptoms of failing health. For fifteen months, however, he lingered on, alternately cheer- ing their hearts by the prospect of recovery, and '. then causing them again to despond, as his vveak- increased. In the fall of 1840, he left home JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. Ill for the last time, to visit his friends in Boston. He returned, apparently benefited by the excursion, and no immediate danger was apprehended until the beginning of the following January. On the second of that month his disorder assumed an alarming form, and the next day was passed in intense agony. On Monday, his pain was alle- viated ; yet his skilful medical attendants beheld in this but the precursor of death ; and it became their duty, on the following morning, to impart to him the news that his hours were few and numbered. " Of the events of this solemn day, when he beheld the sands of life fast running out, and girded up his strength to meet the King of Ter- rors," says the writer to whom I have before al- luded, "I cannot speak. The loss is still too recent to allow us to withdraw the veil and tell of his dying hours. Yet touching was the scene, as the warm affections of that noble heart gathered in close folds around those he was about to leave, or wandered back in remembrance to the opening of life, and the friends of childhood who had already gone. It was also the Christian's death. The mind which had conceived so vividly the scenes of the judgment, must often have looked forward to that hour, which he now could meet in an humble, trusting faith. And thus the day wore on, until, about eight o'clock in the eve- ning, without a struggle, he fell asleep." As a poet, he possessed qualities seldom found united : a masculine strength of mind, and a most delicate perception of the beautiful. With an imagination of the loftiest order with the vision and the faculty divine" in its fullest exer- cise, the wanderings of his fancy were chastened and controlled by exquisite taste. The grand THE JUDGMENT. THE rites were past of that auspicious day When white-robed altars wreath'd with living green Adorn the temples ; when unnumber'd tongues Repeat the glorious anthem sung to harps Of angels while the star o'er Bethlehem stood ; When grateful hearts bow low, and deeper joy Breathes in the Christian than the angel song, On the great birthday of our Priest and King. That night, while musing on his wondrous life, Precepts, and promises to be fulfill'd, A trance-like sleep fell on me, and a dream Of dreadful character appall'd my soul. Wild was the pageant : face to face with kings, Heroes, and sages of old note, I stood ; Patriarchs, and prophets, and apostles saw, And venerable forms, ere round the globe Shoreless and waste a weltering flood was roll'd, With angels, compassing the radiant throne Of MART'S Son, anew descended, crown'd With glory terrible, to judge the world. characteristic of his writings is their classical beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost, yet there is no exuberance, no sacrifice to false and meretricious taste. He threw aside the gaudy and affected brilliancy with which too many set forth their poems, arid left his to stand, like the doric column, charming by its simplicity. Writing not for present popularity, or to catch the sense- less applause of the multitude, he was willing to commit his works as Lord Bacon did his memo- ry " to the next ages." And the result is proving how wise were his calculations. The " fit audi- ence," which at first hailed his poems with plea- sure, from realizing their worth, has been steadily increasing. The scholar studies them as the pro- ductions of a kindred spirit, which had drunk deeply at the fountains of ancient lore, until it had itself been moulded into the same form of stern and antique beauty, which marked the old Athenian dramatists. The intellectual and the gifted claim him as one of their own sacred bro- therhood ; and all who have a sympathy with genius, and are anxious to hold communion with it as they travel on the worn and beaten path of life, turn with ever renewed delight to his pages. They see the evidences of one, who wrote not be- cause he must write, but because he possessed a mind crowded and glowing with images of beauty, and therefore, in the language of poetry, he poured forth its hoarded treasures. Much as we must lament the withdrawal of that bright mind, at an age when it had just ripened into the maturity of its power, and when it seemed ready for greater efforts than it yet had made, we rejoice that the event did not happen until a permanent rank had been gained among the noblest of our poets. Methought I journey'd o'er a boundless plain, Unbroke by vale or hill, on all sides stretch' d, Like circling ocean, to the low-brow'd sky ; Save in the midst a verdant mount, whose sides Flowers of all hues and fragrant breath adorn'd. Lightly I trod, as on some joyous quest, Beneath the azure vault and early sun ; But while my pleased eyes ranged the circuit green, New light shone round ; ajnurmur came, confused, Like many voices and the rush of wings. Upward I gazed, and, 'mid the glittering skies, Begirt by flying myriads, saw a throne Whose thousand splendours blazed upon the earth Refulgent as another sun. Through clouds They came, and vapours colour'd by AURORA, Mingling in swell sublime, voices, and harps, And sounding wings, and hallelujahs sweet Sudden, a seraph that before them flew, Pausing upon his wide-unfolded plumes, Put to his mouth the likeness of a trump, ^ And toward the four winds four times fiercely breathed. Doubling along the arch, the mighty peal 112 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. To heaven resounded ; hell return'd a groan, And shuddering earth a moment reel'd, confounded, From her fixed pathway as the staggering ship, Stunn'd by some mountain billow, reels. The isles, With heaving ocean, rock'd : the mountains shook Their ancient coronets : the avalanche Thunder'd : silence succeeded through the nations. Earth never listen'd to a sound like this. It struck the general pulse of nature still, And broke, forever, the dull sleep of death. Now, o'er the mount the radiant legions hung, Like plumy travellers from climes remote On some sequester'd isle about to stoop. Gently its flowery head received the throne ; Cherubs and seraphs, by ten thousands, round Skirting it far and wide, like a bright sea, Fair forms and faces, crowns, and coronets, And glistering wings furl'd white and numberless. About their LOKD were those seven glorious spirits Who in the ALMIGHTI'S presence stand. Four lean'd On golden wands, with folded wings, and eyes Fix'd on the throne : one bore the dreadful books, The arbiters of life : another waved The blazing ensign terrible, of yore, To rebel angels in the wars of heaven : What seem'd a trump the other spirit grasp'd, Of wondrous size, wreathed multiform and strange. Illustrious stood the seven, above the rest Towering, like a constellation glowing, What time the sphere-instructed huntsman, taught By ATLAS, his star-studded belt displays Aloft, bright-glittering, in the winter sky. Then on the mount, amidst these glorious shapes, Who reverent stood, with looks of sacred awe, I saw EMMANUEL seated on his throne. His robe, methought, was whiter than the light ; Upon his breast the heavenly Urim glow'd Bright as the sun, and round such lightnings flash'd, No eye could meet the mystic symbol's blaze. Irradiant the eternal sceptre shone Which wont to glitter in his Father's hand : Resplendent in his face the Godhead beam'd, Justice and mercy, majesty and grace, Divinely mingling. Celestial glories play'd Around with beamy lustre ; from his eye Dominion look'd ; upon his brow was stamp'd Creative power. Yet over all the touch Of gracious pity dwelt, which, erst, amidst Dissolving nature's anguish, breathed a prayer For guilty man. Redundant down his neck His locks roll'd graceful, as they waved, of old, Upon the mournful breeze of Calvary. His throne of heavenly substance seem'd com- posed, Whose pearly essence, like the eastern shell, Or changeful opal, shed a silvery light Clear as the moon it look'd through ambient clouds Of snowy lustre, waving round its base, That, like a zodiac, thick with emblems set, Flash'd wondrous beams, of unknown character, From many a burning stone of lustre rare, Stain'd like the bow whose mingling splendour stream'd Confusion bright upon the dazzled eye. Above him hung a canopy whose skirts The mount o'ershadow'd like an evening cloud. Clouds were his curtains : not like their dim types Of blue and purple round the tabernacle, That waving vision of the lonely wild, By pious Israel wrought with cherubim ; Veiling the mysteries of old renown, Table, and altar, ark, and mercy-seat, Where, 'twixt the shadow of cherubic wings, In lustre visible JEHOVAH shone. In honour chief, upon the Lonn's right hand His station MICHAEL held : the dreadful sword That from a starry baldric hung, proclaim'd The Hierarch. Terrible, on his brow Blazed the archangel crown, and from his eye Thick sparkles flash'd. Like regal banners, waved Back from his giant shoulders his broad vans, Bedropt with gold, and, turning to the sun, Shone gorgeous as the multitudinous stars, Or some illumined city seen by night, When her wide streets pour noon, and, echoing through Her thronging thousands, mirth and music ring. Opposed to him, I saw an angel stand In sable vesture, with the Books of Life. Black was his mantle, and his changeful wings Gloss'd like the raven's ; thoughtful seem'd his mien, Sedate and calm, and deep upon his brow Had Meditation set her seal ; his eyes Look'd things unearthly, thoughts unutterable, Or utter'd only with an angel's tongue. Renown'd was he among the seraphim For depth of prescience, and sublirnest lore ; Skill'd in the mysteries of the ETERNAL, Profoundly versed in those old records where, From everlasting ages, live GOD'S deeds ; He knew the hour when yonder shining worlds, That roll around us, into being sprang ; Their system, laws, connexion ; all he knew But the dread moment when they cease to be. None judged like him the ways of GOD to man, Or so had pondcr'd ; his excursive thoughts Had visited the depths of night and chaos, Gathering the treasures of the hoary deep. Like ocean billows seem'd, ere this, the plain, Confusedly heaving with a sumless host From earth's and time's remotest bounds : a roar Went up before the multitude, whose course The unfurl'd banner guided, and the bow, Zone of the universe, athwart the zenith Sweeping its arch. In one vast conflux roll'd, Wave following wave, were men of every age, Nation, and tongue^ all heard the warning blast, And, led by wondrous impulse, hither came. JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 113 Mingled in wild confusion, now, those met In distant ages born. Gray forms, that lived When Time himself was young, whose temples shook The h.>ary honours of a thousand years, Stood side by side with Roman consuls: here, Mid prophets old, and heaven-inspired bards, Were Grecian heroes seen : there, from a crowd Of reverend patriarchs, tower'd the nodding plumes, Tiars, and helms, and sparkling 1 diadems Of Persia's, Egypt's, or Assyria's kings ; Clad as when forth the hundred gates of Thebes On sounding cars her hundred princes rush'd ; Or, when, at night, from off the terrace top Of his aerial garden, touched to soothe The troubled monarch, came the solemn chime Of sackbut, psaltery, and harp, adown The Euphrates, floating in the moonlight wide O'er sleeping Babylon. For all appear'd As in their days of 'earthly pride; the clank Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings. Though on the angels while I gazed, their names Appeared not, yet amongst the mortal throng (Capricious power of dreams !) familiar seem'd Each countenance, and every name well known. Nearest the mount, of that mix'd phalanx first, Our general parent stood : not as he look'd Wandering, at eve, amid the shady bowers And odorous groves of that delicious garden, Or flowery banks of some soft-rolling stream, Pausing to list its lulling murmur, hand In hand with peerless EVE, the rose too sweet, Fatal to Paradise. Fled from his cheek Tin- bloom of Eden ; his hyacinthine locks Were changed to gray ; with years and sorrows bow'd lie seem'd, but through his ruined form still shone The majesty of his Creator : round Upon his sons a grieved and pitying look He cast, and in his vesture hid his face. Close at his side appear'd a martial form, Of port majestic, clad in massive arms, < Vv.Tring above whose helm with outspread wings The Roman eagle flew; around its brim Was character'd the name at which earth's queen Bow'd from her seven-fold throne and owned her lord. In his dilated eye amazement stood ; Terror, surprise, and blank astonishment Blanch d his firm cheek, as when, of old, close hemm'd Within the capital, amidst the crowd Of traitors, fearless else, he caught the gleam Of Bitr-rrs' steel. Daunted, yet on the pomp Of towering seraphim, their wings, their crowns, Their dazzling faces, and upon the LOUD lie fix'd a steadfast look of anxious note, Like that PHARSALTA'S hurtling squadrons drew When all his fortunes hung upon the hour. 15 Near him, for wisdom famous through the east, Ami A HAM rested on his staff; in guise A Chaldce shepherd, simple in his raiment As when at Mamre in his tent he sat, The host of angels. Snow-white were his locks And silvery beard, that to his girdle roll'd. Fondly his meek eye dwelt upon his Loni>, Like one, that, after long and troubled dreams, A night of sorrows, dreary, wild, and sad, Beholds, at last, the dawn of promised joys. With kindred looks his great descendant gazed. Not in the poor array of shepherds he, Nor in the many-coloured coat, fond gift Of doating age, and cause of direful hate ; But, stately, as his native palm, his form Was, like Egyptian princes', proudly deck'd In tissued purple sweeping to the ground. Plumes from the desert waved above his head, And down his breast the golden collar hung, Bo^tow'd by PHARAOH, when through Egypt word Went forth to bow the knee as to her king. Graced thus, his chariot with impetuous wheels Bore him toward Goshen, where the fainting heart Of ISRAEL waited for his long-lost son, The son of RACHEL Ah ! had she survived To see him in his glory ! As he rode, His boyhood, and his mother's tent, arose, Link'd with a thousand recollections dear, And JOSEPH'S heart was in the tomb by Ephrath. At hand, a group of sages mark'd the scene. PLATO and SOCRATES together stood, With him who measured by their shades those piles Gigantic, 'mid the desert seen, at eve, By toiling caravans for Memphis bound, Peering like specks above the horizon's verge, Whose huge foundations vanish in the mist Of earliest time. Transfix'd they seem'd with wonder, Awe-struck, amazement rapt their inmost souls. Such glance of deep inquiry and suspense They threw around, as, in untutor'd ages, Astronomers upon some dark eclipse, Close counselling amidst the dubious light If it portended Nature's death, or spoke A change in heaven. What thought they, then, of all Their idle dreams, their proud philosophy, When on their wilder'd souls redemption, CHRIST, And the A LMIGHTY broke 1 But, though they err'd When all was dark, they reason'd for the truth. They sought in earth, in ocean, and the stars, Their maker, arguing from his works toward GOD ; And from his word had not less nobly argued, Had they beheld the gospel sending forth Its pure effulgence o'er the farthest sea, Lighting the idol mountain-tops, and gilding The banners of salvation there. These men Ne'er slighted a REDEEMER ; of his name They never heard. Perchance their late-found harps, Mixinc: wilh angel symphonies, may sound In strains more rapturous things to them so new. 114 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. Nearer the mount stood MOSES ; in his hand The rod which blasted with strange plagues the realm Of Misraim, and from its time-worn channels Upturn'd the Arabian sea. Fair was his broad, High front, and forth from his soul-piercing eye Did legislation took ; which full he fix'd Upon the blazing panoply, undazzled. No terrors had the scene for him who, oft, Upon the thunder-shaken hill-top, veil'd With smoke and lightnings, with JEHOYAH talk'd, And from his fiery hand received the law. Beyond the Jewish ruler, banded close, A company full glorious, I saw The twelve apostles stand. O, with what looks Of ravishment and joy, what rapturous tears, What hearts of ecstasy, they gazed again On their beloved Master ! what a tide Of overwhelming thoughts press'd to their souls, When now, as he so frequent promised, throned, And circled by the hosts of heaven, they traced The well-known lineaments of him who shared Their wants and sufferings here ! Full many a day Of fasting spent with him, and night of prayer, Rush'd on their swelling hearts. Before the rest, Close to the angelic spears, had PETER urged, Tears in his eye, love throbbing at his breast, As if to touch his vesture, or to catch The murmur of his voice. On him and them JESUS beam'd down benignant looks of love. How diverse from the front sublime of PAUL, Or pale and placid dignity of him Who in the lonely Isle saw heaven unveil'd, Was his who in twelve summers won a world ! Not such his countenance nor garb, as when He foremost breasted the broad Granicus, Dark-rushing through its steeps from lonely Ida, His double-tufted plume conspicuous mark Of every arrow ; cheering his bold steed Through pikes, and spears, and threatening axes, up The slippery bank through all their chivalry, Princes and satraps link'd for Crnus' throne, With cuirass pierced, cleft helm, and plumeless head, To youthful conquest : or, when, panic-struck, DARIUS from his plunging chariot sprang, Away the bow and mantle cast, and fled. His robe, all splendid from the silk-worm's loom, Floated effeminate, and from his neck Hung chains of gold, and gems from eastern mines. Bedight with many-colour'd plumage, flamed His proud tiara, plumage which had spread Its glittering dyes of scarlet, green, and gold, To evening suns by Indus' stream : around Twined careless, glow'd the white and purple band, The imperial, sacred badge of Persia's kings. Thus his triumphal car in Babylon Display'd him, drawn by snow-white elephants, Whose feet crush'd odours from the flowery wreaths Boy-Cupids scatter'd, while soft music breathed And incense fumed around. But dire his hue, Bloated and bacchanal as on the night When old Persepolis was wrapp'd in flume ! Fear over all had flung a livid tinge. A deeper awe subdued him than amazed PAWMENIO and the rest, when they beheld The white-stoled Levites from Jerusalem, Thrown open as on some high festival, With hymns and solemn pomp, come down the hill To meet the incensed king, and wondering saw, As on the pontiff's awful form he gazed, Glistering in purple with his mystic gems, JOVE'S vaunted son, at JAUDUA'S foot, adore. Turn, now, where stood the spotless Virgin : sweet Her azure eye, and fair her golden ringlets ; But changeful as the hues of infancy Her face. As on her son, her GOD, she gazed, Fix'd was her look, earnest, and breathless; now, Suffused her glowing cheek; now, changed to pale ; First, round her lip a smile celestial play'd, Then, fast, fast rain'd the tears. Who can in- terpret 1 Perhaps some thought maternal cross'd her heart, That mused on days long past, when on her breast He helpless lay, and of his infant smile ; Or, on those nights of terror, when, from worse Than wolves, she hasted with her babe to Egypt. Girt by a crowd of monarchs, of whose fame Scarce a memorial lives, who fought and reign'd While the historic lamp shed glimmering light, Above the rest one regal port aspired, Crown'd like Assyria's princes ; not a crest O'ertopp'd him, save the giant seraphim. His countenance, more piercing than the beam Of the sun-gazing eagle, earthward bent Its haught, fierce majesty, temper'd with awe. Seven years with brutish herds had quell'd his pride, And taught him there's a mightier king in heaven. His powerful arm founded old Babylon, Whose bulwarks like the eternal mountains heaved Their adamantine heads; whose brazen gates Beleaguering nations foil'd, and bolts of war, Unshaken, unanswer'd as the pelting hail. House of the kingdom ! glorious Babylon ! Earth's marvel, and of unborn time the theme ! Say where thou stood'st : or, can the fisherman Plying his task on the Euphrates, now, A silent, silver, unpolluted tide, Point to thy grave, and answer 1 From a sash O'er his broad shoulder hung the ponderous sword, Fatal as sulphurous fires to Nineveh, That levell'd with her waves the walls of Tyrus, Queen of the sea; to its foundations shook Jerusalem, and rcap'd the fields of Egypt. Endless the task to name the multitudes From every land, from isles remote, in seas Which no adventurous mariner has sail'd : JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 115 From desert-girdled cities, of whose pomp Some solitary wanderer, by the stars Conducted o'er the burning wilderness, Has told a doubted tale : as Europe's sons Describing Mexic', and, in fair Peru, The gorgeous Temple of the Sun, its priests, Its virgin, and its fire, forever bright, Were fablers deem'd, and, for belief, met scorn. Around while gazing thus, far in the sky Appear'd what look'd, at first, a moving star ; But, onward, wheeling through the clouds it came, With brightening splendour and increasing size, Till within ken a fiery chariot rush'd, By flaming horses drawn, whose heads shot forth A twisted, horn-like beam. O'er its fierce wheels Two shining forms alighted on the mount, Of mortal birth, but deathless rapt to heaven. Adown their breasts their loose beards floated, white As mist by moonbeams silver'd ; fair they seem'd, And bright as angels; fellowship with heaven Their mortal grossness so had purified. Lucent their mantles ; other than the seer By Jordan caught ; and in the prophet's face A mystic lustre, like the Urim's, gleamed. Now for the dread tribunal all prepared : Before the throne the angel with the books Ascending kneel'd, and, crossing on his breast His sable pinions, there the volumes spread. A second summons echoed from the trump, Thrice sounded, when the mighty work began. Waved onward by a seraph's wand, the sea Of palpitating bosoms toward the mount In silence roll'd. No sooner had the first Pale tremblers its mysterious circle touched Than, instantaneous, swift as fancy's flash, As lightning darting from the summer cloud, Its past existence rose before the soul, With all its deeds, with all its secret store Of embryo works, and dark imaginings. Amidst the chaos, thoughts as numberless As whirling leaves when autumn strips the woods,' Light and disjointed as the sibyl's, thoughts Seattcr'd upon the waste of long, dim years, Puss'd in a moment through the quicken'd soul. Not with the glozing eye of earth beheld ; They saw as with the glance of Deity. Conscience, stern arbiter in every breast, Decided. Sclf-acqnitted or condemned, Through two broad, glittering avenues of spears They cross'd the angelic squadrons, right, or left The judgment-seat ; by power supernal led To their allotted stations on the plain. As onward, onward, numberless, they came, And touch'd, appall'd, the verge of destiny, The heavenly spirits inly sympathized : When youthful saints, or martyrs scarr'd and white, With streaming faces, hands ecstatic clasp'd, Sprang to the right, celestial beaming smiles A ravishing beauty to their radiance gave ; But downcast looks of pity chill'd the left. What clench'd hands, and frenzied steps were there ! Yet, on my shuddering soul, the stifled groan, Wrung from some proud blasphemer, as he rush'd, Constraint by conscience, down the path of death, Knells horrible. On all theHiurrying throng The unerring pen stamp'd, as they pass'd, their fate. Thus, in a day, amazing thought ! were judged The millions, since from the ALMIGHTY'S hand, Launch'd on her course, earth roll'd rejoicing. Whose The doom to penal fires, and whose to joy, From man's presumption mists and darkness veil. So pass'd the day ; divided stood the world, An awful line of separation drawn, And from his labours the MESSIAH ceased. By this, the sun his westering car drove low ; Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold : Along the horizon castled shapes were piled, Turrets and towers, whose fronts embattled gleam'd With yellow light : smit by the slanting ray, A ruddy beam the canopy reflected ; With deeper light the ruby blush'd ; and thick Upon the seraphs' wings the glowing spots Seem'd drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung, Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits, Cast off upon the dewy air huge flakes Of golden lustre. Over all the hill, The heavenly legions, the assembled world, Evening her crimson tint forever drew. But while at gaze, in solemn silence, men And angels stood, and many a quaking heart With expectation throbb'd ; about the throne And glittering hill-top slowly wreathed the clouds, Erewhile like curtains for adornment hung, Involving Shiloh and the seraphim Beneath a snowy tent. The bands around, Eyeing the gonfalon that through the smoke Tower'd into air, resembled hosts who watch The king's pavilion where, ere battle hour, A council sits. What their consult might be, Those seven dread spirits and their LORD, I mused, I marvell'd. Was it grace and peace ? or death 1 Was it of man 1 Did pity for the lost His gentle nature wring, who knew, who felt How frail is this poor tenement of clay?* Arose there from the misty tabernacle A cry like that upon Gethsemane 1 What pass'd in JKSUS' bosom none may know, But close the cloudy dome invested him ; And, weary with conjecture, round I gazed Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn, Faded the glories of the dying day. Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud, The solitary star of evening shone. While gazing wistful on that peerless light, Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft, In dreams strange images will mix.) sad thoughts Pass'd o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, " Farewell, Pale, beauteous planet, that displayest so soft * For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities. IlEB.iv. 15. 116 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. Amid yon glowing streak thy transient beam, A long, a last farewell ! Seasons have changed, Ages and empires roll'd, like smoke, away, But thou, unalter'd, bcami-st as silver fair As on thy birthnight ! Bright and watchful eyes, From palaces and bowers, have haiFd thy gem With secret transport ! Natal star of love, And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy, How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray ! How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green, Signal of rest, and social converse sweet, Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheer'd The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison ! Pride of the west ! beneath thy placid light The tender tale shall never more be told, Man's soul shall never wake to joy again : Thou sett'st forever, lovely orb, farewell !" Low warblings, now, and solitary harps Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices ; louder as they swell'd, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mix'd with clear, silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven ; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening eyes Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellow'd bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down. Calm, deep, and silent was the tide of joy That roll'd o'er all the blessed ; visions of bliss, Rapture too mighty, swell'd their hearts to bursting ; Prelude to heaven it secm'd, and in their sight Celestial glories swam. How fared, alas ! That other band ? Sweet to their troubled minds The solemn scene ; ah ! doubly sweet the breeze Refreshing, and the purple light to eyes But newly oped from that benumbing sleep Whose dark and drear abode no cheering dream, No bright-hued vision ever enters, souls For ages pent, perhaps, in some dim world Where guilty spectres stalk the twilight gloom. For, like the spirit's last seraphic smile, The earth, anticipating now her tomb, To rise, perhaps, as heaven magnificent, Appear'd Hesperian : gales of gentlest wing Came fragrance-laden, and such odours shed As Yemen never knew, nor those blest isles In Indian seas, where the voluptuous breeze The peaceful native breathes, at eventide, From nutmeg groves and bowers of cinnamon. How solemn on their ears the choral note Swell'd of the angel hymn ! so late escaped The cold embraces of the grave, whose damp Silence no voice or string'd instrument Has ever broke ! Yet with the murmuring breeze Full sadly chimed the music and the song, For with them came the memory of joys Forever past, the stinging thought of what They once had been, and of their future lot. To their grieved view the passages of earth Delightful rise, their tender ligaments So dear, they heeded not an after state, Though by a fearful judgment ushcr'd in. A bridegroom fond, who lavish'd all his heart On his beloved, forgetful of the Man Of many Sorrows, who, for him, resign'd His meek and spotless spirit on the cross, Has marked among the blessed bands, array'd Celestial in a spring of beauty, doom'd No more to fade, the charmer of his soul, Her cheek soft blooming like the dawn in heaven. He recollects the days when on his smile She lived ; when, gently leaning on his breast, Tears of intense affection dimm'd her eyes, Of dove-like lustre. Thoughtless, now, of him And earthly joys, eternity and heaven Engross her soul. What more accursed pang Can hell inflict ? With her, in realms of light, In never-dying bliss, he might have roll'd Eternity away ; but now, forever Torn from his bride new-found, with cruel fiends, Or men like fiends, must waste and weep. Now, now He mourns with burning, bitter drops his days Misspent, probation lost, and heaven despised. Such thoughts from many a bursting heart drew forth Groans, lamentations, and despairing shrieks, That on the silent air came from afar. As, when from some proud capital that crowns Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers, Bright on the eye rush BRAHMA'S temples, capp'd With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets, Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnish'd domes, Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun, So from the hill the cloudy curtains roll'd, And, in the lingering lustre of the eve, Again the SAVIOUR and his seraphs shone. Emitted sudden in his rising, flash'd Intenser light, as toward the right hand host Mild turning, with a look ineffable, The invitation he proclaim'd in accents Which on their ravish'd cars pour'd thrilling, like The silver sound of many trumpets heard Afar in sweetest jubilee ; then, swift Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them Seem'd like the crush of heaven, pronounced the doom. The sentence utter'd, as with life instinct, The throne uprose majestically slow ; Each angel sprrrul his wings; in one dread swell Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets, And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet, And many a strange and deep-toned instrument JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. nr Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim Of all the ransom'd, like a thunder-shout. Far through the skies melodious echoes roll'd, And faint hosannas distant climes return'd. XXIII. Down from the lessening multitude came faint And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal, All else in distance lost ; when, to receive Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded. Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse The wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks Of splendour, golden quivering radiance shone, As when the showery evening sun takes leave, Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world. Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by, Slow-turning to the light their snowy wings. A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped The hapless outcasts, when upon the LORD The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven, As if to catch, alas ! a hope not there. But shades began to gather; night approach'd Murky and lowering: round with horror roll'd On one another, their despairing eyes That glared with anguish : starless, hopeless gloom Fell on their souls, never to know an end. Though in the far horizon linger'd yet A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there; Red flashes, follow'd by low muttering sounds, Announced the fiery tempest doom'd to hurl The fragments of the earth again to chaos. Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-fowl dive Their watery element. O'erwhelmed with sights And sounds appalling, I awoke ; and found For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo, The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed Serene and peaceful. Gladly I survey'd her Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven, And blessed the respite ere the day of doom. HADAD'S DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY OF JERUSALEM. 'T rs so ; the hoary harper sings aright ; How beautiful is Zion ! Like a queen, Arm'd with a helm, in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Waved their dark beauty round the tower of David. Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, The embrasures of alabaster shine ; Hail'd by the pilgrims of the desert, bound To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. But not, for thou art fair and turret-crown'd, Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and bless'd With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, And where the glory hovers, here I war. UNTOLD LOVE.* THE soul, my lord, is fashion'd like the lyre. Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate. Your name abruptly mention'd, casual words Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle, News from the armies, talk of your return, A word let fall touching your youthful passion, Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye A momentary lustre ; made her pulse Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate. I could not long be blind, for love defies Concealment, making every glance and motion, Silence, and speech a tell-tale These things, though trivial of themselves, begat Suspicion. But long months elapsed, Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever. One night, when all were weary and at rest, I, sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatch'd, Thinking she slept, suffer'd my lids to close. Waked by a voice, I found her never, Signor, While life endures, will that scene fade from me, A dying lamp wink'd in the hearth, that cast, And snatched the shadows. Something stood be- fore me In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen, And standing in her night-robe with clasp'd hands, Like one in prayer. Her pallid face display'd Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty. She presently turn'd round, and fix'd her large, wild eyes, Brimming with tears, upon me, fetched a sigh, As from a riven heart, and cried: "He's dead! But, hush! weep not, I've bargain'd for his soul, That 's safe in bliss !" Demanding who was dead, Scarce yet aware she raved, she answer'd quick, Her COSMO, her beloved ; for that his ghost, All pale and gory, thrice had pass'd her bed. With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord, She pour'd her lamentation forth in strains Pathetical beyond the reach of reason. "Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew I loved him !" I'd no power to speak, or move. I sat stone still, a horror fell upon me. At last, her little strength ebb'd out, she sank, And lay, as in death's arms, till morning. *From "Demetria." 118 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. SCENE FROM HAD AD. The terraced roof of ABSALOM'S house by night ; adorned with vases of flowers and fragrant shrubs ; an awning over part of it. TAMAII and HAD AD. Turn. No, no, I well remember proofs, y ou said, Unknown to MOSES. Had. Well, my love, thou know'st I 've been a traveller in various climes ; Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled The snow-clad mountains ; trusted to the deep; Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea, And with the wise conversed of many nations. Tarn. I know thou hast. Had. Of all mine eyes have seen, The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful Is that dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain. Turn. Who? Had. None knows his lineage, age, or name : his locks Are like the snows of Caucasus ; his eyes Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. In green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said, The generations pass, like autumn fruits, Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life, Again to perish, while he views the sun, The seasons roll, in rapt serenity, And high communion with celestial powers. Some say 'tis SEM, our father, some say ENOCH, And some MELCIIISEDEK. Tarn. I 've heard a tale Like this, but ne'er believed it. Hud. I have proved it. Through perils dire, dangers most imminent, Seven days and nights, mid rocks and wildernesses, And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice, Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing, Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared My desperate way, resolved to know or perish. Tarn. Rash, rash adventurer ! Had. On the highest peak Of stormy Caucasus there blooms a spot On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers And verdure never die ; and there he dwells. Tarn. But didst thou see him ] Had. Never did I view Such awful majesty : his reverend locks Hung like a silver mantle to his feet; His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow Rose like the gate of Paradise ; his mouth Was musical as its bright guardians' songs. Tarn. What did he tell thee 1 O ! what wisdom fell From lips so hallow'd ? Had. Whether he possesses The Tetragrammaton the powerful name Inscribed on MOSES' rod, by which he wrought Unheard-of wonders, which constrains the heavens To shower down blessings, shakes the earth, and rules The strongest spirits ; or if GOD hath given A delegated power, I cannot tell. But 'twas from him I learn'd their fate, their fall, Who erewhile wore resplendent crowns in heaven ; Now scatter 1 d through the earth, the air, the sea. Them he compels to answer, and from them Has drawn what MOSES, nor no mortal ear Has ever heard. Tarn. But did he tell it thee ? Had. He told me much more than I dare reveal; For with a dreadful oath he seal'd my lips. Tarn. But canst thou tell me nothing] Why unfold So much, if I must hear no more ? Had. You bade Explain my words, almost reproach me, sweet, For what by accident escaped me. Tarn. Ah! A little something tell me sure not all Were words inhibited. Had. Then promise never, Never to utter of this conference A breath to mortal. Tarn. Solemnly I vow. Had. Even then, 'tis little I can say, compared With all the marvels he related. Tarn. Come, I 'm breathless. Tell me how they sinn'd, how fell. Had. Their head, their prince involved them in his ruin. Tarn. What black offence on his devoted head Drew endless punishment ] Had. The wish to be Like the All-Perfect. Tarn. Arrogating that Due only to his Maker ! awful crime ! But what their doom 1 their place of punishment T Had. Above, about, beneath ; earth, sea, and air; Their habitations various as their minds, Employments, and desires. Tarn. But are they round us, HADAD ? not confined In penal chains and darkness 1 Had. So he said, And so your holy books infer. What saith Your prophet ? what the prince of Uz ? Tarn. I shudder, Lest some dark minister be near us now. Had. You wrong them. They are bright in- telligences, Robb'd of some native splendour, and cast down, 'T is true, from heaven ; but not deform'd and foul, Revengeful, malice-working fiends, as fools Suppose. They dwell, like princes, in the clouds; Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky; Or arch their palaces beneath the hills, With stones inestimable studded so, That sun or stars were useless there. Tarn. Good heavens ! Had. He bade me look on rugged Caucasus, Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken, Naked and wild, as if creation's ruins Were heaped in one immeasurable chain Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms Of everlasting winter. But within Are glorious palaces and domes of light, Irradiate halls and crystal colonnades, JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 119 Vaults set with gems the purchase of a crown, Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam, Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. Tarn. Unheard-of splendour ! Had. There they dwell, and muse, And wander ; beings beautiful, immortal, Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky, Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come, And glow with light intense, imperishable. Thus, in the sparry chambers of the sea And air-pavilions, rainbow tabernacles, They study nature's secrets, and enjoy No poor dominion. Tarn. Are they beautiful, And powerful far beyond the human race 7 Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it When The sage described them, fiery eloquence Flow'd from his lips ; his bosom heaved, his eyes Grew bright arid mystical ; moved by the theme, Like one who feels a deity within. Tarn. W T ondrous ! What intercourse have they with men ? Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man, But oft with woman. Tain. Ha ! with woman 1 Had. She Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft, And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves. They have been known to love her with a passion Stronger than human. Tarn. That surpasses all You yet have told me. . Had. This the sage affirms ; And MOSES, darkly. Tain. How do they appear 1 How manifest their love 1 Had. Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified By beatific dreams, or more distinct And glorious apparition. They have stoop'd To animate a human form, and love Like mortals. Tarn. Frightful to be so beloved ! Who could endure the horrid thought ! What makes Thy cold hand tremble 1 or is't mine That feels so deathy 1 Had. Dark imaginations haunt me When I recall the dreadful interview. Tarn. 0, tell them not: I would not hear them. Had. But why contemn a spirit's love ? so high, So glorious, if he haply deign'd ? Taut. Forswear My Maker ! love a demon ! II ul No 0, no My thoughts but wan Jer'd. Oft, alas! they wander. Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly now? And Thine eyes are fix'd again upon Arcturus. [lo ! Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb, Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power To cause or cure thy melancholy mood 7 [He appears lost in thought. Tell me, ascribest thou influence to the stars ] Had. (starting.} The stars ! What know'st thou of the stars 1 Tarn. I know that they were made to rule the night. Had. Like palace lamps ! Thou echoest well thy grandsire. Woman ! the stars are living, glorious, Amazing, infinite! 7am. Speak not so wildly. I know them numberless, resplendent, set As symbols of the countless, countless years That make eternity. Had. Eternity! ! mighty, glorious, miserable thought ! Had ye endured like those great sufferers, Like them, seen ages, myriad ages roll ; Could ye but look into the void abyss With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments, Then mightst thou name it, name it feelingly. Tarn. What ails thee, HADAD ? Draw me not so close. Had. TAMAR ! I need thy love more than thy love Tarn. Thy cheek is wet with tears Nay, let us 'T is late I cannot, must not linger. [part [Breaks from him, and exit. Had. Loved and abhorr'd ! Still, still accursed ! [He paces twice or thrice up and down, with passionate gestures , then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.] ! where, In the illimitable space, in what Profound of untried misery, when all His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill With life and beauty yonder infinite, Their radiant journey run, forever set, Where, where, in what abyss shall I. be groaning? [Exit. ARTHUR'S SOLILOQUY.* HERE let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wipe These servile drops from ofl* my burning brow. Amidst these venerable trees, the air Seems hallow'd by the breath of other times. Companions of my fathers ! ye have mark'd Their generations pass. Your giant arms Shadow'd their youth, and proudly canopied Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory, These walks they trod to meditate on heaven. What warlike pageants have ye seen ! what trains Of captives, and what heaps of spoil ! what pomp, When the victorious chief, war's tempest o'er, In Warkworth's bowers unbound his panoply ! What floods of splendour, bursts of jocund din, Startled the slumbering tenants of these shades, When night awoke the tumult of the feast, The song of damsels, and the sweet-toned lyre ! Then, princely PEHCT reigned amidst his halls, Champion, and judge, and father of the north. O, days of ancient grandeur ! are ye gone 1 Forever gone ] Do these same scenes behold His offspring here, the hireling of a foe 1 O, that I knew my fate ! that I could read The destiny which Heaven has mark'd for me ! * From " Percy's Masque." CHARLES SPRAGUE. [Bore, 1791.) CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth day of October, in 1791. His father, who still survives, was one of that celebrated band who, in 1773, resisted taxation by pouring the tea on board several British ships into the sea. Mr. SPRAGUE was educated in the schools of his native city, which he left at an early period to acquire in a mercantile house a practical know- ledge of trade. When he was about twenty-one years of age, he commenced the business of a mer- chant on his own account, and continued in it, I believe, until he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank, one of the first establishments of its kind in Massachusetts. This office he now holds, and he has from the time he accepted it discharged its duties in a faultless manner, notwithstanding the venerable opinion that a poet must be incapable of successfully transacting practical affairs. In this period he has found leisure to study the works of the greatest authors, and particularly those of the masters of English poetry, with which, proba- bly, very few contemporary writers are more fami- liar ; and to write the admirable poems on which is based his own reputation. The first productions of Mr. SPRAGUE which attracted much attention, were a series of brilliant prologues, the first of which was written for the Park Theatre, in New York, in 1821. Prize thea- trical addresses are proverbially among the most worthless compositions in the poetic form. Their brevity and peculiar character prevents the develop- 'ment in them of original conceptions and striking ideas, and they are usually made up of common- place thoughts and images, compounded with little skill. Those by Mr. SPRAGUE are certainly among the best of their kind, and some passages in them are conceived in the true spirit of poetry. The following lines are from the one recited at the opening of a theatre in Philadelphia, in 1822. " To grace the stage, the bard's careering mind Seeks other worlds, and leaves his own behind ; He lures from air its bright, unprison'd forms, Breaks through the toinb, and Death's dull region storms, O'er ruin'd realms he pours creative day, And slumbering kings his mighty voice obey. From its damp shades the long-laid spirit walks, Anil round the murderer's bed in vengeance stalks. Poor, maniac Beauty brings her cypress wreath, Her smile a moonbeam on a blasted heath ; Round some cold grave she comes, sweet flowers to strew, And, lost to Heaven, still to love is true. Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads ; Power lifts his axe, and Truth's bold =ervice bleeds ; Remorse drops anguish from his burning eyes, Feels hell's eternal worm, and, shuddering, dies; War's trophied minion, too, forsakes the dust, Grasps his worn shield, and waves his sword of rust, Sjirinus to the slaughter at the trumpet's cull, Again to conquer, or again to fall." The ode recited in the Boston theatre, at a pa- geant in honour of SHAKSPEARE, in 1823, is one of the most vigorous and beautiful lyrics in the English language. The first poet of the world, the greatness of his genius, the vast variety of his scenes and characters, formed a subject well fitted for the flowing and stately measure chosen by our author, and the universal acquaintance with the writings of the immortal dramatist enables every one to judge of the merits of his composition. Though to some extent but a reproduction of the creations of SHAKSPEAHE, it is such a reproduction as none but a man of genius could effect. The longest of Mr. Sf HAGUE'S poems is entitled " Curiosity." It was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in August, 1829. It is in the heroic measure, and its diction is faultless. The subject was happily chosen, and admitted of a great variety of illustrations. The descriptions of the miser, the novel-reader, and the father led by curiosity to visit foreign lands, are among the finest passages in Mr. SPR AGUE'S writ- ings. " Curiosity" was published in Calcutta a few years ago, as an original work by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places, as SCOTT for COOPER, and CHAL- MERS for CHAXSISG; and in this form it was re- printed ia London, where it was much praised in some of the critical gazettes. The poem delivered at the centennial celebra- tion of the settlement of Boston, contains many spirited passages, but it is not equal to "Curiosity" or "The Shakspeare Ode." Its versification is easy and various, but it is not so carefully finished as most of Mr. SPRAGUE'S productions. "The Winged Worshippers," "Lines on the Death of M. S. C.," "The Family Meeting," "Art," and several other short poems, evidence great skill in the use of language, and show him to be a master of the poetic art They are all in good taste ; they are free from turgid ness ; and are pervaded by a spirit of good sense, which is unfortunately want- ing in much of the verse written in this age. Mr. SPHAGUE has written, besides his poems, an essay on drunkenness, and an oration, pro- nounced at Boston on the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of independence ; and I believe he contributed some papers to the "New England Magazine," while it was edited by his friend J. T. BUCKINGHAM. The style of his prose is florid and much less carefully finished than that of his poetry. He mixes but little in society, and, I have been told, was never thirty miles from his native city. His leisure hours are passed among his books ; with the few "old friends, the tried, the true," who travelled with him up the steeps of manhood ; or in the quiet of his own fireside. His poems show the strength of his domestic and social affections. 1-20 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 121 CURIOSITY.* IT came from Heaven its power archangels knew, When this fair globe first rounded to their view ; When the young sun reveal'd the glorious scene Where oceans gather'd and where lands grew green; When the dead dust in joyful myriads swarni'd, And man, the clod, with GOD'S own breath was warm'd : It reign'd in Eden when that man first woke, Its kindling influence from his eye-balls spoke ; No roving childhood, no exploring youth Led him along, till wonder chill'd to truth ; Full-form'd at once, his subject world he trod, And gazed upon the labours of his GOD ; On all, by turns, his charter'd glance was cast, While each pleaded best as each appear'd the last ; But when She came, in nature's blameless pride, Bone of his bone, his heaven-anointed bride, AH meaner objects faded from his sight, And sense turn'd giddy with the new delight ; Those charm'd his eye, but this entranced his soul, Another self, queen-wonder of the whole ! Rapt at the view, in ecstasy he stood, And, like his Maker, saw that all was good. It reign'd in Eden in that heavy hour When the arch-tempter sought our mother's bower, In thrilling charm her yielding heart assail'd, And even o'er dread JKHOVAH'S word prevail'd. There the fair tree in fatal beauty grew, And hung its mystic apples to her view: " Eat," breathed the fiend, beneath his serpent guise, "Ye shall know all things; gather, and be wise!" Sweet on her ear the wily falsehood stole, And roused the ruling passion of her soul. "Ye shall become like GOD," transcendent fate! That GOD'S command forgot, she pluck'd and ate ; Ate, and her partner lured to share the crime, Whose wo, the legend saith, must live through time. For this they shrank before the Avenger's face, For this He drove them from the sacred place; For this came down the universal lot, To weep, to wander, die, and be forgot. It came from Heaven it reigned in Eden's shades It roves on earth, and every walk invades: Childhood and age alike its influence own ; It haunts the beggar's nook, the monarch's throne ; Hangs o'er the cradle, leans above the bier, Gazed on old Babel's tower and lingers here. To all that's lofty, all that's low it turns, With terror curdles and with rapture burns ; Now feels a seraph's throb, now, less than man's, A reptile tortures and a planet scans ; Now idly joins in life's poor, passing jars, Nowshakes creation off, and soars beyond the stars. 'Tis CURIOSITY who hath not felt Its spirit, and before its altar knelt 1 In the pleased infant see the power expand, When first the coral fills his little hand ; Throned in its mother's lap, it dries each tear, As her sweet legend falls upon his ear ; * Delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Har- vard University, in 1829. 16 Next it assails him in his top's strange hum, Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum; Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows, He longs to break, and every spring expose. Placed by your hearth, with what delight he pores O'er the bright pages of his pictured stores ; How oft he steals upon your graver task, Of this to tell you, and of that to ask ; And, when the waning hour to-bedward bids, Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids, How winningly he pleads to gain you o'er, That he may read one little story more ! Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined, It sits, dark brooding, o'er his embryo mind : Take him between your knees, peruse his face, While all you know, or think you know, you trace ; Tell him who spoke creation into birth, Arch'd the broad heavens, and spread the rolling earth ; Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, And bade the seasons in their circles run ; Who fill'd the air, the forest, and the flood, And gave man all, for comfort, or for food ; Tell him they sprang at GOD'S creating nod He stops you short with, " Father, who made GOD 1 " Thus through life's stages may we mark the power That masters man in every changing hour. It tempts him from the blandishments of home, Mountains to climb and frozen seas to roam ; By air-blown bubbles buoy'd, it bids him rise, And hang, an atom in the vaulted skies ; Lured by its charm, he sits and learns to trace The midnight wanderings of the orbs of space ; Boldly he knocks at wisdom's inmost gate, With nature counsels, and communes with fate ; Below, above, o'er all he dares to rove, In all finds GOD, and finds that GOD all love. Turn to the world its curious dwellers view, Like PAUL'S Athenians, seeking something new. Be it a bonfire's or a city's blaze, The gibbet's victim, or the nation's gaze, A female atheist, or a learned dog, A monstrous pumpkin, or a mammoth hog, A murder, or a muster, 'tis the same, Life's follies, glories, griefs, all feed the flame. Hark, where the martial trumpet fills the air, How the roused multitude come round to stare ; Sport drops his ball, Toil throws his hammer by, Thrift breaks a bargain off, to please his eye ; Up fly the windows, even fair mistress cook, Though dinner burn, must run to take a look. In the thronged court the ruling passions read, Where STORY dooms, where WIIIT and WEBSTER plead; Yet kindred minds alone their flights shall trace, The herd press on to see a cut-throat's face. Around the gallows' foot behold them draw, When the lost villain answers to the law; Soft souls, how anxious on his pangs to gloat, When the vile cord shall tighten round his throat ; And, ah ! each hard-bought stand to quit how grieved, As the sad rumour runs " The man's reprieved !" See to the church the pious myriads pour, Squeeze through the aisles and jostle round the door; L 122 CHARLES SPRAGUE. Does LAXSDOX preach ? (I veil his quiet name Who serves his Gon, and cannot stoop to fame ;) No, 'tis some reverend mime, the latest rage, Who thumps the desk, that should have trod the stage; Cant's veriest ranter crams a house, if new, When PAUL himself, oft heard, would hardly fill a pew. Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, Holds its warp'd mirror to a gaping age ; There, where, to raise the drama's moral tone, Fool Harlequin usurps Apollo's throne ; There, where grown children gather round, to praise The new-vamp'd legends of their nursery days ; Where one loose scene shall turn more souls to shame, Then ten of CHA^XIXG'S lectures can reclaim; There, where in idiot rapture we adore The herded vagabonds of every shore : Women unsex'd, who, lost to woman's pride, The drunkard's stagger ape, the bully's stride ; Pert, lisping girls, who, still in childhood's fetters, Babble of love, yet barely know their letters ; Neat-jointed mummers, mocking nature's shape, To prove how nearly man can match an ape ; Vaulters, who, rightly served at home, perchance Had dangled from the rope on which they dance ; Dwarfs, mimics, jugglers, all that yield content, Where Sin holds carnival and Wit keeps Lent ; Where, shoals on shoals, the modest million rush, One sex to laugh, and one to try to blush, When mincing RAVENOT sports tight pantalettes, And turns fops' heads while turning pirouettes ; There, at each ribald sally, where we hear The knowing giggle and the scurrile jeer; While from the intellectual gallery first Rolls the base plaudit, loudest at the worst. Gods ! who can grace yon desecrated dome, When he may turn his SHAKSPEAIIE o'er at home ? Who there can group the pure ones of his race, To see and hear what bids him veil his face 1 Ask ye who can 1 why I, arid you, and you ; No matter what the nonsense, if 'tis new. To Doctor Logic's wit our sons give ear ; They have no time for HAMLET, or for LEAR ; Our daughters turn from gentle JULIET'S wo, To count the twirls of ALMAVIVA'S toe. Not theirs the blame who furnish forth the treat, But ours, who throng the board and grossly eat ; We laud, indeed, the virtue-kindling stage, And prate of SIIAKSPEATIE and his deathless page; But go, announce his best, on COOPER call, COOPER, "the noblest Roman of them all ;" Where are the crowds, so wont to choke the door ] 'T is an old thing, they 've seen it all before. Pray Heaven, if yet indeed the stage must stand, With guiltless mirth it may delight the land ; Far better else each scenic temple fall, And one approving silence curtain all. Despots to shame may yield their rising youth, But Freedom dwells with purity and truth; Then make the effort, ye who rule the stage With novel decency surprise the age ; Even Wit, so long forgot, may play its part, And Nature yet have power to melt the heart ; Perchance the listeners, to their instinct true, May fancy common sense 't were surely some- thing new. Turn to the Press its teeming sheets survey, Big with the wonders of each passing day ; Births, deaths, and weddings, forgeries, fires, and wrecks, Harangues, and hail-storms, brawls, and broken necks ; Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek An immortality of near a week ; Where cruel eulogists the dead restore, In maudlin praise, to martyr them once more ; Where ruffian slanderers wreak their coward spite, And need no venom'd dagger while they write : There, (with a quill so noisy and so vain, We almost hear the goose it clothed complain,) Where each hack scribe, as hate or interest burns, Toad or toad-eater, stains the page by turns ; Enacts virtu, usurps the critic's chair, Lauds a mock GUIDO, or a mouthing player; Viceroys it o'er the realms of prose and rhyme. Now puffs pert "Pelham," now "The Course of Time ;" And, though ere Christmas both may be forgot, Vows this beats MILTOS, and that WALTER SCOTT; With SAMSON'S vigour feels his nerves expand, To overthrow the nobles of the land ; Soils the green garlands that for OTIS bloom, And plants a brier even on CAIIOT'S tomb; As turn the party coppers, heads or tails, And now this faction and now that prevails ; Applauds to-day what yesterday he cursed, Lampoons the wisest, and extols the worst ; While, hard to tell, so coarce a daub he lays, Which sullies most, the slander or the praise. Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst, While still the more we drink, the more we thirst Trade hardly deems the busy day begun, Till his keen eye along the page has run ; The blooming daughter throws her needle by, And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh , While the grave mother puts her glasses on, And gives a tear to some old crony gone ; The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down, To know what last new folly fills the town ; Lively or sad, life's meanest, mightiest things, The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting kings ; Naught comes amiss, we take the nauseous stufi^ Verjuice or oil, a libel or a puff. 'T is this sustains that coarse, licentious tribe Of tenth-rate type-men, gaping for a bribe ; That reptile race, with all that's good at strife, Who trail their slime through every walk of life , Stain the white tablet where a great man's name Stands proudly chisell'd by the hand of Fame ; . Nor round the sacred fireside fear to crawl, But drop their venom there, and poison all. 'T is Curiosity though, in its round, No one poor dupe the calumny has found, Still shall it live, and still new slanders breed ; What though we ne'er believe, we buy and read , Like Scotland's war-cries, thrown from hand to hand, To rouse the angry passions of the land, CHARLES SPRAGUE. 123 So the black falsehood flies from ear to car, While goodness grieves, but, grieving, still must hear. All are not such? O no, there are, thank Heaven, A nobler troop, to whom this trust is given ; Who, all unbribed, on Freedom's ramparts stand, Faithful and firm, bright warders of the land. By them still lifts the Press its arm abroad, To guide all-curious man along life's road ; To cheer young Genius, Pity's tear to start, In Truth's bold cause to rouse each fearless heart; O'er male and female quacks to shake the rod, And scourge the unsex'd thing that scorns her Gon; To hunt Corruption from his secret den, And show the monster up, the gaze of wondering men. How swells my theme ! how vain my power I find, To track the windings of the curious mind ; Let aught be hid, though useless, nothing boots, Straightway it must be pluck'd up by the roots. How oft we lay the volume down to ask Of him, the victim in the Iron Mask ; The crusted medal rub with painful care, To spell the legend out that is not there ; With dubious gaze, o'er mossgrown tombstones bend, To find a name the heralds never penn'd j< Dig through the lava-deluged city's breast, Learn all we can, and wisely guess the rest : Ancient or modern, sacred or profane, All must be known, and all obscure made plain; If 'twas a pippin tempted EVE to sin; If glorious Bruov drugg'd his muse with gin; If Troy e'er stood ; if SUAKSPEARE stole a deer; If Israel's missing tribes found refuge here ; If like a villain Captain HEXHT lied ; If like a martyr Captain MORGAN died. Its aim oft idle, lovely in its end, We turn to look, then linger to befriend ; The maid of Egypt thus was led to save A nation's future leader from the wave ; New things to hear, when erst the Gentiles ran, Truth closed what Curiosity began. How many a noble art, now widely known, Owes its young impulse to this power alone ; Even in its slightest working, we may trace A deed that changed the fortunes of a race : BIIUCE, bann'd and hunted on his native soil, With curious eye survey'd a spider's toil : Six timss the little climber strove and fail'd ; Six times the chief before his foes had quail'd ; " Once more," he cried, " in thine my doom I read, Once more I dare the fight, if thou succeed;" 'T was done the insect's fate he made his own, Once more the buttle waged, and gain'd a throne. Behold the sick man, in his easy chair, Barr'd from the busy crowd and bracing air, How every passing trifle proves its power I'o while away the long, dull, lazy hour. As down the pane the rival rain-drops chase, Curious he '11 watch to see which wins the race ; And let two dojrs beneath his window fight, He '11 shut his Bible to enjoy the sight. So with each new-born nothing rolls the day, Till some kind neighbour, stumbling in his way, Draws up his chair, the sufferer to amuse, And makes him happy while he tells the news. The news ! our morning, noon, and evening cry, Day unto day repeats it till we die. For this the cit, the critic, and the fop, Dally the hour away in Tonsor's shop ; For this the gossip takes her daily route, And wears your threshold and your patience out; For this we leave the parson in the lurch, And pause to prattle on the way to church; Even when some coffin'd friend we gather round, We ask, "What news?" then lay him in the ground ; To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest, For this the dinner cools, the bed remains un- press'd. What gives each tale of scandal to the street, The kitchen's wonder, and the parlour's treat ? See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly, When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers sigh; See Tom your pockets ransack for each note, And read your secrets while he cleans your coat; See, yes, to listen see even madam deign, When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain. This wings that lie that malice breeds in fear, No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly, Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to Polly ; On this each foul calumniator leans, And nods and hints thevillany he means; Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies In the close whisper and the dark surmise ; A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke A warmer throb than if a DKXTKU spoke ; And he, o'er EVEIIETT'S periods who would nod, To track a secret, half the town has trod. O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can save, Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave, Felon unwhipp'd ! than whom in yonder cells Full many a groaning wretch less guilty dwells, Blush if of honest blood a drop remains, To steal its lonely way along thy veins, Blush if the bronze, long harden'd on thy cheek, Has left a spot where that poor drop can speak ; Blush to be branded with the slanderer's name, And, though thou dread'st not sin, at least dread shame. We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear The insidious falsehood and the heartless jeer ; For each dark libel that thou lick'st to shape, Thou mayest from law, but not from scorn escape ; The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, Insulted virtue's hiss thou canst not fly. The churl, who holds it heresy to think, Who loves no music but the dollar's clink, Who laughs to scorn the wisdom of the schools, And deems the first of poets first of fools ; Who never found what good from science grew, Save the grand truth that one and one are two ; And marvels BOWDITCH o'er a book should pore, Unless to make those two turn into four; 124 CHARLES SPRAGUE. Who, placed where Catskill's forehead greets the sky, Grieves that such quarries all unhewn should lie; Or, gazing where Niagara's torrents thrill, Exclaims, " A monstrous stream to turn a mill !" Who loves to feel the blessed winds of heaven, But as his freighted barks are portward driven : Even he, across whose brain scarce dares to creep Aught but thrift's parent pair to get, to keep : Who never learn'd life's real bliss to know With Curiosity even he can glow. Go, seek him out on yon dear Gotham's walk, Where traffic's venturers meet to trade and talk : Where Mammon's votaries bend, of each degree, The hard-eyed lender, and the pale lendee ; Where rogues, insolvent, strut in white-wash'd pride, And shove the dupes, who trusted them, aside. How through the buzzing crowd he threads his way, To catch the flying rumours of the day, To learn of changing stocks, of bargains cross'd, Of breaking merchants, and of cargoes lost ; The thousand ills that traffic's walks invade, And give the heart-ache to the sons of trade. How cold he hearkens to some bankrupt's wo, Nods his wise head, and cries, "I told you so: The thriftless fellow lived beyond his means, He must buy brants I make my folks eat beans ;" What cares he for the knave, the knave's sad wife, The blighted prospects of an anxious life? The kindly throbs, that other men control, Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul ; Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends ; Bat, when to death he sinks, ungrieved, unsung, Buoy'd by the blessing of no mortal tongue, No worth rewarded, and no want redress'd, To scatter fragrance round his place of rest, What shall that hallow'd epitaph supply The universal wo when good men die? Cold Cariosity shall linger there, To guess the wealth he leaves his tearless heir; Perchance to wonder what must be his doom, In the far land that lies beyond the tomb ; Alas ! for him, if, in its awful plan, Heaven deal with him as he hath dealt with man. Child of romance, these work-day scenes you spurn ; For loftier things your finer pulses burn ; Through Nature's walk your curious way you take, Gaze on her glowing bow, her glittering flake, Her spring's first cheerful green, her autumn's last, Born in the breeze, or dying in the blast ; You climb the mountain's everlasting wall ; You linger where the thunder-waters fall ; You love to wander by old ocean's side, And hold communion with its sullen tide; Wash'd to your foot some fragment of a wreck, Fancy shall build again the crowded deck That trod the waves, till, mid the tempest's frown, The sepulchre of living men went down. Yet Fancy, with her milder, tenderer glow, But dreams what Curiosity would know; Ye would stand listening, as the booming gun Proclaim'd the work of agony half-done ; There would you drink each drowning seaman's cry, As wild to heaven he cast his frantic eye; Though vain all aid, though Pity's blood ran cold, The mortal havoc ye would dare behold ; Still Curiosity would wait and weep, Till all sank down to slumber in the deep. Nor yet appeased the spirit's restless glow: Ye would explore the gloomy waste below; There, where the joyful sunbeams never fell, Where ocean's unrecorded monsters dwell, Where sleep earth's precious things, her rifled gold, Bones bleach'd by ages, bodies hardly cold, Of those who bow'd to fate in every form, By battle-strife, by pirate, or by storm ; The sailor-chief, who Freedom's foes defied. Wrapp'd in the sacred flag for which he died ; The wretch, thrown over to the midnight foam, Stabb'd in his blessed dreams of love and home ; The mother, with her fleshless arms still clasp'd Round the scared infant, that in death she grasp'd ; On these, and sights like these, ye long to gaze, The mournful trophies of uncounted days ; All that the miser deep has brooded o'er, Since its first billow roll'd to find a shore. Once more the Press, not that which daily flings Its fleeting ray across life's fleeting things, See tomes on tomes of fancy and of power, To cheer man's heaviest, warm his holiest hour. Now Fiction's groves we tread, where young Ro- mance Laps the glad senses in her sweetest trance ; Now through earth's cold, unpeopled realms we range, And mark each rolling century's awful change; Turn back the tide of ages to its head, And hoard the wisdom of the honour'd dead. 'T was Heaven to lounge upon a couch, said GHAT, And read new novels through a rainy day: Add but the Spanish weed, the bard was right ; 'T is heaven, the upper heaven of calm delight ; The world forgot, to sit at ease reclined, While round one's head the smoky perfumes wind, Firm in one hand the ivory folder grasp'd, SCOTT'S uncut latest by the other clasp'd ; 'T is heaven, the glowing, graphic page to turn, And feel within the ruling passion burn ; Now through the dingles of his own bleak isle, And now through lands that wear a sunnier smile, To follow him, that all-creative one, Who never found a " brother near his throne." Look, now, directed by yon candle's blaze, Where the false shutter half its trust betrays, Mark that fair girl, reclining in her bed, Its curtain round her polish'd shoulders spread , Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in power, What keeps her waking in that dreary hour? See where the volume on her pillow lies Claims RAHCLIFFE or CHAPOXE those frequent sighs ? 'T is some wild legend, now her kind eye fills, And now cold terror every fibre chills ; CHARLES SPRAGUE. 125 Still she reads on in Fiction's labyrinth lost Of tyrant fathers, and of true love cross'd ; Of clanking fetters, low, mysterious groans, Blood-crusted daggers, and uncofHn'd bones, Pale, gliding ghosts, with fingers dropping gore, And blue flames dancing round a dungeon door; Still she reads on even though to read she fears, And in each key-hole moan strange voices hears, While every shadow that withdraws her look, I Glares in her face, the goblin of the book ; Still o'er the leaves her craving eye is cast ; On all she feasts, yet hungers for the last ; Counts what remain, now sighs there are no more, And now even those half tempted to skip o'er; At length, the bad all killed, the good all pleased, Her thirsting Curiosity appeased, She shuts the dear, dear book, that made her weep, Puts out her light, and turns away to sleep. Her bright, her bloody records to unrol, See History come, and wake th' inquiring soul : How bounds the bosom at each wondrous deed Of those who founded, and of those who freed ; The good, the valiant of our own loved clime, Whose names shall brighten through the clouds of time. How rapt we linger o'er the volumed lore That tracks the glories of each distant shore; In all their grandeur and in all their gloom, The throned, the thrall'd rise dimly from the tomb ; Chiefs, sages, bards, the giants of their race, Earth's monarch men, her greatness and her grace ; Warm'd as we read, the penman's page we spurn, And to each near, each far arena turn ; Here, where the Pilgrim's altar first was built, Here, where the patriot's life-blood first was spilt ; There, where new empires spread along each spot Whore old ones fleurish'd but to be forgot, Or, direr judgment spared to fill a page, And with their errors warn an after age. And where is he upon that Rock can stand, Nor with their firmness feel his heart expand, Who a new empire planted where they trod, And gave it to their children and their GOD 1 Who yon immortal mountain-shrine hath press'd, With saintlier relics stored than priest e'er bless'd, But felt each grateful pulse more warmly glow, In voiceless reverence for the dead below 1 Who, too, by Curiosity led on, To tread the shores of kingdoms come and gone, Where Faith her martyrs to the fagot led, Where Freedom's champions on the scaffold bled, Where ancient power, though stripp'd of ancient fame, Curb'd, but not crushed, still lives for guilt and shame, But prouder, happier, turns on home to gaze, And thanks his Gon who gave him better days 1 Undraw yon curtain ; look within that room, Where all is splendour, yet where all is gloom : Why weeps that mother 1 why, in pensive mood, Group noiseless round, that little, lovely brood 1 The battledore is still, laid by each book, And the harp slumbers in its custom'd nook. Who hath dime this ? what cold, unpitving foe Hath made this house the dwelling-place of wo 1 'T is he, the husband, father, lost in care, O'er that sweet fellow in his cradle there : The gallant bark that rides by yonder strand, Bears him to-morrow from his native land. Why turns he, half-unwilling, from his home ? To tempt the ocean and the earth to roam 1 Wealth he can boast, a miser's sigh would hush, And health is laughing in that ruddy blush ; Friends spring to greet him, and he has no foe So honour'd and so bless'd, what bids him go ? His eye must see, hi* foot each spot must tread, Where sleeps the dust of earth's recorded dead; Where rise the monuments of ancient time, Pillar and pyramid in age sublime ; The pagan's temple and the churchman's tower, War's bloodiest plain and Wisdom's greenest bower ; All that his wonder woke in school-boy themes, All that his fancy fired in youthful dreams : Where SOCRATES once taught he thirsts to stray, Where HOMER pour'd his everlasting lay ; From VIRGIL'S tomb he longs to pluck one flower, By Avon's stream to live one moonlight hour ; To pause where England " garners up" her great, And drop a patriot's tear to MILTON'S fate ; Fame's living masters, too, he must behold, Whose deeds shall blazon with the best of old : Nations compare, their laws and customs scan, And read, wherever spread, the book of man ; For these he goes, self-banish'd from his hearth, And wrings the hearts of all he loves on earth. Yet say, shall not new joy these hearts inspire, When grouping round the future winter fire, To hear the wonders of the world they burn, And lose his absence in his glad return 1 Return ! alas ! he shall return no more, To bless his own sweet home, his own proud shore. Look once again cold in his cabin now, Death's finger-mark is on his pallid brow ; No wife stood by, her patient watch to keep, To smile on him, then turn away to weep ; Kind woman's place rough mariners supplied, And shared the wanderer's blessing when he died. Wrapp'd in the raiment that it long must wear, Hia body to the deck they slowly bear ; Even there the spirit that I sing is true ; The crew look on with sad, but curious view; The setting sun flings round his farewell rays ; O'er the broad ocean not a ripple plays ; How eloquent, how awful in its power, The silent lecture of death's Sabbath-hour : One voice that silence breaks the prayer is said, And the last rite man pays to man is paid ; The plashing waters mark his resting-place, And fold him round in one long, cold embrace ; Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er, Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more ; Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep, With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep. " Alps rise on Alps" in vain my muse essays To lay the spirit that she dared to raise : What spreading scenes of rapture and of wo, With rose and cypress lure me as I go. In every question and in every glance, In folly's wonder and in wisdom's trance, L2 126 CHARLES SPRAGUE. In all of life, nor yet of life alone, In all beyond, this mighty power we own. We would unclasp the mystic book of fate, And trace the paths of all we love and hate ; The father's heart would learn his children's doom, Even when that heart is crumbling in the tomb ; If they must sink in guilt, or soar to fame, And leave a hated or a hallow'd name ; By hope elated, or depress'd by doubt, Even in the death-pang he would find it out What boots it to your dust, your son were born An empire's idol or a rabble's scorn ? Think ye the franchised spirit shall return, To share his triumph, his disgrace to mourn 1 Ah, Curiosity ! by thee inspired, This truth to know how oft has man inquired ! And is it fancy all 1 can reason say Earth's loves must moulder with earth's moulder- ing clay 1 That death can chill the father's sacred glow, And hush the throb that none but mothers know 1 Must we believe those tones of dear delight, The morning welcome and the sweet good-night, The kind monition and the well-earn'd praise, That won and warm'd us in our earlier days, Turn'd, as they fell, to cold and common air 1 Speak, proud Philosophy ! the truth declare ! Yet, no, the fond delusion, if no more, We would not yield for wisdom's cheerless lore ; A tender creed they hold, who dare believe The dead return, with them to joy or grieve. How sweet, while lingering slow on shore or hill, When all the pleasant sounds of earth are still, When the round moon rolls through the unpillar'd And stars look down as they were angels' eyes, How sweet to deem our lost, adored ones nigh, And hear their voices in the night-winds sigh. Full many an idle dream that hope had broke, And the awed heart to holy goodness woke ; Full many a felon's guilt in thought had died, Fear'd he his father's spirit by his side ; Then let that fear, that hope, control the mind ; Still let us question, still no answer find ; Let Curiosity of Heaven inquire, Nor earth's cold dogmas quench the ethereal fire. Nor even to life, nor death, nor time confined The dread hereafter fills the exploring mind ; We burst the grave, profane the coffin's lid, Unwisely ask of all so wisely hid ; Eternity's dark record we would read, Mysteries, unravell'd yet by mortal creed ; Of life to come, unending joy and wo, And all that holy wranglers dream below; To find their jarring dogmas out we long, Or which is right, or whether all be wrong; Things of an hour, we would invade His throne, And find out Him, the Everlasting One ! Faith we may boast, undarken'd by a doubt, We thirst to find each awful secret out ; Hope may sustain, and innocence impart Her sweet specific to the fearless heart ; The inquiring spirit will not be controll'd, We would make certain all, and all behold. TJnfathom'd well-head of the boundless soul ! Whose living waters lure us as they roll, From thy pure wave one cheering hope we draw Man, man at least shall spurn proud Nature's law. All that have breath, but he, lie down content, Life's purpose served, indeed, when life is spent ; All as in Paradise the same are found ; The beast, whose footstep shakes the solid ground, The insect living on a summer spire, The bird, whose pinion courts the sunbeam's fire ; In lair and nest, in way and want, the same As when their sires sought Adam for a name : Their be-all and their end-all here below, They nothing need beyond, nor need to know; Earth and her hoards their every want supply, They revel, rest, then, fearless, hopeless, die. But Man, his Maker's likeness, lord of earth, Who owes to Nature little but his birth, Shakes down her puny chains, her wants, and woes, One world subdues, and for another glows. See him, the feeblest, in his cradle laid ; See him, the mightiest, in his mind array'd ! How wide the gulf he clears, how bold the flight That bears him upward to the realms of light ! By restless Curiosity inspired, Through all his subject world he roves untired : Looks back and scans the infant days of yore, On to the time when time shall be no more ; Even in life's parting throb its spirit burns, And, shut from earth, to heaven more warmly turns. Shall he alone, of mortal dwellers here, Thus soar aloft to sink in mid-career ! Less favour'd than a worm, shall his stern doom Lock up these seraph longings in the tomb 1 v O Thou, whose fingers raised us from the dust, Till there we sleep again, be this our trust : This sacred hunger marks the immortal mind, ByThee'twas given, for Thee, for heaven design'd; There the rapt spirit, from earth's grossness freed, Shall see, and know, and be like Thee indeed. Here let me pause no further I rehearse What claims a loftier soul, a nobler verse ; The mountain's foot I have but loiter'd round, Not dared to scale its highest, holiest ground ; But ventured on the pebbly shore to stray, While the broad ocean all before me lay ; How bright the boundless prospect there on high ! How rich the pearls that here all hidden lie ! But not for me to life's coarse service sold, Where thought lies barren and naught breeds but gold 'T is yours, ye favour'd ones, at whose command From the cold world I ventured, here to stand : Ye who were lapp'd in Wisdom's murmuring bowers, Who still to bright improvement yield your hours ; To you the privilege and the power belong, To give my theme the grace of living song ; Yours be the flapping of the eagle's wing, To dare the loftiest crag, and heavenward spring ; Mine the light task to hop from spray to spray, Bless'd if I charm one summer hour away. One summer hour its golden sands have run, And the poor labour of the bard is done. CHARLES SPRAGUE. 127 Yet, ere I fling aside my humble lyre, Let one fond wish its trembling strings inspire ; Fancy the task to Feeling shall resign, And the heart prompt the warm, untutor'd line. Peace to this ancient spot ! here, as of old, May Learning dwell, and all her stores unfold ; Still may her priests around these altars stand, And train to truth the children of the land ; Bright be their paths, within these shades who rest, These brother-bands beneath his guidance bless'd, Who, with their fatiiers, here turn'd wisdom's page, Who comes to them the statesman and the sage. Praise be his portion in his labours here, The praise that cheer'da KIRKLANU'S mild career; The love that finds in every breast a shrine, When zeal and gentleness with wisdom join. Here may he sit, while race succeeding race Go proudly forth his parent care to grace ; In head and heart by him prepared to rise, To take their stations with the good and wise : This crowning recompense to him be given, To see them guard on earth and guide to heaven ; Thus, in their talents, in their virtues bless'd, O be his ripest years his happiest and his best ! SHAKSPEARE ODE.* GOD of the glorious lyre ! Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang, While JOVE'S exulting choir Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang Come ! bless the service and the shrine We consecrate to thee and thine. \ Fierce from the frozen north, When Havoc led his legions forth, O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyer spread : In dust the sacred statue slept, Fair Science round her altars wept, And Wisdom cowl'd his head. At length, Olympian lord of morn, The raven veil of night was torn, When, through golden clouds descending, Thou didst hold thy radiant flight, O'er Nature's lovely pageant bending, Till Avon rolled, all sparkling to thy sight ! There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade, Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed minstrel stray'd. Lighting there and lingering long, Thou didst teach the bard his song; Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, And round his brows a garland curl'd ; On his lips thy spirit fell, And bade him wake and warm the world ! Then SHAKSPF.ATIE rose ! Across the trembling strings His daring hand he flings, And, lo ! a new creation glows ! * Delivered in the Boston Theatre, in 1823, at the exhi- bition of a pageant in honour of SHAKSPEARE. There, clustering round, submissive to his will, Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil. Madness, with his frightful scream, Vengeance, leaning on his lance, Avarice, with his blade and beam, Hatred, blasting with a glance ; Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars, And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and mur- ders, yet adores. Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit, Waking laughter's merry swell, Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell. Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, Kiss'd by the virgin moon's cold beam, Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes, Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest, Beneath the bubbling wave, that shrouds her maniac breast Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Now drooping o'er the hallow'd tomb Where his plighted victims lie Where they met, but met to die : And now, when crimson buds are sleeping, Through the dewy arbour peeping, Where Beauty's child, the frowning world forgot, To youth's devoted tale is listening, Rapture on her dark lash glistening, While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, Obedient to their master's song, And lead in willing chain the wandering soul along, For other worlds war's Great One sigh'd in rain O'er otherworlds see SHAK.SPEAUE rove and reign ! The rapt magician of his own wild lay, Earth and her tribes his mystic wand obey. Old Ocean trembles, Thunder cracks the skies, Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale spectres rise : Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep, And faithless Guilt unseals the lip of Sleep : Time yields his trophies up, and Death restores The mouldered victims of his voiceless shores. The fireside legend, and the faded page, The crime that cursed, the deed that bless'd an ag e > All, all come forth, the good to charm and cheer, To scourge bold Vice, and start the generous tear; With pictured Folly gazing fools to shame, And guide young Glory's foot along the path of Fame. Lo ! hand in hand, Hell's juggling sisters stand, To greet their victim from the fight ; Group'd on the blasted heath, They tempt him to the work of death, Then melt in air, and mock his wondering sight. 128 CHARLES SPRAGUE. In midnight's hallow'd hour He seeks the fatal tower, Where the lone raven, perch'd on high, Pours to the sullen gale Her hoarse, prophetic wail, And croaks the dreadful moment nigh. See, by the phantom dagger led, Pale, guilty thing, Slowly he steals with silent tread, And grasps his coward steel to smite his sleeping king. Hark ! 't is the signal bell, Struck by that bold and unsex'd one, Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone; His ear hath caught the knell 'T is done ! 't is done ! Behold him from the chamber rushing, Where his dead monarch's blood is gashing: Look, where he trembling stands, Sad, gazing there, Life's smoking crimson on his hands, And in his felon heart the worm of wild despair. Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering ! There flit the slaves of conscience round, With boding tongues foul murderers num- bering ; Sleep's leaden portals catch the sound. In his dream of blood for mercy quaking, At his own dull scream behold him waking ! Soon that dream to fate shall turn, For him the living furies burn ; For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak, \nd chides the lagging night, and whets her hun- gry beak. Hark ! the trumpet's warning breath Echoes round the vale of death. Unhorsed, unhelm'd, disdaining shield, The panting tyrant scours the field. Vengeance ! he meets thy dooming blade ! The scourge of earth, the scorn of heaven, He falls ! unwept and unforgiven, And all his guilty glories fade. Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies, And hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes ! Behold yon crownless king Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring, And burst their streams of flood and fire ! He gave them all the daughters of his love : That recreant pair ! they drive him forth to rove; In such a night of wo, The cubless regent of the wood Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood, And caverns with her foe ! Yet one was ever kind : Why lingers she behind ] pity ! view him by her dead form kneeling, Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling. His aching eyeballs strain, To see those curtain'd orbs unfold, That beauteous bosom heave again: But all is dark and cold. In agony the father shakes ; Grief's choking note Swells in his throat, Each wither'd heart-string tugs and breaks ! Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes, And on her marble lips his last, his death-kiss breathes. Down! trembling wing: shall insect weakness keep The sun-defying eagle's sweep 1 A mortal strike celestial strings, And feebly echo what a seraph sings ? Who now shall grace the glowing throne, Where, all unrivall'd, all alone, Bold SHAKSPEARP. sat, and look'd creation through, The minstrel monarch of the worlds he drew 1 That throne is cold that lyre in death unstrung, On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung. Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps, One spot shall spare the grave where SH AKSPEAHE sleeps. Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, But Nature's laureate bards shall never die. Art's chisell'd boast tmd Glory's trophied shore Must live in numbers, or can live no more. While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim, Still roars the Olympic car in PINDA it's fame : Troy's doubtful walls, in ashes pass'd away, Yet frown on Greece in HOMER'S deathless lay; Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes, Stands all immortal in her MARO'S strains ; So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles, To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend, And all her triumphs in her SUAK.SPEAHE end ! O thou ! to whose creative power We dedicate the festal hour, While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand, Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipp'd band Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown, Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. Deep in the west, as Independence roves, His banners planting round the land he loves, Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace, In Time's full hour shall spring a glorious race : Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear, And deck for thee the vaulted temple there. Our Roman-hearted fathers broke Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; But thou, harmonious monarch of the mind, Around their sons a gentler chain shall bind ; Still o'er our land shall Albion's sceptre wave, And what her mighty lion lost, her mightier swan shall save. THE BROTHERS. WE are but two the others sleep Through death's untroubled night ; We are but two O, let us keep The link that binds us bright CHARLES SPRAGUE. 129 Heart leaps to heart the sacred flood That warms us is the same ; That good old man his honest blood Alike we fondly claim. We in one mother's arms were lock'd- Long be her love repaid ; In the same cradle we were rock'd, Round the same hearth we play'd. Our boyish sports were all the same, Each little joy and wo ; Let manhood keep alive the flame, Lit up so long ago. We are but two be that the band To hold us till we die ; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, Till side by side we lie. ART. tf, from the sacred garden driven, Man fled before his Maker's wrath, An angel left her place in heaven, And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path. 'T was Art ! sweet Art ! new radiance broke Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, And thus with seraph voice she spoke : " The curse a blessing shall be found." Shn led him through the trackless wild, Where noontide sunbeam never blazed ; The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled, And Nature gladden'd as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things, At Art's command, to him are given ; The village grows, the city springs, And point their spires of faith to heaven. He rends the oak and bids it ride, To guard the shores its beauty graced ; He smites the rock upheaved in pride, See towers of strength and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave, He/ bids the mortal poison heal, And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, Admiring beauty's lap to fill; He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, And mocks his own Creator's skill. With thoughts that fill his glowing soul, He bids the ore illume the page, And, proudly scorning Time's control, Commerces with an unborn age. In fields of air he writes his name, And treads the chambers of the sky, He reads the stars, and grasps the flame That quivers round the throne on high. In war renown'd, in peace sublime, He moves in greatness and in grace ; His power, subduing space and time, Links realm to realm, and race to race. I 17 LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.' O, IT is life ! departed days Fling back their brightness while I gaze : 'Tis EMMA'S self this brow so fair, Half-curtain'd in this glossy hair, These eyes, the very home of love, The dark twin arches traced above, These red-ripe lips that almost speak, The fainter blush of this pure cheek, The rose and lily's beauteous strife It is ah no ! 'tis all but life. 'Tis all but life art could not save Thy graces, EMMA, from the grave ; Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, Thy love-lit eyes have look'd their last ; Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, All we adored of thee is hid ; Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, Is throbless in the narrow cell ; Thy gentle voice shall charm no more ; Its last, last, joyful note is o'er. Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, The requiem of the fair and young ; The theme is old, alas ! how old, Of grief that will not be controll'd, Of sighs that speak a father's wo, Of pangs that none but mothers know, Of friendship, with its bursting heart, Doom'd from the idol-one to part Still its sad debt must feeling pay, Till feeling, too, shall pass away. say, why age, and grief, and pain Shall long to go, but long in vain ; Why vice is left to mock at time, And, gray in years, grow gray in crime ; While youth, that every eye makes glad, And beauty, all in radiance clad, And goodness, cheering every heart, Come, but come only to depart ; Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away. 'Tis darkness all ! black banners wave Round the cold borders of the grave ; There, when in agony we bend O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, One only comfort then we know We, too, shall quit this world of wo ; We, too, shall find a quiet place With the dear lost ones of our race ; Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, And life's sad story find an end. And is this all this mournful doom ? Beams no glad light beyond the tomb 1 Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride ; They do not quench the orb they hide ; ' Still there it wheels the tempest o'er, In a bright sky to burn once more ; So, far above the clouds of time, Faith can behold a world sublime There, when the storms of life are past, The light beyond shall break at last. 130 CHARLES SPRAGUE. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. GAT, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear The Goo ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 't is given To wake sweet nature's, untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands. Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in you bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'T were heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great GOD adore. DEDICATION HYMN. GOD of wisdom, GOD of might, Father ! dearest name of all, Bow thy throne and bless our rite ; 'T is thy children on thee call. Glorious ONE ! look down from heaven, Warm each heart and wake each vow ; Unto Thee this house is given ; With thy presence fill it now. Fill it now ! on every soul Shed the incense of thy grace, While our anthem-echoes roll Round the consecrated place ; While thy holy page we read, While the prayers Thou lovest ascend, While thy cause thy servants plead, Fill this house, our GOD, our Friend. Fill it now O, fill it long ! So, when death shall call us home, Still to Thee, in many a throng, May our children's children come. Bless them, Father, long and late, Blot their sins, their sorrows dry ; Make this place to them the gate Leading to thy courts on high. There, when time shall be no more, When the feuds of earth are past, May the tribes of every shore Congregate in peace at last ! Then to Thee, thou ONE all-wise, Shall the gather'd millions sing, Till the arches of the skies With their hallelujahs ring. TO MY CIGAR. YES, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doctors' spite ; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight. What though they tell, with phizzes long, My years are sooner pass'd ? I would reply, with reason strong, They 're sweeter while they last. And oft, mild friend, to me thou art A monitor, though still ; Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart, Beyond the preacher's skill. Thou'rt like the man of worth, who gives To goodness every day, The odour of whose virtues lives When he has passed away. When, in the lonely evening hour, Attended but by thee, O'er history's varied page I pore, Man's fate in thine I see. Oft as thy snowy column grows, Then breaks and falls away, I trace how mighty realms thus rose, Thus tumbled to decay. A while, like thee, earth's masters burn, And smoke and fume around, And then, like thee, to ashes turn, And mingle with the ground. Life 's but a leaf adroitly roll'd, And time 's the wasting breath, That late or early, we behold, Gives all to dusty death. From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, One common doom is pass'd : Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe, Must all burn out at last. And what is he who smokes thee now 1 A little moving heap, That soon like thee to fate must bow, With thee in dust must sleep. But though thy ashes downward go, Thy essence rolls on high ; Thus, when my body must lie low, My soul shall cleave the sky. CHARLES SPRAGUE. 131 CENTENNIAL ODE.* NOT to the pagan's mount I turn For inspirations now ; Olympus and its gods I spurn Pure One, be with me, Thou! Thou, in whose awful name, From suffering and from shame Our fathers fled, and braved a pathless sea ; Thou, in whose holy fear, They fix'd an empire here, And gave it to their children and to Thee. IT. And You ! ye bright-ascended Dead, Who scorn'd the bigot's yoke, Come, round this place your influence shed ; Your spirits I invoke. Come, as ye came of yore, When on an unknown shore Your daring hands the flag of faith unfurl'd, To float sublime, Through future time The beacon-banner of another world. Behold! they come those sainted forms, Unshaken through the strife of storms ; Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, And earth puts on its rudest frown ; But colder, ruder was the hand That drove them from their own fair land ; Their own fair land refinement's chosen seat, Art's trophied dwelling, Learning's green retreat ; By valour guarded, and by victory crown'd, For all, but gentle charity renown'd. With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart, Even from that land they dared to part, And burst each tender tie ; Haunts, where their sunny youth was pass'd, Homes, where they fondly hoped at last In peaceful age to die. Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurn'd; Their fathers' hallow'd graves ; And to a world of darkness turn'd, Beyond a world of waves. ir. When ISRAEL'S race from bondage fled, Signs from on high the wanderers led ; But here Heaven hung no symbol here, Thtir steps to guide, their souls to cheer ; They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, Naught but the fagot's guilty light ; The cloud they gazed at was the smoke That round their murder'd brethren broke. Nor power above, nor power below Sustain'd them in their hour of wo; A fearful path they trod, And dared a fearful doom ; To build an altar to their GOD, And find a quiet tomb. * Pronounced at the Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Boston, September, 1S30. But not alone, not all unbless'd, The exile sought a place of rest ; OJTE dared with him to burst the knot That bound her to her native spot ; Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke, As round their bark the billows broke ; She through the midnight watch was there, With him to bend her knees in prayer ; She trod the shore with girded heart, Through good and ill to claim her part ; In life, in death, with him to seal Her kindred love, her kindred zeal. They come ; that coming who shall tell 1 The eye may weep, the heart may swell, But the poor tongue in vain essays A fitting note for them to raise. We hear the after-shout that rings For them who smote the power of kings ; The swelling triumph all would share, But who the dark defeat would dare, And boldly meet the wrath and wo That wait the unsuccessful blow ? It were ah envied fate, we deem, To live a land's recorded theme, When we are in the tomb ; We, too, might yield the joys of home, And waves of winter darkness roam, And tread a shore of gloom Knew we those waves, through coming time, Should roll our names to every clirne ; Felt we that millions on that shore Should stand, our memory to adore. But no glad vision burst in light Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight ; Their hearts no proud hereafter swell'd ; Deep shadows veil'd the way they held ; The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, Their monument, a grave without a name. Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, On yonder ice-bound rock, Stern and resolved, that faithful band, To meet fate's rudest shock. Though anguish rends the father's breast, For them, his dearest and his best, With him the waste who trod Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds Upon her children's houseless heads The Christian turns to GOD ! VIII. In grateful adoration now, Upon the barren sands they bow. What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer As bursts in desolation there 7 What arm of strength e'er wrought such power As waits to crown that feeble hour ? There into life an infant empire springs ! There falls the iron from the soul ; There Liberty's young accents roll Up to the King of kings ! 132 CHARLES SPRAGUE. To fair creation's farthest bound That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; The dreaming nations shall awake, And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake. Pontiff and prince, your sway Must crumble from that day ; Before the loftier throne of Heaven The hand is raised, the pledge is given One monarch to obey, one creed to own, That monarch, GOD ; that creed, His word alone. Spread out earth's holiest records here, Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; A zeal like this what pious legends tell 7 On kingdoms built In blood and guilt, The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell But what exploits with theirs shall page, Who rose to bless their kind Who left their nation and their age, Man's spirit to unbind 1 Who boundless seas pass'd o'er, And boldly met, in every path, Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, To dedicate a shore, Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow, And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, And set up there an everlasting home] O, many a time it hath been told, The story of those men of old. For this fair Poetry hath wreathed Her sweetest, purest flower ; For this proud Eloquence hath breathed His strain of loftiest power ; Devotion, too, hath linger'd round Each spot of consecrated ground, And hill and valley bless'd ; There, where our banish'd fathers stray'd, There, where they loved, and wept, and pray'd, There, where their ashes rest. And never may they rest unsung, While Liberty can find a tongue. Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them, More deathless than the diadem, Who, to life's noblest end, Gave up life's noblest powers, And bade the legacy descend Down, down to us and ours. By centuries now the glorious hour we mark, When to these shores they steer'd their shatter'd bark; And still, as other centuries melt away, Shall other ages come to keep the day. When we are dust, who gather round this spot, Our joys, our griefs, our very names forgot, Here shall the dwellers of the land be seen, To keep the memory of the Pilgrims green. Nor here alone their praises shall go round, Nor here alone their virtues shall abound Broad as the empire of the free shall spread, Far as the foot of man shall dare to tread, Where oar hath never dipp'd, where human tongue Hath never through the woods of ages rung, There, where the eagle's scream and wild wolf 's cry Keep ceaseless day and night through earth and sky, Even there, in after time, as toil and taste Go forth in gladness to redeem the waste, Even there shall rise, as grateful myriads throng, Faith's holy prayer and Freedom's joyful song ; There shall the flame that fiash'd from yonder Rock, Light up the land, till nature's final shock. Yet while, by life's endearments crown'd, To mark this day we gather round, And to our nation's founders raise The voice of gratitude and praise, Shall not one line lament that lion race, For us struck out from sweet creation's face ? Alas ! alas ! for them those fated bands, Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands; Our fathers call'd them savage them,whose bread, In the dark hour, those famish'd fathers fed ; We call them savage, we, Who hail the struggling free Of every clime and hue ; We, who would save The branded slave, And give him lil>erty he never knew ; We, who but now have caught the tale That turns each listening tyrant pale, And bless'd the winds and waves that bore The tidings to our kindred shore ; The triumph-tidings pealing from that land Where up in arms insulted legions stand ; There, gathering round his bold compeers, Where He, our own, our welcomed One, Riper in glory than in years, Down from his forfeit throne A craven monarch hurl'd, And spurn'd him forth, a proverb to the world ! We call them savage 0, be just ! Their outraged feelings scan ; A voice comes forth, 'tis from the dust The savage was a man ! Think ye he loved not 1 Who stood by, And hi his toils took part 1 Woman was there to bless his eye The savage had a heart ! Think ye he pray'd not 1 When on high He heard the thunders roll, What bade him look beyond the sky ? The savage had a soul ! I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, Yet for the red man dare to plead We bow to Heaven's recorded laws, He turu'd to nature for a creed ; CHARLES SPRAGUE. 133 Beneath the pillar'd dome, We seek our GOD in prayer ; Through boundless woods he loved to roam, And the Great Spirit worshipp'd there. But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt ; To one divinity with us he knelt ; Freedom, the self-same Freedom we adore, Bade him defend his violated shore. He saw the cloud, ordain'd to grow, And burst upon his hills in wo ; He saw his people withering by, Beneath the invader's evil eye ; Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones ; At midnight hour he woke to gaze Upon his happy cabin's blaze, And listen to his children's dying groans. He saw and, maddening at the sight, Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; To tiger rage his soul was driven ; Mercy was not nor sought nor given ; The pale man from his lands must fly ; He would be free or he would die. And was this savage 1 say, Ye ancient few, Who struggled through Young Freedom's trial-day What first your sleeping wrath awoke ! On your own shores war's larum broke ; What turn'd to gall even kindred blood ! Round your own homes the oppressor stood ; This every warm affection chill'd, This every heart with vengeance thrill'd, And strengthen'd every hand ; From mound to mound The word went round " Death for our native land !" Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh For them who thus could dare to die 1 Are all your own dark hours forgot, Of soul-sick suffering here 1 Your pangs, as, from yon mountain spot, Death spoke in every booming shot That knell'd upon your ear '.' How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell, As round your knees your children's children hang, Of them, the gallant ones, ye loved so well, Who to the conflict for their country sprang ! In pride, in all the pride of wo, Ye tell of them, the brave laid low, Who for their birth-place bled ; In pride, the pride of triumph then, Ye tell of them, the matchless men, From whom the invaders fled. XVIII. And ye, this holy place who throng, The annual theme to hear, And bid the exulting song Sound their great names from year to year ; Ye, who invoke the chisel's breathing grace, In marble majesty their forms to trace ; Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise, To guard their dust and speak their praise ; Ye, who, should some other band With hostile foot defile the land, Feel that ye like them would wake, Like them the yoke of bondage break, Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn, Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn- Say, have not ye one line for those, One brother-line to spare, Who rose but as your fathers rose, And dared as ye would dare 7 XIX. Alas ! for them their day is o'er, Their fires are out from hill and shore ; No more for them the wild deer bounds ; The plough is on their hunting-grounds ; The pale man's axe rings through their woods The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children look, by power oppress'd, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go to die. 0, doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close Around their triumphs and their woes. On other realms, whose suns have set, Reflected radiance lingers yet ; There sage and bard have shed a light That never shall go down in night ; There time-crown'd columns stand on high, To tell of them who cannot die; Even we, who then were nothing, kneel In homage there, and join earth's general peal. But the doom'd Indian leaves behind no trace, To save his own, or serve another race ; With his frail breath his power has pass'd away, His deeds, his thoughts are buried with his clay ; Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page Shall link him to a future age, Or give him with the past a rank ; His heraldry is but a broken bow, His history but a tale of wrong and wo, His very name must be a blank. Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, To bless his coming and embalm his end ; Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; By foes alone his death-song must be sung ; No chronicles but theirs shall tell His mournful doom to future times ; May these upon his virtues dwell, And in his fate forget his crimes. XXII. Peace to the mingling dead ! Beneath the turf we tread, Chief, pilgrim, patriot sleep. All gone ! how changed ! and yet the same As when Faith's herald bark first came In sorrow o'er the deep. M 134 CHARLES SPRAGUE. Still, from his noonday height, The sun looks down in light ; Along the trackless realms of space, The stars still run their midnight race ; The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore Still echoes to the same wild ocean's roar; But where the bristling night-wolf sprang Upon his startled prey, Where the fierce Indian's war-cry rang Through many a bloody fray, And where the stern old pilgrim pray'd In solitude and gloom, Where the bold patriot drew his blade, And dared a patriot's doom, Behold ! in Liberty's unclouded blaze We lift our heads, a race of other days. All gone ! the wild beast's lair is trodden out ; Proud temples stand in beauty there ; Our children raise their merry shout Where once the death-whoop vex'd the air. The pilgrim seek yon ancient mound of graves, Beneath that chapel's holy shade ; Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves, Who, who within that spot are laid : The patriot go, to Fame's proud mount repair; The tardy pile, slow rising there, With tongueless eloquence shall tell Of them who for their country fell. XXIV. All gone ! 't is ours, the goodly land Look round the heritage behold ; Go forth upon the mountains stand ; Then, if ye can, be cold. See living vales by living waters bless'd ; Their wealth see earth's dark caverns yield ; See ocean roll, in glory dress'd, For all a treasure, and round all a shield ; Hark to the shouts of praise Rejoicing millions raise ; Gaze on the spires that rise To point them to the skies, Unfearing and unfear'd ; Then, if ye can, O, then forget To whom ye owe the sacred debt The pilgrim race revered ! The men who set Faith's burning lights Upon these everlasting heights, To guide their children through the years of time ; The men that glorious law who taught, Unshrinking liberty of thought, And roused the nations with the truth sublime. XXV. Forget ? No, never ne'er shall die Those names to memory dear ; I read the promise in each eye That beams upon me here. Descendants of a twice-recorded race ! Long may ye here your lofty lineage grace. 'T is not for you home's tender tie To rend, and brave the waste of waves ; 'T is not for you to rouse and die, Or yield, and live a line of slaves. The deeds of danger and of death are done : Upheld by inward power alone, Unhonour'd by the world's loud tongue, 'T is yours to do unknown, And then to die unsung. To other days, to other men belong The penman's plaudit, and the poet's song; Enough for glory has been wrought ; By you be humbler praises sought ; In peace and truth life's journey run, And keep unsullied what your fathers won. Take then my prayer, ye dwellers of this spot ! Be yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot. I plead not that ye bask In the rank beams of vulgar fame ; To light your steps, I ask A purer and a holier flame. No bloated growth I supplicate for yon, No pining multitude, no pamper'd few ; 'T is not alone to coffer gold, Nor spreading borders to behold ; 'T is not fast-swelling crowds to win, The refuse-ranks of want and sin. This be the kind decree: Be ye by goodness crown'd ; Revered, though not renown'd ; Poor, if Heaven will, but free ! Free from the tyrants of the hour, The clans of wealth, the clans of power, The coarse, cold scorners of their GOD ; Free from the taint of sin, The leprosy that feeds within, And free, in mercy, from the bigot's rod. The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride, Ye do not fear; No conquest blade, in life-blood dyed, Drops terror here, Let there not lurk a subtler snare, For wisdom's footsteps to beware. The shackle and the stake Our fathers fled ; Ne'er may their children wake A fouler wrath, a deeper dread ; Ne'er may the craft that fears the flesh to bind, Lock its hard fetters on the mind ; Quench'd be the fiercer flame That kindles with a name ; The pilgrim's faith, the pilgrim's zeal, Let more than pilgrim kindness seal ; Be purity of life the test, Leave to the heart, to heaven, the rest. So, when our children turn the page, To ask what triumphs mark'd our age What we achieved to challenge praise, Through the long line of future days This let them read, and hence instruction draw: "Here were the many bless'd, Here found the virtues rest, Faith link'd with Love, and Liberty with Law; CHARLES SPRAGUE. 135 Here industry to comfort led ; Her book of light here learning spread ; Here the warm heart of youth Was woo'd to temperance and to truth; Here hoary age was found, By wisdom and by reverence crown' d. No great but guilty fame Here kindled pride, that should have kindled shame ; These chose the better, happier part, That pour'd its sunlight o'er the heart, That crown'd their homes with peace and health, And weigh'd Heaven's smile beyond earth's wealth; Far from the thorny paths of strife They stood, a living lesson to their race, Rich in the charities of life, Man in his strength, and woman in her grace ; In purity and truth their pilgrim path they trod, And when they served their neighbour, felt they served their GOD." This may not wake the poet's verse. This souls of fire may ne'er rehearse In crowd-delighting voice ; Yet o'er the record shall the patriot bend, His quiet praise the moralist shall lend, And all the good rejoice. This be our story, then, in that far day, When others come their kindred debt to pay. In that far day 7 O, what shall be, In this dominion of the free, When we and ours have render'd up our trust, And men unborn shall tread above our dust! O, what shall be? He, He alone The dread response can make, Who sitteth on the only throne That time shall never shake : Before whose all-beholding eyes Ages sweep on, and empires sink and rise. Then let the song, to Him begun, To Him in reverence end ; Look down in love, Eternal One, And Thy good cause defend ; Here, late and long, put forth thy hand, To guard and guide the Pilgrim's land. LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER. Youxo mother ! what can feeble friendship say, To soothe the anguish of this mournful day ! They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled, Know how the living sorrow for the dead ; Each tutor'd voice, that seeks such grief to cheer, Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear ; I 've felt it all alas ! too well I know How vain all earthly power to hush thy wo ! GOD cheer thee, childless mother! 'tis not given For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven. I 've felt it all as thou art feeling now ; Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow, I 've sat and watch'd by dying beauty's bed, And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed ; I 've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face, And vainly tried some comfort there to trace ; I 've listen'd to the short and struggling breath ; I 've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death ; Like thee, I 've veil'd my head in speechless gloom, And laid my first-born in the silent tomb. I SEE THEE STILL. " I rock'd her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grew old. The fond endearments of our earlier days We keep alive in them, and when they die, Our youthful joys we bury with them." I SEE thee still : Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night; In dreams I meet thee as of old : Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, And thy sweet voice is in my ear: In every scene to memory dear I see thee still. I see thee still, In every hallow'd token round ; This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, This silken chain by thee was braided, These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me ; This book was thine, here didst thou read ; This picture, ah ! yes, here, indeed, I see thee still. I see thee still : Here was thy summer noon's retreat, Here was thy favourite fireside seat ; This was thy chamber here, each day, I sat and watch'd thy sad decay ; Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, Here, on this pillow, thou didst die : Dark hour! once more its woes unfold; As then I saw thee, pale and cold, I see thee still. I see thee still : Thou art not in the grave confined Death cannot claim the immortal mind ; Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, But goodness dies not in the dust ; Thee, O ! my sister, 't is not thee Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; Thou to a fairer land art gone ; There, let me hope, my journey done, To see thee still ! 136 CHARLES SPRAGUE. LINES ON THE DEATH OF M. S. C. that we must part day after day, I saw the dread Destroyer win his way ; That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, As on my ear its prophet-warning fell ; Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clang, Each sweet "Good night" fell fainter from thy tongue; I knew that we must part no power could save Thy quiet goodness from an early grave ; Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast, Looking a sister's fondness to the last ; Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek, Thy voice alas ! thou couldst but try to speak ; All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart; The shaft had struck I knew that we must part. And we have parted, MART thou art gone ! Gone in thine innocence, meek, suffering one. Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep So peacefully, it seem'd a sin to weep, In those fond watchers who around thee stood, And felt, even then, that GOD, even then, was good. Like stars that struggle through the clouds of night, Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light, As if to thee, in that dread hour, 'twere given To know on earth what faith believes of heaven ; Then like tired breezes didst fliou sink to rest, Nor one, one pang the awful change confess'd. Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face, And touch'd each feature with a new-born grace ; On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay, And told that life's poor cares had pass'd away. In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me ! I ask no more than this to die like thee. But we have parted, MART thou art dead ! On its last resting-place I laid thy head, Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look ; Those marble lips no kindred kiss retum'd ; From those veil'd orbs no glance responsive burn'd ; Ah ! then I felt that thou hadst pass'd away, That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay ; And then came Memory, with her busy throng Of tender images, forgotten long ; Years hurried back, and as they swiftly roll'd, I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old ; Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew; Manhood was moved, and Sorrow claim'd her due ; Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started ; I turn'd away and felt that we had parted^ But not forever in the silent tomb, Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room ; A little while, a few short years of pain, And, one by one, we 'II come to thee again ; The kind old father shall seek out the place, And rest with thee, the youngest of his race ; The dear, dear mother, bent with age and grief, Shall lay her head by thine, in sweet relief; Sister and brother, and that faithful friend, True from the first, and tender to the end, All, all, in His good time, who placed us here, To live, to love, to die, and disappear, Shall come and make their quiet bed with thee, Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree ; With thee to sleep through death's long, dream- less night, With thee rise up and bless the morning light THE FAMILY MEETING.* WE are all here! Father, mother, Sister, brother, AH who hold each other dear. Each chair is fill'd we're all at home; To-night let no cold stranger come : It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we're found: Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; For once be every care forgot; Let gentle Peace assert her power, And kind Affection rule the hour; We 're all all here. We're not all here! Some are away the dead ones dear, Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth, And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, Look'd in and thinn'd our little band: Some like a night-flash pass'd away, And some sank, lingering, day by day ; The quiet graveyard some lie there And cruel Ocean has his share We 're not all here. We are all here ! Even they the dead though dead, so dear ; Fond Memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years, Each well-remember'd face appears ! We see them as in times long past ; From each to each kind looks are cast; We hear their words, their smiles behold ; They 're round us as they were of old We are all here. We are all here ! Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the garher'd dead ; And by the hearth we now sit round, Some other circle will be found. O ! then, that wisdom may we know, Which yields a life of peace below ! So, in the world to follow this, May each repeat, in words of buss, We 're all all here ! * Written on the accidental meeting of all the surviving members of a family. HANNAH F. GOULD. [Bora about 1792.] Miss GOULD is a native of Lancaster, in Ver- mont, and was bom, I believe, in 1792. Her father, who was a soldier in the revolutionary army, one of the "noble few" who fought at Lexington, removed, during her youth, to New- buryport, near Boston; and the greater portion of her life has been passed in that pleasant town. She began to write about twenty years ago, and her poems have appeared in various periodicals CHANGES ON THE DEEP. A GALLANT ship ! and trim and tight, Across the deep she speeds away, While mantled with the golden light The sun throws back, at close of day. And who, that sees that stately ship Her haughty stem in ocean dip, Has ever seen a prouder one Illumined by a setting sun 1 The breath of summer, sweet and soft, Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair, And floating from her mast aloft, Her flag plays off on gentle air. And, as her steady prow divides The waters to her even sides, She passes, like a bird, between The peaceful deep and sky serene. And now grave twilight's tender veil The moon, with shafts of silver, rends ; And down on billow, deck, and sail Her placid lustre gently sends. The stars, as if the arch of blue Were pierced to let the glory through, From their bright world look out and win The thoughts of man to enter in. And many a heart that's warm and true That noble ship bears on with pride ; While mid the many forms, are two Of passing beauty, side by side. A fair young mother standing by Her bosom's lord, has fix'd her eye, With his, upon the blessed star That points them to their home afar. Their thoughts fly forth to those, who there Are waiting now, with joy to hail The moment that shall grant their prayer, And heave in sight their coming sail. For, many a time the changeful queen Of night has vanish'd, and been seen, Since, o'er a foreign shore to roam, They passed from that dear, native home. IS since that time. They have also been collected and published in three duodecimo volumes. Among American poets of the second class, Miss GOULD has a high rank. Without much force of imagination, delicacy of fancy, or affluence of language, she has acquired popularity by the purity of her thoughts, and the deep moral and religious feeling she infuses into her composi- tions. The babe, that on its father's breast Has let its little eyelids close, The mother bears below to rest, And sinks with it in sweet repose. The while a sailor climbs the shroud, And in the distance spies a cloud : Low, like a swelling seed, it lies, From which the towering storm shall rise. The powers of ah" are now about To muster from then: hidden caves ; The winds, unchain'd, come rushing out, And into mountains heap the waves. Upon the sky the darkness spreads ! The tempest on the ocean treads ; And yawning caverns are its track Amid the waters wild and black. Its voice but who shall give the sounds Of that dread voice ? The ship is dash'd In roaring depths and now, she bounds On high, by foaming surges lash'd. And how is she the storm to bide 1 Its sweeping wings are strong and wide ! The hand of man has lost control O'er her ! his work is for the soul ! She 's in a scene of nature's war : The winds and waters are at strife ; And both with her contending for The brittle thread of human life That she contains ; while sail and shroud Have yielded ; and her head is bow'd. Then, who that slender thread shall keep, But He, whose finger moves the deep ? A moment and the angry blast Has done its work and hurried on. With parted cables, shiver'd mast ; With riven sides, and anchor gone, Behold the ship in ruin lie ; While from the waves a piercing cry Surmounts the tumult high and wild, And shouts to heaven, " My child ! my child !" SM 1ST 138 HANNAH F. GOULD. The mother in the whelming surge Lifts up her infant o'er the sea, While lying on the awful verge Where time unveils eternity And calls to Mercy, from the skies To come and rescue, while she dies, The gift that, with her fleeting breath, She offers from the gates of death. It is a call for Heaven to hear. Maternal fondness sends above A voice, that in her Father's ear Shall enter quick, for GOD is love. In such a moment, hands like these Their Maker with their offering sees ; And for the faith of such a breast He will the blow of death arrest ! The moon looks pale from out the cloud, While Mercy's angel takes the form Of him, who, mounted on the shroud, Was first to see the coming storm. The sailor has a ready arm To bring relief, and cope with harm ; Though rough his hand, and nerved with steel, His heart is warm and quick to feel. And see him, as he braves the frown That sky and sea each other give ! Behold him where he plunges down, That child and mother yet may live, And plucks them from a closing grave ! They're saved! they're saved! the madden'd wave Leaps foaming up, to find its prey Snatch'd from its mouth and borne away. They 're saved ! they 're saved ! but where is he, Who lull'd his fearless babe to sleep ! A floating plank on that wild sea Has now his vital spark to keep ! But, by the wan, affrighted moon Help comes to him ; and he is soon Upon the deck with living men To clasp that smiling boy again. And now can He, who only knows Each human breast, behold alone What pure and grateful incense goes From that sad wreck to his high throne. The twain, whose hearts are truly one, Will early teach their prattling son Upon his little heart to bear The sailor to his GOD, in prayer: " O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold The winds and waves, that wake or sleep, Thy tender arms of mercy fold Around the seamen on the deep ! And, when their voyage of life is o'er, May they be welcomed to the shore Whose peaceful streets with gold are paved, And angels sing, 'They're saved! they're saved !' " THE SNOW-FLAKE. " Now, if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some lone and lowly spot, To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot ? And there will my course be ended 1 !" 'T was this a feathery Snow-flake said, As down through measureless space it stray'd, Or as, half by dalliance, half-afraid, It seem'd in mid-air suspended. "0, no !" said the Earth, "thou shalt not lie Neglected and lone on my lap to die, Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ! For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm, But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, And the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! "And then thon shalt have thy choice, to be Restored in the lily that decks the lea, In the jessamine-bloom, the anemone, Or aught of thy spotless whiteness : To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness. " I '11 let thee awake from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear ; or, a diamond, leap In a drop from the unlock'd fountain ; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath Encircling the brow of the mountain. " Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, To shine in the Iris I '11 let thee arise, And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending ! But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I '11 give thee a new and vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, And never regret descending!" " Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake ; "But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake ; Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning. For, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; But those that are lent from on high, like me, Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning. " And if true to thy word and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart, And return to my native heaven. For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time, in thy sight to glow ; So thou mayst remember the Flake of Sn&w, By the promise that GOD hath given !" HANNAH F. GOULD. 139 THE WATERFALL. YE mighty waters, that have join'd your forces, Roaring and dashing with this awful sound, Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources Whence ye have issued, where shall they be found? Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken, Ye streams and drops 7 who separate you all, And find the many places ye 've forsaken, To come and rush together down the fall ? Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been roaming, In earth and air, who now each other urge To the last point ! and then, so madly foaming, Leap down at once, from this stupendous verge. Some in the lowering cloud a while were center'd, That in the stream beheld its sable face, And melted into tears, that, falling, enter'd With sister waters on this sudden race. Others, to light that beam'd upon the fountain, Have from the vitals of the rock been freed, In silver threads, that, shining down the moun- tain, Twined off among the verdure of the mead. And many a flower that bow'd beside the river, In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried, Stirr'd by the breeze, has been an early giver Of her pure offering to the rolling tide. Thus, from the veins, through earth's dark bosom pouring, Many have flowed in tributary streams ; Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, Have shone in colours borrow'd from his beams. But He, who holds the ocean in the hollow Of his strong hand, can separate you all ! His searching eye the secret way will follow Of every drop that hurries to the fall ! We are, like you, in mighty torrents mingled, And speeding downward to one common home ; Yet there's an eye that every drop hath singled, And mark'd the winding ways through which we come. Those who have here adored the Sun of heaven, And shown the world their brightness drawn from him, Again before him, though their hues be seven, Shall blend their beauty, never to grow dim. We bless the promise, as we thus are tending Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise Before the Power to whom we now are bend- ing, To stand his bow of glory in the skies ! THE WINDS. WE come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, As we 're hastening on in our boundless flight, And over the mountains, and over the deep, Our broad, invisible pinions sweep, Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free ! And ye look on our works, and own 't is we ; Ye call us the Winds ; but can ye tell Whither we go, or where we dwell ! Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, And fell the forests, or fan the flower, When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent, When the tower 's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent, As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave, Or hurry its crew to a watery grave ; And ye say it is we ! but can ye trace The wandering winds to their secret place ? And, whether our breath be loud or high, Or come in a soft and balmy sigh, Our threatenings fill the soul with fear, Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear With music aerial, still, 't is we. And ye list, and ye look ; but what do ye see 1 Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, Or waken one note, when our numbers cease 1 Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand ; We come and we go at his command. Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, His will is our guide, and we look not back : And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away, Or win us in gentle airs to play, Then lift up your hearts to him, who binds Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds. THE SCAR OF LEXINGTON. WITH cherub smile, the prattling boy, Who on the veteran's breast reclines, Has thrown aside his favourite toy, And round his tender finger twines Those scatter'd locks, that, with the flight Of fourscore years, are snowy white ; And, as a scar arrests his view, He cries, "Grandpa, what wounded you?" My child, 't is five-and-fifty years This very day, this very hour, Since, from a scene of blood and tears, Where valour fell by hostile power, I saw retire the setting sun Behind the hills of Lexington ; While pale and lifeless on the plain My brothers lay, for freedom slain ! " And ere that fight, the first that spoke In thunder to our land, was o'er, Amid the clouds of fire and smoke, I felt my garments wet with gore ! 'T is since that dread and wild affray, That trying, dark, eventful day, From this calm April eve so far, I wear upon my cheek the scar. 140 HANNAH F. GOULD. " When thou to manhood shalt be grown, And I am gone in dust to sleep, May freedom's rights be still thine own, And thou and thine in quiet reap The unblighted product of the toil, In which my blood bedew'd the soil ! And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy, Bethink thee of this scar, my boy. "But, should thy country's voice be heard To bid her children fly to arms, Gird on thy grandsire's trusty sword ; And, undismay'd by war's alarms, Remember, on the battle-field, I made the hand of GOD my shield : And be thou spared, like me, to tell What bore thee up, while others felL" THE WINTER BURIAL. THE deep-toned bell peals long and low, On the keen, mid- winter air; A sorrowing train moves sad and slow, From the solemn place of prayer. The earth is in a winding-sheet, And nature wrapp'd in gloom, Cold, cold the path which the mourners' feet Pursue to the waiting tomb. They follow one, who calmly goes From her own loved mansion-door, Nor shrinks from the way through gather'd snows, To return to her home no more. A sable line, to the drift-crown'd hill, The narrow pass they wind ; And here, where all is drear and chill, Their friend they leave behind. The silent grave they 're bending o'er, A long farewell to take ; One last, last look, and then, no more Till the dead shall all awake ! THE FROST. THE Frost look'd forth one still, clear night, And whisper'd, " Now I shall be out of sight ; So, through the valley, and over the height, In silence I '11 take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise hi vain ; But I '11 be as busy as they." Then he flew to the mountain, and powder'd its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress'd In diamond beads ; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear, That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head. He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stcpp'd, By the light of the morn, were seen Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees ; There were cities, with temples and towers ; and these All pictured in silver sheen ! But he did one thing that was hardly fair, He peep'd in the cupboard, and rinding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare, " Now, just to set them a-thinking, I '11 bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I '11 burst in three; And the glass of water they 've left for me Shall ' tchick !' to tell them I 'm drinking." THE ROBE. 'T WAS not the robe of state Which the high and the haughty wear, That my busy hand, as the lamp burn'd late, Was hastening to prepare. It had no clasp of gold, No diamond's dazzling blaze, For the festive board ; nor the graceful fold To float in the dance's maze. 'T was not to wrap the breast With gladness light and warm ; For the bride's attire for the joyous guest, Nor to clothe the sufferer's form. 'T was not the garb of wo We wear o'er an aching heart, When our eyes with bitter tears o'erflow, And our dearest ones depart. 'T was what we all must bear To the cold, the lonely bed ! 'T was the spotless uniform they wear In the chambers of the dead ! I saw a fair, young maid In the snowy vesture dress'd ; So pure, she look'd as one array'd For the mansions of the bless'd. A smile had left its trace On her lip at the parting breath, And the beauty in that lovely face Was fix'd with the seal of death ! THE CONSIGNMENT. FIRE, my hand is on the key, And the cabinet must ope ! I shall now consign to thee Things of grief, of joy, of hope. Treasured secrets of the heart To thy care I hence intrust : Not a word must thou impart, But reduce them all to dust. HANNAH F. GOULD. 141 This in childhood's rosy mom, This was gaily fill'd and sent. Childhood is forever gone ; Here devouring element. This was friendship's cherish'd pledge ; Friendship took a colder form : Creeping on its gilded edge, May the blaze be bright and warm ! These the letter and the token, Never more shall meet my view ! When the faith has once been broken, Let the memory perish too ! This 't was penn'd while purest joy Warm'd the heart, and lit the eye: Fate that peace did soon destroy, And its transcript now will I ! This must go ! for, on the seal When I broke the solemn yew, Keener was the pang than steel ; 'T was a heart-string breaking too ! Here comes up the blotted leaf, Blister'd o'er by many a tear. Hence ! thou waking shade of grief! Go, forever disappear ! This is his, who seem'd to be High as heaven, and fair as light : But the visor rose, and he Spare, O memory, spare the sight Of the face that frown'd beneath, While I take it, hand and name, And entwine it with a wreath Of the purifying flame ! These the hand is in the grave, And the soul is in the skies, Whence they came ! 'T is pain to save Cold remains of sunder'd ties ! Go together, all, and burn, Once the treasures of my heart ! Still, my breast shall be an urn To preserve your better part ! THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 'T is midnight all is peace profound ! But, lo ! upon the murmuring ground, The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound Of distant wheels is heard ! They come they pause a moment when, Their charge resign'd, they start, and then Are gone, and all is hush'd again, As not a leaf had stirr'd. Hast thou a parent far away, A beauteous child, to be thy stay In life's decline or sisters, they Who shared thine infant glee! A brother on a foreign shore 1 Is he whose breast thy token bore, Or are thy treasures wandering o'er A wide, tumultuous sea! If aught like these, then thou must feel The rattling of that reckless wheel, That brings the bright, or boding seal, On every trembling thread That strings thy heart, till morn appears, To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, As line on line is read. Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep, Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, Thy brother where thou canst not weep Upon his distant grave ! Thy parent's hoary head no more May shed a silver lustre o'er His children group'd, nor death restore Thy son from out the wave ! Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is still'd, Thy sister's lip is pale and chill'd, Thy blooming bride, perchance, has fill'd Her corner of the tomb. May be, the home where all thy sweet And tender recollections meet, Has shown its flaming winding-sheet In midnight's awful gloom ! And while, alternate, o'er my soul Those cold or burning wheels will roll Their chill or heat, beyond control, Till morn shall bring relief, Father in heaven, whate'er may be The cup, which thou has sent for me, I know 't is good, prepared by Thee, Though fill'd with joy or grief! THE SHIP IS READY. FAHE thee well ! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady. Hands are fast the anchor weighing ; High in air the streamer 's playing. Spread the sails the waves are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. Fare thee well ! and when at sea, Think of those who sigh for thee. When from land and home receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind, who love thee, While the sun is bright above thee ! Then, as, down to ocean glancing, In the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes that weep for thee. When the lonely night-watch keeping, All below thee still and sleeping, As the needle points the quarter O'er the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee ! Let thy bosom's magnet be Turn'd to those who wake for thee ! 142 HANNAH F. GOULD. When, with slow and gentle motion, Heaves the bosom of the ocean, While in peace thy bark is riding, And the silver moon is gliding O'er the sky with tranquil splendour, Where the shining hosts attend her: Let the brightest visions be Country, home, and friends, to thee ! When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck, and death before thee, While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to heaven ascending, Reach the mercy-seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee ! THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. I AM a Pebble ! and yield to none !" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ; Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; I am abiding, while ages flee. The pelting hail, and the drizzling rain, Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. There's none that can tell about my birth, For I 'm as old as the big, round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; And many a foot on me has trod, That's gone from sight, and under the sod. I am a Pebble ! but who art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough 1" The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abash'd and mute ; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone, Since it has happen'd that I am thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased, J will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Wnorn time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" And soon in the earth she sunk away, From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak ! And, as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble look'd up, and, wondering, said, " A modest Acorn, never to tell What was enclosed in its simple shell ! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup ! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! And, ! how many will tread on me, To come and admire the beautiful tree, Whose head is towering towards the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I ! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year. But never, from this, shall a vaunting word From the humbled Pebble again be heard, Till something without me or within, Shall show the purpose for which I 've been I" The Pebble its vow could not forget, And it lies there wrapp'd in silence yet. THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. THE full-orb'd moon has reach'd no higher Than yon old church's mossy spire, And seems, as gliding up the air, She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, Would worship, in the tranquil night, The Prince of peace the Source of light, Where man for GOD prepared the place, And GOD to man unveils his face. Her tribute all around is seen ; She bends, and worships like a queen ! Her robe of light and beaming crown In silence she is casting down ; And, as a creature of the earth, She feels her lowliness of birth Her weakness and inconstancy Before unchanging purity ! Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, 'T is well thine homage thus to pay , To reverence that ancient pile, And spread thy silver o'er the aisle Which many a pious foot has trod, That now is dust beneath the sod ; Where many a sacred tear was wept From eyes that long in death have slept ! The temple's builders where are they 1 The worshippers 1 all pass'd away, Who came the first, to offer there The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! Man's generation passes soon ; It wanes and changes like the moon. He rears the perishable wall ; But, ere it crumbles, he must fall ! And does he sink to rise no more 1 Has he no part to triumph o'er The pallid king 1 no spark, to save From darkness, ashes, and the gravel Thou holy place, the answer, wrought In thy firm structure, bars the thought ! The spirit that establish'd thee Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see ! HANNAH F. GOULD. 143 THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. MART, a beautiful, artless child, Came down on the beach to me, Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled By watching the restless sea. I never had seen her face before, And mine was to her unknown ; But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore The other to meet alone. Her cheek was the rose's opening bud, Her brow of an ivory white ; Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud The sky of a cloudless night. To reach my side as she gayly sped, With the step of a bounding fawn, The pebbles scarce moved beneath her tread, Ere the little light foot was gone. With the love of a holier world than this Her innocent heart seem'd warm ; While the glad young spirit look'd out with bliss From its shrine in her sylph-like form. Her soul seem'd spreading the scene to span That open'd before her view, And longing for power to look the plan Of the universe fairly through. She climb'd and stood on the rocky steep, Like a bird that would mount and fly Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep Roll'd up to the bending sky. She placed her lips to the spiral shell, And breathed through every fold ; She look'd for the depth of its pearly cell, As a miser would look for gold. Her small white fingers were spread to toss The foam, as it reach'd the strand : She ran them along in the purple moss, And over the sparkling sand. The green sea-egg, by its tenant left, And form'd to an ocean cup, She held by its sides, of their spears bereft, To fill, as the waves roll'd up. But the hour went round, and she knew the space Her mother's soft word assign'd ; While she seem'd to look with a saddening face On all she must leave behind. She scarch'd mid the pebbles, and, finding one Smooth, clear, and of amber dye, She held it up to the morning sun, And over her own mild eye. Then, "Here," said she, "I will-give you this, That you may remember me !" And she scal'd her gift with a parting kiss, And fled from beside the sea. Mary, thy token is by me yet : To me 'tis a dearer gem Than ever was brought from the mine, or set In the loftiest diadem. It carries me back to the far-off deep, And places me on the shore, Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep Her pebble, I meet once more. And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, In a soul that is young, and free From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight Of sorrow, I find in thee. I wonder if ever thy tender heart In memory meets me there, Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, Was caught by the ocean air. Bless'd one ! over time's rude shore, on thee May an angel guard attend, And a white, stone bearing a new name" be Thy passport when time shall end ! A NAME IN THE SAND. I walked the ocean strand ; A pearly shell was in my hand : I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand My name the year the day. As onward from the spot I pass'd, One lingering look behind I cast : A wave came rolling high and fast, And wash'd my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me ; A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place, Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more, Of me my day the name I bore, To leave nor track, nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands, Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part has wrought ; Of all this thinking soul has thought ; And from these fleeting moments caught For glory, or for shame. CARLOS WILCOX. [Born, 1794. Died, 1827.] ? /, ( THE ancestors of CARLOS WILCOX were among the early emigrants to New England. His father was a respectable farmer at Newport, New Hamp- shire, where the poet was born, on the twenty- second day of October, 1794. When he was about four years old, his parents removed to Orwell, in Vermont; and there, a few years afterward, he ac- cidentally injured himself with an axe ; the wound, for want of care or skill, was not healed ; it was a cause of suffering for a long period, and of lame- ness during his life ; it made him a minister of religion, and a poet. Perceiving that this accident and its conse- quences unfitted him for agricultural pursuits, his parents resolved to give him a liberal education. When, therefore, he was thirteen years old, he was sent to an academy at Castleton ; and when fifteen, to the college at Middlebury. Here he became re- ligious, and determined to study theology. He won the respect of the officers, and of his asso- ciates, by the mildness of his temper, the gravity of his manners, and the manliness of his conduct ; and he was distinguished for his attainments in languages and polite letters. He was graduated in 1813; and after spending a few months with a maternal uncle, in Georgia, he entered the theological school at Andover, in Massachusetts. He had not been there long when one of his classmates died, and he was chosen by his fellows to pronounce a funeral oration. The departed student was loved by all for his excellent qualities ; but by none more than by WILCOX ; and the tenderness of feeling, and the purity of diction which characterized his eulogy, established his reputation for genius and eloquence in the seminary. WILCOX had at this time few associates ; he was a melancholy man ; " I walk my room," he remarks, in one of his letters, "with my hands clasped in anguish, and my eyes streaming with tears;" he complained that his mind was unstrung, relaxed almost beyond the power of reaction ; that he had lost all control of his thoughts and affections, and become a passive slave of circumstances ; I feel borne along," he says, " in despairing listlessness, guided by the current in all its windings, without resolution to raise my head to see where I am, or whither I am going ; the roaring of a cataract before me would rather lull me to a deeper sleep than rouse me to an effort to escape destruction." His sufferings were apparent to his friends, among whom there were givings-out concerning an un- requited passion, or the faithlessness of one whose hand had been pledged to him ; and he himself mentioned to some who were his confidants, troubles of a different kind : he was indebted to the college faculty, and in other ways embarrassed. Whatever may have been the cause, all perceived that there was something preying on his mind ; that he was ever in dejection. As time wore on, he became more cheerful ; he finished the regular course of theological studies, in 1817, and in the following spring returned to Vermont, where he remained a year. In this period he began the poem, in which he has sung "Of true Benevolence, its charms divine, With other motives to call forth its power, And its grand triumphs." In 1819, WILCOX began to preach; and his pro fessional labours were constant, for a year, at the end of which time his health failed, and he ac- cepted an invitation from a friend at Salisbury, in Connecticut, to reside at his house. Here he re- mained nearly two years, reading his favourite authors, and composing "The Age of Benevo- lence." The first book was published at New Haven, in 1822; it was favourably received by the journals and by the public. He intended to com- plete the poem in five books ; the second, third, and fourth, were left by him when he died, ready for the press ; but, for some reason, only brief frag- ments of them have been printed. During the summer of 1824, WILCOX devoted his leisure hours to the composition of " The Re- ligion of Taste," a poem which he pronounced before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College ; and in the following winter he was ordained as minister of the North Congregational Church, in Hartford. He soon obtained a high reputation for eloquence ; his sermons were long, prepared with great care, and delivered with deep feeling. His labours were too arduous ; his health rapidly de- clined; and in the summer of 1825, he sought relief in relaxation and travel. He visited New York, Philadelphia, the springs of Saratoga, and, for the last time, his home in Vermont. In the autumn he returned to his parish, where he re- mained until the spring, when, finding himself unable to perfprm the duties of his office, he sent to the government of the church his resignation. It was reluctantly accepted, for he had endeared himself, as a minister and a man, to all who knew him. The summer of 1826 was passed at New- port, Rhode Island, in the hope that the sea-breeze and bathing in the surf would restore his health. He was disappointed ; and in September, he visited the White Mountains, in New Hampshire, and afterward went to Boston, where he remained se- veral weeks. Finally, near the end of December, he received an invitation to preach in Danbury, in Connecticut He went immediately to his new parish, and during the winter discharged the duties of his profession regularly. But as the spring came round, his strength foiled ; and on the 27th of May, 1827, he died. 144 CARLOS WILCOX. 145 There is much merit in some passages of the fragment of the " Age of Benevolence." WILCOX was pious, gentle-hearted, and unaffected and re- tiring in his manners. The general character of his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.* Loxo swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds Start at the touch of vivifying beams. Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, Is naked Nature in her full attire. On the first morn, light as an open plain Is all the woodland, fill'd with sunbeams, pour'd Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below, With strong reflection : on the last, 'tis dark With full-grown foliage, shading all within. In one short week the orchard buds and blooms ; And now, when steep'd in dew or gentle showers, It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth, And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, Fill'd with a watery glimmering, receives A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. Each day are heard, and almost every hour, New notes to swell the music of the groves. And soon the latest of the feather'd train At evening twilight come ; the lonely snipe, O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones, Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; And. in mid air, the sportive night-hawk, seen Flying a while at random, uttering oft A cheerful cry, attended with a shake Of level pinions, dark, but when upturn'd Against the brightness of the western sky, One white plume showing in the midst of each, Then far down diving with a hollow sound ; And, deep at first within the distant wood, The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. She, soon as children from the noisy sport Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones, To hear the echoes of the empty barn, Are by her voice diverted and held mute, Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; And when the twilight, deepen'd into night, Calls them within, close to the house she comes, And on its dark side, haply on the step Of unfrequented door lighting unseen, Breaks; into strains articulate and clear, The closing sometimes quicken'd, as in sport. Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve All harmony, activity, and joy, Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime. The robin to the garden or green yard, * This and the four following extracts are from "The Age of Benevolence." 19 lover of nature, and he described rural sights and sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less successful than in the descriptive; but an earnest- ness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote. Close to the door, repairs to build again Within her wonted tree ; and at her work Seems doubly busy for her past delay. ' Along the surface of the winding stream, Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, Or round the borders of the spacious lawn Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er Hillock and fence with motion serpentine, Easy, and light. One snatches from the ground A downy feather, and then upward springs, Follow'd by others, but oft drops it soon, In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, When all at once dart at the falling prize. The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown, Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick Till her breath fails, when, breaking off, she drops On the next tree, and on its highest limb Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes Of every tone, mix'd in confusion sweet, All chanted in the fulness of delight, The forest rings : where, far around enclosed With bushy sides, and cover'd high above With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, Like pillars rising to support a roof, It seems a temple vast, the space within Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, The merry mocking-bird together links In one continued song their different notes, Adding new life and sweetness to them all. Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, Here chirps so shrill, that human feet approach Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; But oft a moment after reappears, First peeping out, then starting forth at once With a courageous air, yet in his pranks Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze, Singly and mutely, the contented herd ; And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep ; Regardless of the frolic lambs, that, close Beside them, and before their faces prone, With many an antic leap and butting feint, Try to provoke them to unite in sport, Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts ; When, gathering in one company apart, All vigour and delight, away they run, Straight to the utmost corner of the field, The fence beside ; then, wheeling, disappear In some small sandy pit, then rise to view ; Or crowd together up the heap of earth Around some upturn'd root of fallen tree, N 146 CARLOS WILCOX. And on its top a trembling moment stand, Then to the distant flock at once return. Exhilarated by the general joy, And the fair prospect of a fruitful year, The peasant, with light heart and nimble step, His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet. With many a cheering word, his willing team For labour fresh, he hastens to the field Ere morning lose its coolness ; but at eve, When loosen'd from the plough and homeward turn'd, He follows slow and silent, stopping oft To mark the daily growth of tender grain And meadows of deep verdure, or to view His scatter'd flock and herd, of their own will Assembling for the night by various paths, The old now freely sporting with the young, Or labouring with uncouth attempts at sport. A SUMMER NOON. A SULTHT noon, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, Its images of silence and of rest, The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy bended heads Support as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside Some shading object, in a silver shower Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, On the soft bosom of the air becalm'd, Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; Or in the polish'd mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below. No sound nor motion of a living thing The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, Mutely, the thistle's seed ; but in her flight, So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread To rise a little, closed to fall as far, Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, With each new impulse chimes a feeble note. The russet grasshopper at times is heard, Snapping his many wings, as half he flies, Half-hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun, With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain, Or stony mount, or in the close, deep vale, The harmless locust of this western clime, At intervals, amid the leaves unseen, Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound, As with a long-drawn breath, beginning low, And rising to the midst with shriller swell, Then in low cadence dying all away. Beside the stream, collected in a flock, The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground, Continue still to wave their open fans Powder'd with gold ; while on the jutting twigs The spindling insects that frequent the banks Rest, with their thin, transparent wings outspread As when they fly. Ofttimes, though seldom seen, The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, Is heard to moan, as if at every breath Panting aloud. The hawk, in mid-air high, On his broad pinions sailing round and round, With not a flutter, or but now and then, As if his trembling balance to regain, Utters a single scream, but faintly heard, And all again is still. SEPTEMBER. THE sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace ; The fading season ere the falling come, More sober than the buxom, blooming May, And therefore less the favourite of the world, But dearest month of all to pensive minds. 'T is now far spent ; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and sne it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick Adorn the shores ; to see. perhaps, the s:de Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colours, intcrmix'd with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night ; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain ; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, CARLOS WILCOX. 147 Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps, The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.* THE sun now rests upon the mountain tops Begins to sink behind is half conceal'd And now is gone : the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie ; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threaten'd rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves ; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed wiiu MIS uf?HCf?iming j^i try. j in* s fcctly beautiful when ;in afternoon orui-wesicrn uiiisis, mat sweep iresn irom iij snow- anks on the Grand Monadnock, make the in valid, at least, igl) for a more congenial climate. Rev. G. B. CUEEVER. Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, All fading soon as lower sinks the sun, Till twilight end. But now another scene, To me most beautiful of all, appears : The sky, without the shadow of a cloud, Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye, Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force Its power of vision to admit the whole. Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye, Midway, the blushing of the mellow peach Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep ; And here, in this most lovely region, shines, With added loveliness, the evening-star. Above, the fainter purple slowly fades, Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun Descended, in a single row arranged, As if thus planted by the hand of art, Majestic pines shoot up into the sky, And in its fluid gold seem half-dissolved. Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, A stately colonnade, with verdant roof; Upon a nearer still, a single tree, With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass Scoop'd in the hither range, a single mount Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, And of a softer, more ethereal blue, A pyramid of polish'd sapphire built. But now the twilight mingles into one The various mountains ; levels to a plain This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, Where every object to my sight presents Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls, And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks Under thick foliage, reflective shows Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth ! SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING. FATI off and low In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, W T here sleeps in embryo the midnight storm, The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets, Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge ; Or if the bolder fancy so conceive Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops W r ith beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright The distant flashes gleam as to efface The window's image, on the floor impressed By the dim crescent ; or outshines the light Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, If haply, to illume a moonless night, The lighted taper shine ; though lit in vain, To waste away unused, and from abroad Distinctly through the open window seen, Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp. 148 CARLOS WILCOX. THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.* JUST in the centre of that wood was rear'd Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white ; Above the thick young trees, its top appear'd Among the naked trunks of towering height ; And here at morn and eve it glitter'd bright, As often by the far-off traveller seen In level sunbeams, or at dead of night, When the low moon shot in her rays between That wide-spread roof and floor of solid foliage green. Through this wide interval the roving eye From turrets proud might trace the waving line Where meet the mountains green and azure sky, And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine ; Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine, But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine Call'd home again, or by the soft alarm Of Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm. Through this wide interval, the mountain side Show'd many a sylvan slope and rocky steep : Here roaring torrents hi dark forests hide ; There silver streamlets rush to view, and leap Unheard from lofty cliffs to valleys deep : Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow, Along the clear horizon's western sweep ; There from some eastern summit moonbeams flow Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below. Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone Round that horizon ; now o'er mountains proud Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone : An ebon wall, a smooth, portentous cloud, First muttering low, anon with thunder loud, Now rises quick, and brings a sweeping wind O'er all that wood in waves before it bow'd ; And now a rainbow, with its top behind A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind. Above the canopy, so thick and green, And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail In moonlight clear before the gentle gale : Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance ; Sometimes a twinkling star, or pkmet pale, Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance ; And oft the milky-way gleams through the white expanse. 1 That castle's open windows, though half-hid With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair : A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, Oft caught the eye a moment : and the sound Of low, sweet music often issued there, And by its magic held the listener bound, And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around. * This and the two extracts which follow are from " The Religion of Taste." Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, While glad attendants at her glance unfold Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and earth, Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, And rising in the midst of trophies bright, That bring her memory from the days of old, And help prolong her reign, and with the flight Of every year increase the wonders of her might. In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, And stop the dreamer on his unknown way ; There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung As that enchantress moved in might or play ; And there was many a harp but newly strung, Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley rung. There, from all lands and ages of her fame, Were marble forms, array'd in order due, In groups and single, all of proudest name ; In them the high, the fair, and tender grew To life intense in love's impassion'd view, And from each air and feature, bend and swell, Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. The walls around told all the pencil's power ; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: 'Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought. With these were others all divine, drawn all From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread, The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, And where strong angels flew to blast or save, Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, And where their mighty LORD o'er land and wave Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the grave. From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow, Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky, On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro, Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow; Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn Truths they had fear'd or felt ashamed to know ; The skeptic would believe, the lost return ; And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined ; And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast, They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their kind CARLOS WILCOX. 149 To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, And its communion with things all its own, Its forms sublime and lovely ; as the blind, Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown, Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone. Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell With all whom that enchantress held subdued, As in the holiest circle of her spell, Where meaner spirits never dare intrude, They dwelt in calm and silent solitude, Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet, In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued With its devotion to life's inmost seat, As drawn from all the charms which in that val- ley meet. ROUSSEAU AND COWPER. ROTTSSE ATT could weep yes, with a heart of stone The impious sophist could recline beside The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone On all its loveliness at eventide : On its small running waves, in purple dyed Beneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky, On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, And on surrounding mountains wild and high, Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye. But his were not the tears of feeling fine, Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flow'd, Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine, By lightning fired ; his heart with passion glow'd Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd A chilling coldness both to friend and foe, As Etna, with its centre an abode Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Of all its desert brow the living world below. Was he but justly wretched from his crimes 1 Then why was COWPKU'S anguish oft as keen, With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes Genius and feeling, and to things unseen Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be- tween The earth and skies, to darken human hope 1 Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope 1 f He, too, could give himself to musing deep ; By the calm lake at evening he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast, by not an insect fann'd, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or through the still and dewy atmosphere . The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. 'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage ; 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age ; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate ; None seek thy misery, none thy being hate ; Break from thy former self, thy life begin ; Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate, And thou shall feel the good man's peace within, And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win. With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, He dies in triumph or serene delight ; Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame At every breath, but in immortal might His spirit grows, preparing for its flight : The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright, All intervening mists far ofF are driven ; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief] Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold 1 Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold : 'T is when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty ; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the am- bient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours To take their swift and everlasting flight ; Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; Do something do it soon with all thy might ; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, .- A 150 CARLOS WILCOX. Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined ; Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind, Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To light on man as from the passing air ; The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; And learning is a plant that spreads and towers Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? Did NEWTON learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves 1 Did HOWARD gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves 7 Or did PAUL gain heaven's glory and its peace, By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame, Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles -of all the good, the dear to fame; 'T is infamy to die and not be miss'd, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT. ETIE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set; When deeply blue without a shade of gray, The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met, Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray ; Through their transparent air the milky-way Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white, As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray, Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight, That for a moment shone its whole long track of light. At length in northern skies, at first but small, A sheet of light meteorous begun To spread on either hand, and rise and fall In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run Along its edge, set thick but one by one With spiry beams, that all at once shot high, Like those through vapours from the setting sun ; Then sidelong as before the wind they fly, Like streaking rain from clouds that flit along the sky. Now all the mountain-tops and gnlfs between Seem'd one dark plain ; from forests, caves pro- found, And rushing waters far below unseen, Rose a deep roar in one united sound, Alike pervading all the air around, And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill, And from it through soft ether to resound In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill To every finger's end from rapture deep and still. LIVE FOR ETERNITY. A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, With all its fix'd, unutterable things, What madness in the living to pursue, As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings ! Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste To dance along the path that always brings Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ' Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found ; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls ; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, Men come and go like vegetable forms, Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, While yet they know not if beyond the tomb A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. What matter whether pain or pleasures fill The swelling heart one little moment here] From both alike how vain is every thrill, While an untried eternity is near! Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career; The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. HENRY WARE, JR. [Born, 1794. Died, 1843.] HEXRY WARE, D. D., a son of HENRY WARE, D. D., and brother of WILLIAM WARE, D. D., author of " Probus," etc., was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, on the seventh of April, 1794; was graduated at Cambridge in 1812; completed his theological studies in 1815; was ordained minister of the Second Congregational (Jhurch, in Boston, in 1817; received RALPH WALDO EMER- sox as his colleague, in 1829 ; for the recovery of his health soon after visited Europe ; and on his return, in 1830, resigned his charge and entered TO THE URSA MAJOR. WITH what a stately and majestic step That glorious constellation of the north Treads its eternal circle ! going forth Its princely way among the stars in slow And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail ! I joy to see thee on thy glowing path Walk, like some stout and girded giant ; stern, Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot Disdains to loiter on its destined way. The other tribes forsake their midnight track, And rest their weary orbs beneath thy wave ; But thou dost never close thy burning eye, Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on, While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit Thy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still, Dost guard the fix'd light of the universe, And bid the north forever know its place. Ages have witness'd thy devoted trust, Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven, And echo'd from the outer spheres that bound The illimitable universe, thy voice Join'd the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, Who thus had east another sparkling gem, Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd Of splendours that enrich his firmament. As thou art now, so wast thou then the same. Ages have roll'd their course, and time grown gray; The earth has gather'd to her womb again, And yet again, the myriads that were born Of her uncounted, unremember'd tribes. The seas have changed their beds ; the eternal hills Have stoop'd with age ; the solid continents Have left their banks ; and man's imperial works The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung upon the office of Professor of Pulpit Eloquence and the Pastoral Care in the Theological School connected with Harvard College, which he held until tiie summer of 1842, when he gave up his public duties. He died September 22, 1843. Dr. WARE'S writings, theological, critical, and miscellaneous, are numerous and valuable. In 1815 he published " A Poem on Occasion of the Peace ;" in 1824 "The Vision of Liberty;" hi 1837, "The Feast of the Tabernacles," and at various times many shorter pieces, chiefly devotional. Their haughty honours in the face of heaven, As if immortal have been swept away : Shatter'd and mouldering, buried and forgot. But time has shed no dimness on thy front, Nor touch'd the firmness of thy tread ; youth, strength, And beauty still are thine ; as clear, as bright, As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth, Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim The eternal chorus of eternal Love. I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, Undimm'd, unquench'd just as I see it now Has issued from those dazzling points through years That go back far into eternity. Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renew'd Forever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, Which now descend upon my lifted eye, Left their far fountain twice three years ago. While those wing'd particles, whose speed outstrips The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth Compass'd its tedious circuit round and round, And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ! So vast the void through which their beams descend! Yes, glorious lamp of GOD ! He may have quench'd Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night Rest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings reach This distant planet. Messengers still come Laden with your far fire, and we may seem To see your lights still burning ; while their blaze But hides the black wreck of extinguish'd realms, Where anarchy and darkness long have reign'd. Yet what is this, which to the astonish'd mind Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought Confounds 1 A span, a point, in those domains Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight Embraces all at once ; yet each from each Recedes as far as each of them from earth. And every star from every other burns No less remote. From the profound of heaven, 151 152 HENRY WARE, JR. Untravell'd even in thought, keen, piercing rays Dart through the void, revealing to the sense Systems and worlds unnumber'd. Take the glass And search the skies. The opening skies pour down Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire ; Stars, crowded, throng'd, in regions so remote, That their swift beams the swiftest things that be Have travell'd centuries on their flight to earth. Earth, sun, and nearer constellations ! what Are ye amid this infinite extent And multitude of GOD'S most infinite works ! And these are suns ! vast, central, living fires, Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds That wait as satellites upon their power, And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, And meditate the wonder ! Countless suns Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds ! Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice, And drink the bliss of being from the fount Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know, What tongue can utter all their multitudes ! Thus numberless in numberless abodes ! Known but to thee, bless'd Father ! Thine they are, Thy children, and thy care ; and none o'erlook'd Of thee ! No, not the humblest soul that dwells Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course Amid the giant glories of the sky, Like the mean mote that dances in the beam Amongst the mirror'd lamps, which fling Their wasteful splendour from the palace wall, None, none escape the kindness of thy care ; All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing, Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne Ye mark the rolling provinces that own Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes 1 How form'd, how gifted 1 what their powers, their state, Their happiness, their wisdom 1 Do they bear The stamp of human nature 1 Or has GOD Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms And more celestial minds 1 Does Innocence Still wear her native and untainted bloom ? Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, And sow'd corruption in those fairy bowers 1 Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire 1 And Slavery forged his chains ; and Wrath, and Hate, And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth , And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy? Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen And uncorrupt 1 existence one long joy, Without disease upon the frame, or sin Upon the heart, or weariness of life ; Hope never quench'd, and age unknown, And death unfear'd ; while fresh and fadeless youth Glows in the light from Go n's near throne of love 1 Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds Unfold ! No language 7 Everlasting light And everlasting silence ? Yet the eye May read and understand. The hand of GOD Has written legibly what man may know, THE GLOJIY OF THE MAKER. There it shines, Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man, Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe, May know and ask no more. In other days, When death shall give the encumber'd spirit wings, Its range shall be extended ; it shall roam, Perchance, among those vast, mysterious spheres, Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each, Familiar with its children ; learn their laws, Arid share their state, and study and adore The infinite varieties of bliss And beauty, by the hand of Power divine Lavish'd on all its works. Eternity Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; No pause of pleasure or improvement ; world On world still opening to the instructed mind An unexhausted universe, and time But adding to its glories. While the soul, Advancing ever to the Source of light And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. SEASONS OF PRAYER. To prayer, to prayer ; for the morning breaks, And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above, The light of gladness, and life, and love. 0, then, on the breath of this early air, Send up the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer ; for the glorious sun is gone, 1 And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from GOD'S kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. To prayer ; for the day that GOD has bless'd Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom ; It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.' Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours. There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, For her new-born infant beside her lies. O, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows. Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul through Him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow O, what is earth and its pleasures now ! HENRY WARE, JR. 153 And what shall assuage his dark despair, But the penitent cry of humble prayer 1 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye that upward bends ; There is peace in his calm, confiding air; For his last thoughts are Gon's,his last words prayer. The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to GOD who gave ; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; It points to the glory where he shall reign, Who whisper'd, Thy brother shall rise again." The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! But gladder, purer, than rose from this. The ransom'd shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength To join that holy band at length. To him who unceasing love displays, Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. THE VISION OF LIBERTY.* THE evening heavens were calm and bright ; No dimness rested on the glittering light [high; That sparkled from that wilderness of worlds on Those distant suns burn'd on in quiet ray ; The placid planets held their modest way : And silence reign'd profound o'er earth, and sea, and sky. what an hour for lofty thought ! My spirit burn'd within ; I caught A holy inspiration from the hour. Around me man and nature slept ; Alone my solemn watch I kept, Till morning dawn'd, and sleep resumed her power. A vision pass'd upon my soul. I still was gazing up to heaven, As in the early hours of even ; 1 still beheld the planets, roll, And all those countless sons of light Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the moonless night. When, lo, upon the plain, Just where it skirts the swelling main, A massive castle, far and high, In towering grandeur broke upon my eye. Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile Flung up its time-defying towers ; Its lofty gates seem'd scornfully to smile At vain assault of human powers, And threats and arms deride. Its gorgeous carvings of heraldric pride * From a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in 1825. 20 In giant masses graced the walls above, And dungeons yawn'd below. Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow. Bursting on my steadfast gaze, See, within, a sudden blaze ! So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell, That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top, Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop, The feeble fluttering of that flame would quelL But soon it spread Waving, rushing, fierce, and red From wall to wall, from tower to tower, Raging with resistless power ; Till every fervent pillar glow'd, And every stone seem'd burning coal, Instinct with living heat, that flow'd Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole. Beautiful, fearful, grand, Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand. At length a crackling sound began ; From side to side, throughout the pile it ran ; And louder yet and louder grew, Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew; Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke, Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke. The shatter'd walls were rent and riven, And piecemeal driven Like blazing comets through the troubled sky. 'T is done ; what centuries had rear'd, In quick explosion disappeared, Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye. But in their place Bright with more than human grace, Robed in more than mortal seeming, Radiant glory in her face, [ing And eyes with heaven's own brightness beam- Rose a fair, majestic form, As the mild rainbow from the storm. I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye ; And when, with gesture of command, She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand, My slumbers fled mid shouts of " Liberty !" Read ye the dream 1 and know ye not How truly it unlock'd the world of fate ! Went not the flame from this illustrious spot, And spreads it not, and burns in every state ? And when their old and cumbrous walls, Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense, Vainly they rear'd their impotent defence : The fabric falls ! That fervent energy must spread, Till despotism's towers be overthrown; And in their stead, Liberty stands alone ! Hasten the day, just Heaven ! Accomplish thy design ; And let the blessings thou hast freely given, Freely en all men shine ; Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd And human power for human good employ'd ; Till law, and not the sovereign, rule sustain, And peace and virtue undisputed reign. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [Born, 1794.] Mr. BRYANT was horn in Cummington, Mas- sachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. At a very early age he gave indications of superior genius, and his father, an eminent physician, dis- tinguished for erudition and taste as well as for extensive and thorough knowledge of science, watched with deep interest the development of his faculties under the most careful and judicious in- struction. At ten years of age he made very cre- ditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northamp- ton, and during the vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote " The Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. TASSO when nine years of age wrote some lines to his mother which have been praised, COWLEY at ten finished his "Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe," POPE when twelve his " Ode to Solitude," and the wondrous boy CHATTEHTOX," at the same age, some verses entitled " A Hymn for Christmas Day ;" but none of these pieces are superior to that which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire was directed against President JEFFEH- sox and his party, and has recently been quoted to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the last forty years having furnished no ground, it may be supposed, for such an accusation. The descrip- tion of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author : " E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame ; Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride. She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound, A motley throng, obedient, flock around ; A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings, And darkness perches on all her dragon wings ! " Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell ! But vain the wish, for, hark ! the murmuring meed Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed; Enter, and view the thronging concourse there, Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare; While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands ; To adulation tunes his servile throat, And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." Some of the democrats affected to believe that Master Bur ANT was older than was confessed, or that another person had written "The Embargo;" but the book was eagerly read, and in a few months a second edition appeared, with some additional pieces. To this was prefixed the following ad- vertisement : " A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen years could have been the author of this poem in justice to his merits the friends of the writer feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. They would premise, that they do not come un- called before the public to bear this testimony. They would prefer that he should be judged by his works, without favour or affection. As the doubt has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of justice to remove it, after which they leave him a candidate for favour in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure the public, that Mr. BRYANT, the author, is a native of Cum- mington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of four- teen years. These facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as by several of his friends, who give this notice ; and if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the prin- ter is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence." In the sixteenth year of his age, BRYANT en- tered an advanced class of Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attain- ments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from the faculty an honourable discharge, for the pur- pose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married. When but little more than eighteen years of age he had written his noble poem of " Thanatop- sis," which was published in the North American Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, " The Ages," in which, from a survey of the past eras of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, vir- tue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of SPENSEK, and in its versification is not inferior to " The Faerie Queene." " To a Waterfowl," " In- scription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly as great merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington. Having passed ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the unconge- nial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, in 1825, he removed to the city of New York, and * See note on page 92. 154 WILLIAM CULLED BRYANT. 155 with a friend, established " The New York Re- view and Atheneum Magazine," in which he pub- lished several of his finest poems, and in " The Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the memory of his father, who died in that year. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Even- ing Post," one of the oldest and most influential political and commercial gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with Mr. VEHPLANCIC and Mr. SANDS in the production of " The Talisman," an annual ; and he wrote two or three of the " Tales of Glauber Spa," to which, besides himself, Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paul- ding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. An intimate friendship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VEUPLANCK in editing his works. In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary studies, and to the education of his children. He travelled through France, Ger- many, and Italy, and resided several months in each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEOGETT, com- pelled him to return hastily in the early part of 1836. The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1844 he revisited Europe. He resides still in the city of New York, and continues to devote the chief part of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, which has been for many years the leading journal of the democratic party. In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. BRY- ANT had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching WASHINGTON IRVING, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published " The Fountain and other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-Footed Deer and other Poems," and in 1846 a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, has been published in Philadelphia by Carey & Hart. No volume has issued from the American press, of which the country should be more proud. We may send it abroad as a representative of our lite- rature, and as a proof of our proficiency in the arts. The many and high excellencies of Mr. BUYANT have been almost universally recognised. With men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. His works abound with passages of profound re- flection which the philosopher meditates in his closet, and with others of such simple beauty and obvious intention as please the most illiterate. In his pages arc illustrated all the common defini- tions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he has a perfect mastery. Very few equal him in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His man- ner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which distinguishes the productions of an author writing from his own observations of life and nature ra- ther than from books. Mr. BRYANT is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. He " conforms his life to the beautiful order of God's works." In the meditation of nature he has learned high les- sons of philosophy and religion. With no other poet does the subject spring so naturally from the object; the moral, the sentiment, from the contem- plation of the things about him. There is nothing forced in his inductions. By a genuine earnest- ness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and pre- pares him to anticipate his thought. By an imper- ceptible influence he carries him from the beginning to the end of a poem, and leaves him infused with the very spirit in which it is conceived. In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beauti- ful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which COLE puts on the canvas. It has been complained that there is very little sentiment, very little of the blending of passion with philosophy, in BRYANT'S poetry ; that his antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, but in many of his poems are passages of touching pathos, and his interest in his race appears, con- trary to the general experience, to increase with his age. It has been denied by some persons, reasoning from our descent, education, language, and man- ners, identifying us so closely with another people, that we can have a distinctive national literature. But there are very few of BRYANT'S poems that could have been written in any country but our own. They breathe the very spirit of our young and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only in our own land, than he does the elevating influ- ences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed by none but the citizens of this republic. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or France. Mr. BRYANT is still in the meridian of his life; among the most recent of his productions are some of the finest he has written ; and we may look with confidence to an increase of the bases of his high reputation, second now to that of no contem- porary who writes in our language. 156 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THANATOPSIS. To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice-d5o live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave, at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one that draws the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 7^ FOREST HYMN. THE groves were GOD'S first temples. Ere man learn'd To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks, And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd His spirit with the thought of boundless power, And inaccessible majesty. - Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect GOD'S ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose [down All these fair ranks of trees. They, hi thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic can-ings show, The boast of our vain race, to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds, That run along the summit of these trees In music ; thou art in the cooler breath, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 157 That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt;--the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground^are all instinct with thce. Here is continual worship ; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated, not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With delicate breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues frojpi the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on In silence, round me the perpetual work Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die but see, again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy, Death yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. / There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seem'd Less aged .than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; and there have been holy men Who deem'd it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble and are still. O, Gon ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift, darn whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms* Its cities who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchain'd elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. THE sad and solemn night Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, apd go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, * Thou keep'st thy old, unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze the smoke of battle blots the sun The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot- steps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, yad hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright, eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. O 158 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE PRAIRIES. THESE are the gardens of the desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name The prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd, And motionless forever. Motionless ? No they are all unchain'd again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the south ! Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not ye have Among the palms of Mexico and vines [play'd Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific have ye fann'd A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no part in all this glorious work : The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky With flowers whose glory and whose multitude Rival the constellations ! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above the eastern hills. As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides, The hollow beating of his footstep seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here The dead of other days? and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has pass'd away, Built them ; a disciplined and populous race Heap'd, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms [Greek Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourish'd their harvests ; here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison low'd, And bow'd his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmur'd with their toils, Till twilight blush'd, and lovers walk'd, and woo'd In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremember'd form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came The roaming hunter-tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanish'd from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone All save the piles of earth that hold their bones The platforms where they worshipp'd unknown gods The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay till o'er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heap'd With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flock'd to those vast, uncover'd sepulchres, And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man's better nature triumph'd. Kindly words Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seem'd to forget, yet ne'er forgot, the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones Butcher'd, amid their shrieks, with all his race. Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of GOD Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamp'd beside the pool. Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learn'd the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 159 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When MARIOX'S name is told. Our fortress is the good green wood, Our tent the cypress tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings- release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gather'd To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly, On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that MARION leads The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. T is life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain ; 'T is life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp A moment and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary, hairs, Their hearts are all with MARION, For MARIOX are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more, Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. TO THE PAST. Thou unrelenting Past ! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn, Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom ; And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground. And last, man's life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends the good the kind, Yielded to thee with tears The venerable form the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain thy gates deny All passage, save to those who hence depart ; Nor to the streaming eye Thou givest them back nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea. Labours of good to man, Unpublish'd charity unbroken faith Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered ; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd. Thine, for a space, are they Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb, from earliest time, Shall then come forth, to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perish'd no ! Kind words, remember'd voices, once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat ; All shall come back, each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again ; Alone shall evil die, And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her, who, still and cold, Fills the next grave the beautiful and young. 160 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. Ar, tliis is freedom ! these pure skies Were never stain'd with village smoke : The fragrant wind, that through them flies, Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed, And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed In the green desert and am free. For here the fair savannas know No barriers in the bloomy grass ; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures, measureless as air, The bison is my noble game ; The bounding elk, whose antlers tear The branches, falls before my aim. Mine are the river-fowl that scream From the long stripe of waving sedge ; The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey, Even in the act of springing, dies. With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumber'd with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! Free stray the lucid streams, and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the fire, when frostwinds sere The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here, With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die. Here, from dim woods, the aged past Speaks solemnly ; and I behold The boundless future in the vast And lonely river, seaward roll'd. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew 1 Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue, Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ] Broad are these streams my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods I thread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and grassy height ; And kind the voice, and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. AFTER A TEMPEST. THE day had been a day of wind and storm; The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, With pleasant vales scoop'd out and villages be- tween. The rain-drops glisten'd on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirr'd, Save when a shower of diamonds to the ground Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; For birds were warbling round, and bees were About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung [heard And gossip'd, as he hasten'd ocean-war'd ; To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry Flew many a glittering insect here and there, And darted up and down the butterfly, That seem'd a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them ; in the way Stroll'd groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; The farmer swung the scythe or turn'd the hay, And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. It was a scene of peace and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was pour'd from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light. I look'd, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When, o'er earth's continents and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, And married nations dwell in harmony ; When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dress'd, nor in the sun The o'erlabour'd captive toil, and wish his life were done. Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 't is past. Lo, the clouds roll away they break they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 161 THE RIVULET. THIS little rill that, from the springs Of yonder grove, its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again, Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet, when life was new. When woods in early green were dress'd, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about, My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And crop the violet on its brim, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Pass'd o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, A name I deem'd should never die. Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have pass'd away, Since first, a child, and half-afraid, I wander'd in the forest shade. Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; And sporting with the sands that pave The windings of thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime, Thou laughest at the lapse of time. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear ; As pure th} T limpid waters run, As bright they sparkle to the sun ; As fresh and thick the bending ranks Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as blue ; As green amid thy current's stress, Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress ; And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, Still chirps as merrily as then. Thou changes! not but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past Too bright, too beautiful to last. I 've tried the world it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has Nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth : 21 The radiant beauty, shed abroad On all the glorious works of GOD, Shows freshly, to my sober'd eye, Each charm it wore in days gone by. A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bow'd to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, (If haply the dark will of fate Indulge my life so long a date,) May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favourite brook. Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; And faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling current's merry call ; Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright As when thou met'st my infant sight. And I shall sleep and on thy side, As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, And pass to hoary age, and die. But thou, unchanged from year to year, Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men. JUNE. I GAZED upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round; And thought, that when I came to lie Within the silent ground, 'T were pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks sent up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, .. \V A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it roll'd, While fierce the tempests beat Away ! I will not think of these Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mould gently press'd Into my narrow place of rest There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell ; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird. And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent ? 162 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow ; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their soften'd hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene ; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green ; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear, again, his living voice. TO THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea ! Nor I alone a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And languishing to hear v thy welcome sound, Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, GOD'S blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone ; That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that pass'd away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shall kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more ; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. upon my native hills again, Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, While deep the sunless glens are scoop'd between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, And ever restless feet of one, who, now, Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year; There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. For I have taught her, with delighted eye, To gaze upon the mountains, to behold, With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, And clouds along its blue abysses roll'd, To love the song of waters, and to hear The melody of winds with charmed ear. Here, I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And where the season's milder fervours beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come a while to wander and to dream. Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all The wide earth knows when, hi the sultry tune, He stoops him from his vast, cerulean hall, He seems the breath of a celestial clime ; As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow, Health and refreshment on the world below. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 163 THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. our hills and valleys, I have known Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth, Were reverent learners in the solemn school Of Nature. Not hi vain to them were sent Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, Some truth ; some lesson on the life of man, Or recognition of the Eternal Mind, Who veils his glory with the elements. One such I knew long since, a white-hair'd man, Pithy of speech, and merry when he would ; A genial optimist, who daily drew From what he saw his quaint moralities. Kindly he held communion, though so old, With me, a dreaming boy, and taught me much, That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget. The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, And stecp'd the sprouting forests, the green hills, And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. Upon the apple tree, where rosy buds Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom, The robin warbled forth his full, clear note For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast A shade, gay circles of anemones Danced on their stalk's ; the shad-bush, white with flowers, Brighten'd the glens; the new-leaved butternut, And quivering poplar, to the roving breeze Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields, I saw the pulses of the gentle wind On the young grass. My heart was touch'd with jy> At so much beauty, flushing every hour Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend, The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, Gazed on it mildly sad. I ask'd him why. "Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied, " With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, And this soft wind, the herald of the green, Luxuriant summer. Thou art young, like them, And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight Of sexsons fills and knits thy spreading frame, It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quench'd In utter darkness. Hearest tliou that bird 1 ?" I listen'd, and from midst the depth of woods Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears A sable ruff" around his mottled neck : Partridae they call him by our northern streams, And pheasant by the Delaware. He bent 'Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and made A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes At first, then fast and faster, till at length They pass'd into a murmur, and were still. "There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type Of human life. 'T is an old truth, I know, But images like these will freshen truth. Slow pass our days in childhood, every day Seems like a century ; rapidly they glide In manhood, and in life's decline they fly ; Till days and seasons flit before the mind As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, Seen rather than distinguish'd. Ah ! I seem As if I sat within a helpless bark, By swiftly-running waters hurried on To shoot some mighty clifF. Along the banks Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, Bare sands, and pleasant homesteads ; flowery nooks, And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear Each after each; but the devoted skiff Darts by so swiftly, that their images Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell In dim confusion ; faster yet I sweep By other banks, and the great gulf is near. " Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, And this fair change of seasons passes slow, Gather and treasure up the good they yield All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts, And kind affections, reverence for thy Gon, And for thy brethren ; so, when thou shall come Into these barren years that fleet away Before their fruits are ripe, thou mayst not bring A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart." Long since that white-hair'd ancient slept but still, When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough, And the ruff'd grouse is drumming far within The woods, his venerable form again Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. AN EVENING REVERIE.* THE summer day has closed the sun is set: Well have they done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropp'd it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown, And wither'd ; seeds have fallen upon the soil From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have fill'd the air a while with humming wings, That now are still forever; painted moths Have wander'd the blue sky, and died again; The mother-bird hath broken, for her brood Their prison-shells, or shoved them from the nest, * From an unfinished poem. 1G4 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasp'd with joy the new-born babe. Graves, by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the throng'd city, have been hollow'd out, And fill'd, and closed. This day hath parted friends, That ne'er before were parted ; it hath knit New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long Hath woo'd; and it hath heard, from lips which late Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, That told the wedded one her peace was flown. Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! One glad day Is added now to childhood's merry days, And one calm day to those of quiet age. Still the fleet hours run on ; and as I lean Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit By those who watch flie dead, and those who twine Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes Of her sick infant shades the painful light, And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. O thou great Movement of the universe, Or Change, or Flight of Time for ye are one ! That bcarest, silently, this visible scene Into Night's shadow, and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me 1 I feel the mighty current sweep me on, Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars ; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright : Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife With friends, or shame, and general scorn of men Which, who can bear? or the fierce rack of pain, Lae they within my path? Or shall the years Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, Into the stilly twilight of my age 1 Or do the portals of another life, Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, Impend around me 1 ! beyond that bourne, In the vast cycle of being, which begins At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms Shall the great law of change and progress clothe Its workings? Gently so have good men taught Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new, the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. HYMN OF THE CITY. NOT in the solitude Alone, mey man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity ; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty ! here, amidst the crowd Through the great city roll'd, With everlasting murmur, deep and loud Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast The quiet of that moment, too, is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHEH, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens witn the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ! Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or martrc of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. WILLIAM OULLEN BRYANT. 165 He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. X THE BATTLE-FIELD. this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. Ah ! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still ; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry ; ! be it never heard again. Soon rested those who fought ; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare ! lingering long Through weary day and weary year. A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again: The eternal years of GOD are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And meadows brown and sear. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, The wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, And to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, And from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, Through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, That lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, A beauteous sisterhood .' Alas ! they all are in their graves ; The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, With the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, But the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, The lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, They perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, Amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, And the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook In autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, As falls the plague on men, And the brightness of thair smile was gone, From upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, As still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers Whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood And by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in Her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up And faded by my side; In the cold, moist earth we laid her, When the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely Should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, Like that young friend of ours, So sent'.c and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers. 166 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE WINDS. Y>: winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye play'd a few brief hours ago ; Ye bore the murmuring 1 bee ; ye toss'd the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye roll'd the round, white cloud through depths of blue ; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed ! Ye take the cataract's sound, Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might ; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you sweep like eagles past ; The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, To scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; The harvest field becomes a river's bed ; And torrents tumble from the hills around, Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drown'd, And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing floods close over head. Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray ; Ye fling its waters round you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. Why rage ye thus? no strife for liberty [fear, Has made you mad ; no tyrant, strong through Has chain'd your pinions, till ye wrench'd them free, And rush'd into the unmeasured atmosphere : For ye were born in freedom where ye blow ; Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go ; Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. O, ye wild winds ! a mightier power than yours In chains upon the shores of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes : And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. Yet, O, when that wrong'd spirit of our race, Shall break,as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. But may he, like the spring-time, come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of Goi>, Come spouting up the unseal'd springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his Jeet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn, all around our vale Have put their glory on. The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colour'd landscape round, Seem groups of -giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below. My steps are not alone In these bright walks ; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, .Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, The sweetest of the year. Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat 1 Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; Their sunny-colour'd foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun. But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseat canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. O, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad ; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad ? Ah! 'twere a lot too bless'd Forever in thy colour'd shades to stray ; Amid the kisses of the soft southwest To rove and dream for aye; And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad ; the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 167 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. HERE arc old trees, tall oaks, and gnarted pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never touch'd by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungather'd. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass A fragrance from the cedars thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of Liberty. FREEDOM ! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crown'd his slave, When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Arm'd to the teeth, art thou : one Aailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd [brow, With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch'd His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; They could not quench the life thou hast from Hea- Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, [ven. Arid his swart armourers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shiver'd, and the prison walls Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birth-right was not given by human hands : Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes : and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side, Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, The enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obey'd, Is later born than thou ; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou slialt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler ; he shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His wither'd hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh ! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. And thou must watch and combat, till the day Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, [rest These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. THE RETURN OF YOUTH. MY friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time Of cheerful hopes that fill'd the world with light, Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, Thy tongue was prompt the generous thought to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summon'd the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ; A path, thick-set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; And they who walk'd with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear. Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ; Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering bides, Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales ; A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, Of streams that water banks for ever fab-, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air? 168 WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread ? For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought Will not thy own meek heart demand me there T That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven? In meadows framed by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind, Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here ; The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there ; for thou hast bow'd thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll ; And wrath has left its scar that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home The wisdom that I learn'd so ill in this The wisdom which is love till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. THOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colour'd with the heaven's own blue, That openest, when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines in purple dress'd, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue blue as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS. OR, fairest of the rural maids ! Thy birth was in the forest shades ; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thy infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild ; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks ; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyesore springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen ; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot unprcss'd, Are not more sinless than thy breast ; The holy peace that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. long years has the desert rain Dropp'd on the clods that hide thy face ; Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial place. Thought of thy fate in the distant west, Dying with none that loved thee near ; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turn'd from the spot without a tear. There, I think, on that lonely grave, Violets spring in the soft May shower ; There in the summer breezes wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. There the turtles alight, and there Feeds with her fawn the timid doe ; There, when the winter woods are bare, Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away ; All my task upon earth is done ; My poor father, old and gray, Slumbers beneath the church-yard stone. In the dreams of my lonely bed, Ever thy form before me seems; All night long I talk with the dead, All day long I think of my dreams. This deep wound that bleeds and aches, This long pain, a sleepless pain When the Father my spirit takes I shall feel it no more again. JOHN NEAL. [Born about 1794.] Ma. NEAL is a native of Portland. In 1815 he went to Baltimore, and was there associated several years with JOHN PIEHPONT in mercantile transac- tions ; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for The Portico," a monthly maga- zine, a series of critical essays on the works of BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool," a novel, and in the following year " The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,"* and "Otho," a tra- gedy. He also wrote a large portion of ALT-EN'S " History of the American Revolutiodj" which ap- peared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in Philadelphia a second novel, entitled "Logan," which was reprinted soon after in London. This was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; " Randolph,"-)- a story which attracted considerable attention at the time by the notices it contained of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in the country ; and " Errata, or the Works of Will Adams." Near the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. NEAL went abroad. Soon after his arrival in Lon- don he became a contributor to various periodicals, for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous opinions which prevailed in regard to the social and political condition of the United States. He made his first appearance in Blackwood's Maga- zine, in Sketches of the Five American Presi- dents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," a paper which was widely republished, and, with others, led to his introduction to many eminent persons, among whom was JEIIEMT BENTHAM, who continued until his death to be Mr. NEAL'S warm personal friend. After passing four years in Great Britain and on the continent, in which time appeared his Brother Jonathan," a novel, Mr. NKAL came back to his * "JEHU O'CATARACT" was a name given to NEAL bythe Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, Rev. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BHECKEN- RIDQE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for " JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted the real name of the author. In this edition of"' The Poets and Poetry of America" I have quoted from the " Bittle of Niagara" as it appear- ed with the " last additions and corrections." I had seen only the first impression of it when this work was originally prepared for the press. t In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an inter- val of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days ; and " Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business. n native city of Portland, where he now resides. Since his return he has published Rachel Dyer," "A uthorship," The Down Easters," and " Ruth El- der ;" edited "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two years, and contributed largely to other periodicals. Mr. NEAL'S novels contain numerous passages marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression, and occasional scenes which show that he possesses dramatic ability. They are original ; they are writ- ten from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded by the peculiarities of his character ; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are without unity, aim, or continuous interest His poems have the unquestionable stamp' of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the second- ary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery. The " Battle of Niagara," with its rapid and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the ear as if it were composed to martial music. It is marred, however, by his customary faults. The isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it would be magnificent but for lines or single words which, if the reader were not confident that he had before him the author's own edition, he would think had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy. I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIEHPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of" Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep. In the last edition of his Poems, Mr. NEAL pre- sents some specimens of an intended epic on the conquest of Peru ; and he has written many lyrical pieces, not included in his collections, which have been popular. P 109 170 JOHN NEAL. FROM THE CONQUEST OF PERU. INVOCATION TO THE DEITY. THOU, from whom the rebel angels fled, When thou didst rend thine everlasting veil, And show thy countenance in wrath ! O Thou, Before whose brow, unclothed in light put forth In awful revelation they that stood Erect in heaven, they that walk'd sublime, E'en in thy presence, Lord ! and they that shone Most glorious 'mid the host of glorious ones, With Lucifer the Morning Star, the Terrible, The chief of old immortals with the sight Were suddenly consumed ! Almighty ! Thou, Whose face but shone upon the rebel host Of warring constellations, and their crowns Were quench'd for ever ! and the mightiest fell, And lo ! innumerable wings went up, And gather'd round about the Eternal's throne, And all the solitudes of air were fill'd With thunders and with voices ! and the war Fled from thy presence ! And thy wrath was o'er, And heaven again in peace ! O Thou our Inspiration Thou, God ! To whom the prophets and the crowned kings, The bards of many years, who caught from Thee Their blazing of the spirit ! Thou, to whom The Jewish monarchs, on their ivory thrones, Flaming with jewelry, have fallen down And rung their golden harps, age after age ! O Thou, to whom the gifted men of old, Who stood among the mysteries of heaven, Read the thick stars, and listened to the wind, Interpreted the thunder, told the voice Of Ocean tumbling in his caves, explained The everlasting characters of Same That burn upon the firmament, and saw The face of him that sitteth in the sun, And read the writing there, that comes and goes, Revealing to the eyes the fate of men, Of monarchs, and of empires ! men who stood Amid the solitudes of heaven and earth, and heard From the high mountain-top the silent Night Give out her uninterpreted decrees ! The venerable men ! the old, and mighty, Prophets and bards and kings, whose souls were fill'd With immortality, and visions, till Then- hearts have ached with weary supplication ; Till all the Future, rushing o'er their strings, In tempest and in light, hath drown'd their prayers, And left their mighty harps all ringing loud With prophecy and wo ! O Thou, to whom Innumerable suns, and moons, and worlds, The glorious elevations of the sky, The choirs of cherubim and seraphim Immortal multitudes, that worship round Thine echoing throne upon their golden harps And silver trumps, and organs of the air, Pour everlasting melody ! O Thou, to whom All this hath been familiar from the hour When thou didst bow the heavens, and, at the sound Of many thunders, pealing thy decree, Creation sprang to light, when time began And all the boundless sky was full of suns, Rolling in symphony, and man was made Sublime and confident, and woman, up From the sunshine of the Eternal rose, All intellect and love ! and all the hills And all the vales were green , and all the ti ees in flower. 0, bless our trembling harp ! FROM THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA. A CAVALCADE SEEN AT SUNSET THROUGH A GORGE. AH, now let us gaze ! what a wonderful sky ! How the robe of the god, in its flame-colored dye, Goes ruddily, flushingly, sweepingly by ! .... Nay, speak ! did you ever behold such a night 1 While the winds blew about, and the waters were The sun rolling home in an ocean of light ! [bright, But hush ! there is music away in the sky ; Some creatures of magic are charioting by ; [wild Now it comes what a sound ! 'tis as cheerful and As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child ; Ah yes, they are here ! See, away to your left, W 7 here the sun has gone down, where the mountains are cleft, A troop of tall horsemen ! How fearless they ride ! 'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side; Careering they come, like a band of young knights, That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites ; With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shh>y vests ; W 7 ith wide-tossing manes, and with mail-cover'd breasts ; With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride Of their high-mettled steeds, as they galloping ride, In glitter and pomp ; with their housings of gold. With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold Flashing changeable light, like a banner unroll'd ! Now they burst on the eye in their martial array And now they have gone, like a vision of day. In a streaming of splendour they came but they wheel'd ; And instantly all the bright show was conceal'd As if 't were a tournament held in the sky, Betray'd by some light passing suddenly by ; Some band by the flashing of torches reveal'd, As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield, Or banners and blades in the darkness conceal'd APPROACH OF EVENING. A GLOW, like enchantment, is seen o'er the lake, Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake And o'er its dull bosom their soft plumage shake. Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day The richness and mist of the tints that were there Are melting away like the bow of the air The blue-bosom'd water heaves darker and bluer, The chife and the trees are seen bolder and truer, The landscape has less of enchantment and light : But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight. The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye, Seem'd loosen'd and passing away in the sky, And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue, But bafned the eye, as it dwelt on their hue. JOHN NEAL. 171 The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky Grow fainter, and fainter : The wonders all die ! The visions have gone ! they have vanish'd away, Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day. The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight, And fountains were gushing like wine in its light, And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight A moment : and all was enveloped in night ! 'Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart : They come but to blaze, and they blaze to depart Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide The chilling of sorrow, or burning of pride They come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell, Like bright birds over ocean but never to dwell. MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT. OBSERVED ye the cloud on that mountain's dim 80 heavily hanging? as if it had been [green The tent of the Thunderer the chariot of one Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun 1 'T is descending to earth ! and some horsemen are now, In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow. 'T is a helmeted band from the hills they descend, Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend. No scimitars swing as they gallop along ; No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong ; No trumpet is fill'd, and no bugle is blown ; No banners abroad on the wind are thrown ; No shoutings are heard, and no cheerings are given ; No waving of red flowing plumage to heaven ; t No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reins ; No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes ; No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing, Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing ; But they speed, like coursers whose hoofs are shod With a silent shoe, from the loosen'd sod ; Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf, Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf, [ing, Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weep- And young, gallant hearts are in sepulchres sleeping; Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon, While the night's muffled horn plays a low windy tune, Are seen to come down from the height of the skies, By the warrior that on the red battle-field lies, And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field, And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheel'd, When the dying half-raise themselves up in a trance, And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance, And wonder to see the dread battle renew'd, [stood. On the turf where themselves and their comrades had Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they ride, O'er the thunder-reft mount on its ruggedest side ; From the precipice top, they circle and leap, Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep; Like the creatures that pass where ableeding man lies, Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes, With gestures more threatening and fierce till he dies: And away they have gone, with a motionless speed, Like demons abroad on some terrible deed. The last one has gone : they have all disappear'd ; Their dull-echoed tramping? no longer are heard ; For still, though they pass'd like no steeds of the earth, The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth ; Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last ; And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen pass'd, So swiftly, so mutely, PO darkly they went, Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent, [tent That ye felt their approach, and might guess their in- Your hero's stern bosom will oftentimes quake, Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake, Before the cool marching that comes in the night, Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light ; Subduing the heart with a nameless affright, When that would swell strongly, and this would ap- If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear, [pear, Like some scarlet-win g'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day, When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her prey. For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven, No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given, No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife, No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife, Is half so terrific to full swelling hearts, As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs, With echoless armour, with motionless plume, With ensigns all furl'd, in the trappings of gloom, Parading, like those who came up from the tomb, In silence and darkness determined and slow, And dreadfully calm, as the murderer's brow, When his dagger is forth ! and ye see not the blow, Till the gleam of the blade shows y our heart in its flow! O, say what ye will ! the dull sound that awakes When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit aches With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far, Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war. It is the cold summons that, comes from the ground, When a sepulchre answers your light youthful bound, And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound, Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear, When the banners of death in their splendors appear, And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear ! The low, sullen moans, that so feebly awake, At midnight, when one is alone, on some lake, Compared to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls From the bosom of space to the uttermost poles ! Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud, The talking of those who go by in a cloud, To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud ! 'Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave, The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave, To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red, And farewells are discharged o'era young soldier's bed, To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way, When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray! AN INDIAN APOLLO. NOT like the airy god of moulded light, Just stepping from his chariot on the sight ; Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud, And arrows singing as they pierce the air ; With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair ; As if he paused upon his bounding way, And loosen'd his fierce arrows all in play ; But like that angry god, in blazing light 172 JOHN NEAL. Bursting from space, and standing in his might Reveal'd in his omnipotent array, Apollo of the skies, and deity of day, In god-like wrath piercing his myriad-foe With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go! Not like that god, when up in air he springs, With brightening mantle and with sunny wings, When heavenly music murmurs from his strings A buoyant vision an unbodied dream Of dainty Poesy and boyishly supreme ! Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire, Gazing o'er heaven until her thoughts take fire, Panting and breathless ; in her heart's wild trance, Bright, shapeless forms, the godlings of Romance ! Not that Apollo not resembling him Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb But man all man ! the monarch of the wild ! Not the faint spirit that corrupting smiled On soft, lascivious Greece, but Nature's child, Arrested in the chase, with piercing eye Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky, Where some red bird goes languid, eddying, drooping, Pierced by his arrows in her swrtest stooping. Thus springing to the skies, a boy will stand With arms uplifted and unconscious hand Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight, And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light Of worlds unseen but by the Indian's sight His robe and hair upon the wind, at length A creature of the hills, all grace and strength, All muscle and all flame his eager eye Fix'd on one spot, as if he could descry His bleeding victim nestling in the sky ! Not that Apollo ! not the heavenly one, Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun But this, the offspring of young Solitude, Child of the holy spot, where none intrude But genii of the torrent, cliff, and wood Nurslings of cloud and storm, the desert's fiery brood. MORNING AFTER A BATTLE. WHO thinks of battle now 1 The stirring sounds Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, In gone-by hours, before the battle even 1 The very horses move with halting pace ; No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy ; No more their housings blaze, no more the gold Or purple flashes from the opening fold ; No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride Of changing hues ; all, all, is crimson-dyed. They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread That measures out the tombing of the dead ; The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls In heavy thunders to the answering poles ; But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies, At breathless intervals, along the skies, As if some viewless sentinel were there Whose challenge peals at midnight through the air. Each sullen steed goes on, nor heeds its roar, Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more ; But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head, And slowly wheeling, with a cautious tread, Shuns, as in reverence, the mighty dead ; Or, rearing suddenly, with flashing eye, Where some young war-horse lies, he passes by ; Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground, Utters a startling neigh, and gazes round, And wonders that he hears no answering sound. This, while his rider can go by the bier Of slaughter'd men, and never drop a tear ; And only, when he meets a comrade there, Stretch'd calmly out, with brow and bosom bare, And stiffen'd hand uplifted hi the air With lip still curl'd, and open, glassy eye, Fix'd on the pageant that is passing by And only then in decency will ride Less stately ha his strength, less lordly in his pride. MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. THEIIE are harpsthatcomplain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone In a near and unchangeable tone Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by, As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky, And breathed out a blessing and flown ! Yes ! harps that complain to the breezes of night, To the breezes of night alone ; Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light, Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air ! Burning crimson and gold On the clouds that unfold, Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left -So the Thunderer rides, When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides, Rolling on, and erect, hi a charioting throne ! Yes ! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play, When the evening is near, and the sun is away, Breathing out the still hymn of delight. These strings by invisible fingers are play'd By spirits, unseen, and unknown, But thick as the stars, all this music is made; And these flutes, alone, In one sweet dreamy tone, Are ever blown, For ever and for ever. The live-long night ye hear the sound, Like distant waters flowing round In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet With crowding tunes, like halls W T here fountain-music falls, And rival minstrels meet. JOHN NEAL. 173 NIGHT. Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night Bows down superbly from her utmost height, Stretches her starless plumes across the world, And all the banners of the wind are furl'd. How heavily we breathe amid such gloom, As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb. It is the noon of that tremendous hour When life is helpless, and the dead have power ; When solitudes are peopled ; when the sky Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by, Proclaim their watch is set ; when hidden rills Are chirping on their course, and all the hills Are bright with armour ; when the starry vests, And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests Of moon-light sentinels are sparkling round, And all the air is one rich floating sound ; When countless voices, in the day unheard, Are piping from their haunts, and every bird That loves the leafy wood and blooming bower And echoing cave, is singing to her flower; When every lovely, every lonely place, Is ringing to the light and sandal'd pace Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow Of new-born fountains, murmuring as they go ; When watery tunes are richest, and the call Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall In foaming melody, is all around, Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground- Sweet, drowsy, distant music ! like the breath Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death. It is that hour when listening ones will weep And know not why ; when we would gladly sleep Our last, last sleep, and feel no touch of fear, Unconscious where we are, or what is near, Till we are startled by a falling tear, That unexpected gather'd in our eye, While we were panting for yon blessed sky ; That hour of gratitude, of whispering prayer, When we can hear a worship in the air ; When we are lifted from the earth, and feel Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel, And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal ; And then, as if our sins were all forgiven, And all our tears were wiped, and we in heaven ! ONTARIO. No sound is on the ear, no boatman's oar Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore ; But all is listening, as it were to hear Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere And calling on the desert to express Its sense of Silence in her loveliness. What holy dreaming comes in nights like these, When, like yon wave, unruffled by a breeze, The mirrors of the memory all are spread And fanning pinions sail around y our head ; When all that man may love, alive or dead, Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things, And nestle on his heart with their young wings, And all perchance may come, that he may fear, And mutter doubtful curses in his ear ; Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain With indistinct forebodings, dim, and vain.... The moon goes lightly up her thronging way, And shadowy things are brightening into day ; And cliff and shrub and bank and tree and stone Now move upon the eye, and now are gone. A dazzling tapestry is hung around, A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground ; The willows glitter in the passing beam And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream ; And all the full rich foliage of the shore Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er, And dances at the faintest breath of night, And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light!.... This dark cool wave is bluer than the deep, Where sailors, children of the tempest, sleep; And dropp'd with lights as pure, as still, as those The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose, Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray, That Ocean's flashing surges send astray.... This is the mirror of dim Solitude, On which unholy tilings may ne'er intrude ; That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear, Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear. Ontario's deeps are spread to multiply But sunshine, stars, the moon, and clear-blue sky. No pirate barque was ever seen to ride, With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide ; Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang Their clear, exulting, bold, triumphant strain, Till all the mountain echoes laugh'd again ; Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply, And heaven's blue dome ring out the sprightly melody. TREES. THE heave, the wave and bend Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves Rustle their songs of praise, while Ruin weaves A robe of verdure for their yielding bark While mossy garlands, full and rich and dark, Creep slowly round them ! Monarchs of the wood, Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay, Shelter the wing'd idolaters of Day Who, mid the desert wild, sublimely stand, And grapple with the storm-god, hand to hand, Then drop like weary pyramids away, Stupendous monuments of calm decay ! INVASION OF THE SETTLER. WHERE now fresh streamlets answer to the hues Of passing seraph-wings ; and fiery dews Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes, Like sprinkled flame ; and all the green-wood shakes With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung Upon her favourite tresses, while they swung And wanton'd in the wind henceforth will be No lighted dimness, such as you see, In yonder faint, mysterious scenery, Where all the woods keep festival, and seem, Beneath the midnight sky, and mellow beam Of yonder breathing light, as if they were Branches and leaves of unimbodicd air. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. [Born, 1795. Died, 1820.] THE author of the "Culprit Fay" was born in the city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died while he was very young, and I believe left his family in possession of but little property. Young DRAKE, therefore, expe- rienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia College, however, at an early period, and passed through that seminary with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable so- cial qualities* He soon after made choice of the medical profession, and became a student, first, with Doctor ROMAIJTE, and subsequently with Doctor POWELL, both of whom were at that time popular physicians in New York. Soon after completing his professional studies he was married to Miss SARAH ECKFORD, a daughter of the well-known marine architect, HEXHY ECK- FORD, through whom he inherited a moderate for- tune. His health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married a second husband, had previously removed with his three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned to New York. His disease consump- tion was now too deeply seated for hope of resto- ration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew himself from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the companionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through the summer, and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. He began to write verses when very young, and was a contributor to several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and some- times kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The first four of the once celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes, known as the Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for the New York " Evening Post," in which they appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth number, DRAKE made HALLECK, then recently arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder of the pieces were signed " Croaker and Co." The last one written by DRAKE was " The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, " Curtain Conversations," was contributed by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of July. These pieces related to persons, events, and scenes, with which most of the readers in New York were familiar, and as they were distinguished alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited diction, they became very popular, and many efforts were made to find out the authors. Both DRAKE and HALLECK were unknown as poets, and, as they kept the secret from their friends, a considerable period elapsed before they were discovered. The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, which HALLECK has preserved in the collections of his own and of his friend's writings ; and the reputation of either author rests on more elaborate and ingenious productions. The longest poem by DRAKE is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walking with some friends, on a warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human characters." When the friends were reas- sembled, two or three days afterwards, " The Cul- prit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed in this volume. DRAKE placed a very modest estimate on his own productions, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved/ When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what dis- position he would have made with his poems? " O, burn them," he replied, " they are quite value- less." Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been in- correctly printed in the periodicals ; and, for this reason, Commodore DEKAI, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 1836 published the single collection of them which has appeared. It includes, beside "The Culprit Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are very beautiful. DRAKE was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humour, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions. HALLECK closes a tributary poem published soon after his death, in the New York Review," with the following stanzas 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 essay'd it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fix'd too deeply That mourns a man like thee. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 175 THE CULPRIT FAY. "My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo! Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales I see old fairy land's miraculous show ! Her trees of tinsel kiss'd by freakish gales, Her Ouphs that, cloak'd in leaf-gold, skim the breeze, And faiiies, swarming " TENNANT'S ANSTER FAIR. 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cronest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below ; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnish'd length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and wo, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. in. 'T is the hour of fairy ban and spell : The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, And he has awaken'd the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry ; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('T was made of the white snail's pearly shell : ) " Midnight comes, and all is well ! Hither, hither, wing your way ! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy -day." IV. They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen's velvet screen ; Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks And rock'd about in the evening breeze ; [high, Some from the hum-bird's downy nest They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumber'd there till the charmed hour ; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; And some had open'd the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above below on every side, Their little minim forms array'd In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup; A scene of sorrow waits them now, For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade ; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunn'd him in her eye of blue, Fann'd her cheek with his wing of air, Play'd in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest. For this the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin court must haste away : And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the culprit Fay. The throne was rear'd upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air, He look'd around and calmly spoke ; His brow was grave and his eye severe, But his voice in a soften'd accent broke : " Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark : Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and dark, And thy wings arc dyed with a deadly stain Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye, Thou hast scorn'd our dread decree, And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, But well I know her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above, Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love ; Fairy ! had she spot or taint, Bitter had been thy punishment. 176 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; Toss'd on the pricks of nettles' stings; Or seven long ages dooin'd to dwell With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell ; Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede ; Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim, Amid the carrion bodies to lie, Of the worm, and the bug, and the murder'd fly : These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decree Fairy, this your doom must be : "Thou shalt seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land ; Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, Then dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his silver bow. The water-sprites will wield their arms And dash around, with roar and rave, And vain are the woodland spirits' charms, They are the imps that rule the wave. Yet trust thee in thy single might : If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, Thou shalt win the warlock fight. "If the spray-bead gem be won, The stain of thy whig is wash'd away : But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye; Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and dark, Thou must reillume its spark. Mount thy steed and spur him high To the heaven's blue canopy ; And when thou seest a shooting star, Follow it fast, and follow it far The last faint spark of its burning train Shall light the elfin lamp again. Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay ; Hence ! to the water-side, away !" The goblin mark'd his monarch well ; He spake not, but he bow'd him low, Then pluck'd a crimson colen-bell, And turn'd him round in act to go. The way is long, he cannot fly, His soiled wing has lost its power, And he winds adown the mountain high, For many a sore and weary hour. Through dreary beds of tangled fern, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, Over the grass and through the brake, Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; Now o'er the violet's azure flush He skips along in lightsome mood ; And now he thrids the bramble-bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leap'd the bog, he has pierced the brier, He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, And the red wax'd fainter in his cheek. He had fallen to the ground outright, For rugged and dim was his onward track, But there came a spotted toad in sight, And he laugh'd as he jump'd upon her back ; He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, He lash'd her sides with an osier thong ; And now, through evening's dewy mist, With leap and spring they bound along, Till the mountain's magic verge is past, And the beach of sand is reach'd at last Soft and pale is the moony beam, Moveless still the glassy stream ; The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; The shore-surge comes in ripples light, In murmurings faint and distant moans ; And ever afar in the silence deep Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap, And the bend of his graceful bow is seen A glittering arch of silver sheen, Spanning the wave of burnish'd blue, And dripping with gems of the river-dew. XIT. The elfin cast a glance around, As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound, And close to the river's brink he strode ; He sprnng on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw, Then toss'd a tiny curve in ah-, And headlong plunged in the waters blue. Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves, With snail-plate armour snatch'd in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste ; Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, Some on the blood-red leeches glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings ; They cut the wave with the living oar, And hurry on to the moonlight shore, To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay. Fearlessly he skims along, His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; His locks of gold on the waters shine, At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise, His back gleams bright above the brine, And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide ; JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 177 Their warriors come in swift career And hem him round on every side ; On his thigh the leech has fix'd his hold, The quarl's long arms are round him roll'd, The prickly prong has pierced his skin, And the squab has thrown his javelin, The gritty star has rubb'd him raw, And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain, He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; Hopeless is the unequal fight, Fairy ! naught is left but flight. He turn'd him round, and fled amain With hurry and dash to the beach again, He twisted over from side to side, And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, And with all his might he flings his feet, But the water-sprites are round him still, To cross his path and work him ill. They bade the wave before him rise; They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, And they stunn'd his ears with the scallop stroke, With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. O ! but a weary wight was he When he reach'd the foot of the dogwood tree. Gash'd and wounded, and stiff and sore, He laid him down on the sandy shore ; He bless'd the force of the charmed line, And he bann'd the water goblin's spite, For he saw around in the sweet moonshine Their little wee faces above the brine, Giggling and laughing with all their might At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. XYT. Soon he gather'd the balsam dew From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud ; Over each wound the balm he drew, And with cobweb lint he stanch'd the blood. The mild west wind was soft and low, It cool'd the heat of his burning brow, And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, As he drank the juice of the calamus root ; And now he treads the fatal shore, As fresh and vigorous as before. Wrapp'd in musing stands the sprite : 'Tis the middle wane of night; His task is hard, his way is far, But he must do his errand right Ere dawning mounts her bramy car, And rolls her chariot wheels of light ; And vain are the spells of fairy-land; He must work with a human hand. He cast a sadden'd look around, But he felt new joy his bosom swell, When, glittering on the shadow'd ground, He saw a purple muscle-shell ; 23 Thither he ran, and he bent him low, He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, And he pushed her over the yielding sand, Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. She was as lovely a pleasure-boat As ever fairy had paddled in, For she glow'd with purple paint without, And shone with silvery pearl within ; A sculler's notch in the stern he made, An oar he shaped of the bootle blade ; Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. The imps of the river yell and rave ; They had no power above the wave, But they heaved the billow bef6re the prow, And they dash'd the surge against her side, And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam, Like a feather that floats on a wind-toss'd stream ; And momently athwart her track The quarl uprear'd his island back, And the fluttering scallop behind would float, And patter the water about the boat; But he bail'd her out with his colen-bell, And he kept her trimm'd with a wary tread, While on every side like lightning fell The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. Onward still he held his way, Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, And saw beneath the surface dim The brown-back'd sturgeon slowly swim : Around him were the goblin train But he scull' (I with all his might and main, And follow'd wherever the sturgeon led, Till he saw him upward point his head ; Then he dropp'd his paddle-blade, And held his colen-goblet up To catch the drop in its crimson cup. With sweeping tail and quivering fin, Through the wave the sturgeon flew, And, like the heaven-shot javelin, He sprung above the waters blue. Instant as the star-fall light, He plunged him in the deep again, But left an arch of silver bright, The rainbow of the moony main. It was a strange and lovely sight To see the puny goblin there ; He seem'd an angel form of light, With azure wing and sunny hair, Throned on a cloud of purple fair, Circled with blue and edged with white, And sitting at the fall of even Beneath the bow of summer heaven. xxir. A moment, and its lustre fell ; But ere it met the billow blue, 178 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. He caught within his crimson bell A droplet of its sparkling dew Joy to thee, Fay ! thy task is done, Thy wings are pure, for the geui is won Cheerly ply thy dripping oar, And haste away to the elfin shore. He turns, and, lo ! on cither side The ripples on his path divide ; And the track o'er which his boat must pass Is smooth as a sheet of polish'd glass. Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, With snowy arms half-swelling out, While on the gloss'd and gleamy wave Their sea-green ringlets loosely float; They swim around with smile and song; They press the bark with pearly hand, And gently urge her course along, Toward the beach of speckled sand ; And, as he lightly leap'd to land, They bade adieu with nod and bow, Then gayly kiss'd each little hand, And dropp'd in the crystal deep below. A moment stay'd the fairy there ; He kiss'd the beach and breathed a prayer ; Then spread his wings of gilded blue, And on to the elfin court he flew ; As ever ye saw a bubble rise, And shine with a thousand changing dyes, Till, lessening far, through ether driven, It mingles with the hues of heaven ; As, at the glimpse of morning pale, The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, And gleams with blendings soft and bright, Till lost in the shades of fading night ; So rose from earth the lovely Fay So vanish'd, far in heaven away ! Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower, The cricket has call'd the second hour, Twice again, and the lark will rise To kiss the streaking of the skies Up ! thy charmed armour don, Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. He put his acorn helmet on ; It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down: The corslet plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild bee's golden vest ; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; His 'shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, Studs of gold on a ground of green ; And the quivering lance which he brandish'd bright, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, And away like a glance of thought he flew, To skim the heavens, and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star. The moth-fly, as he shot in air, Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; The katy-did forgot its lay, The prowling gnat fled fast away, The fell mosqueto chcck'd his drone And folded his wings till the Fay was gone, And the wily beetle dropp'd his head, And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; They crouch'd them close in the darksome shade, They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, For they had felt the blue-bent blade, And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; Many a time, on a summer's night, When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, They had been roused from the haunted ground By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string, When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, And the needle-shaft through air was borne, Feather'd with down of the hum-bird's wing. And now they deem'd the courier ouphe, Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground ; And they watch'd till they saw him mount the roof That canopies the world around ; Then glad they left their covert lair, And freak'd about in the midnight air. Up to the vaulted firmament His path the fire-fly courser bent, And at every gallop on the wind, He flung a glittering spark behind ; He flies like a feather in the blast Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. But the shapes of air have begun their work, And a drizzly mist is round him cast, He cannot see through the mantle murk, He shivers with cold, but he urges fast; Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, He lashes his steed and spurs amain, For shadowy hands have twitch'd the rein, And flame-shot tongues around him play'd, And near him many a fiendish eye Glared with a fell malignity, And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, Came screaming on his startled ear. His wings are wet around his breast, The plume hangs dripping from his crest, His eyes are Llurr'd with the lightning's glare, And his ears are stunn'd with the thunder's blare, But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew, He thrust before and he struck behind, Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, And gash'd their shadowy limbs of wind ; Howling the misty spectres flew, They rend the air with frightful ies, For he" has gain'd the welkin blue, And the land of clouds beneath him lies. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 179 Up to the cope careering swift, In breathless motion fast, Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, Or the sea-roc rides the blast, The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, The sphered moon is past, The earth but seems a tiny blot ' On a sheet of azure cast. ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, To tread the starry plain of even, To meet the thousand eyes of night, And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! But the Elfin made no stop or stay Till he came to the bank of the milky-way, Then he clieck'd his courser's foot, And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. Sudden along the snowy tide That sweli'd to meet their footsteps' fall, The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; Around the Fay they weave the dance, They skip before him on the plain, And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, And one upholds his bridle-rein ; "With warblings wild they lead him on To where, through clouds of amber seen, Studded with stars, resplendent shone The palace of the sylphid queen. Its spiral columns, gleaming bright, Were streamers of the northern light ; Its curtain's light and lovely flush Was of the morning's rosy blush, And the ceiling fair that rose aboon The white and feathery fleece of noon. But, O! how fair the shape that lay Beneath a rainbow bending bright; She seem'd to the entranced Fay The loveliest of the forms of light; Her mantle was the purple roll'd At twilight in the west afar; 'T was tied with threads of dawning gold, And button'd with a sparkling star. Her face was like the lily roon That veils the vestal planet's hue; Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, Set floating in the welkin blue. Her hair is like the sunny beam, And the diamond gems which round it gleam Are the pure drops of dewy even That ne'er have left their native heaven. xxxir. She raised hor eyes to the wondering sprite, And they leap'd with smiles, for well I ween Never before in the bowers of light Had the form of an earthly Fay been seen. Long she look'd in his tiny fare ; Long with his butterfly cloak she play'd; She smooth'd his wings of azure lace, And handled the tassel of his blade ; And as he told in accents low The story of his love and wo, She. felt new pains in her bosom rise, And the tear-drop started in her eyes. And " 0, sweet spirit of earth," she cried, " Return no more to your woodland height, But ever here with me abide In the land of everlasting light ! Within the fleecy drift we '11 lie, We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim; And all the jewels of the sky Around thy brow shall brightly beam ! And thou shall bathe thee in the stream That rolls its whitening foam aboon, And ride upon the lightning's gleam, And dance upon the orbed moon ! W T e '11 sit within the Pleiad ring, We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, And I will bid my sylphs to sing The song that makes the dew-mist melt; Their harps are of the umber shade, That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray; And thou shall pillow on my breast, While heavenly breathings float around, And, with the sylphs of ether blest, Forget the joys of fairy ground." XXXIII. She was lovely and fair to see And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; But lovelier far, and still more fair, The earthly form imprinted there; Naught he saw in the heavens above Was half so dear as his mortal love, For he thought upon her looks so meek, And he thought of the light flush on her cheek ; Never again might he bask and lie On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye, But in his dreams her form to see, To clasp her in his revery, To think upon his virgin bride, Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. XXXIV. " Lady," he cried, " I have sworn to-night, On the word of a fairy-knight, To do my sentence-task aright; My honour scarce is free from stain, I may nol soil ils snows again ; Betide me weal, betide me wo, Its mandate must be answer'd now." Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, The tear was in her drooping eye ; But she led him to the palace gate, And call'd the sylphs who hover'd there, And bade them fly and bring him straight Of clouds condensed a sable car. With chann and spell she bless'd it there, From all the fiends of upper air ; Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, And tied his steed behind the cloud ; And press'd his hand as she bade him fly Far to the verge of the northern sky, 180 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. For by its wane and wavering light There was a star would fall to-night. Borne afar on the wings of the blast, Northward away, he speeds him fast, And his courser follows the cloudy wain Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. The clouds roll backward as he flies, Each flickering star behind him lies, And he has reach'd the northern plain, And back'd his fire-fly steed again, Ready to follow in its flight The streaming of the rocket-light. XXXVI. The star is yet in the vault of heaven, But it rocks in the summer gale; And now 'tis fitful and uneven, And now 'tis deadly pale; And now 'tis wrapp'd in sulphur-smoke, And qucnch'd is its rayless beam, And now with a rattling thunder-stroke It bursts in flash and flame. As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance That the storm-spirit flings from high, The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, As it fell from the sheeted sky. As swift as the wind in its trail behind The Elfin gallops along, The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, But the sylphid charm is strong; He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze; He watches each flake till its sparks expire, And rides in the light of its rays. But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, And caught a glimmering spark ; Then wheel'd around to the fairy ground, And sped through the midnight dark. Ouphe and Goblin ! Imp and Sprite! . Elf of eve ! and starry Fay ! Ye that love the moon's soft light, Hither hither wend your way ; Twine ye in a jocund ring, Sing and trip it merrily, Hand to hand, and wing to wing, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. Hail the wanderer again With dance and song, and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round, Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. The beetle guards our holy ground, He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found, He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, The owlet's eyos our lanterns be ; Thus we sing, and dance, and play, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. But, hark ! from tower on tree-top high, The sentry-elf his call has made : ' A streak is in the eastern f-ky, Shapes of moonlight! flil and fade! The hill-tops gleam in mojning's spring, The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, The cock has crow'd, and the Fays are gone. BRONX. I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth ed'jjp of a gentle river, Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes ; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green. Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes unheeded. The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat ; The antic squirrel capcr'd on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet ; Through the transparent w^wes, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, Whitc-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, ! 'twas a ravishing spot, fonn'd for a poet's dwelling. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 181 And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness] Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness 1 Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet soli- tude! ^Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember' d form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. THE AMERICAN FLAG. WHEN Freedom from her mountain height Unfurl' d her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white, With strcakings of the morning light ; Then from his mansion in the sun She call'd her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. i IT. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! in. Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn ; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. v. Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! By angel hands to valour given ; The stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? TO SARAH. ONE happy year has fled, SALL, Since you were all my own ; The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast, Nor the winter's icy air ; For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there. The summer sun is bright, SALL, The skies are pure in hue ; But clouds will sometimes sadden them, And dim their lovely blue ; And clouds may come to us, SALL, But sure they will not stay ; For there 's a spell in fond hearts To chase their gloom away. in. In sickness and in sorrow Thine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill ; And were they absent now, SALL, I 'd seek my bed of pain, And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again. 0, pleasant is the welcome kiss, When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step That meets me at the door. Though worldly rures may visit us, I reck not when they fall, While I have thy kind lips, my SALL, To smile away them all. Q MARIA BROOKS. [Born about 1795. Died, 1845.] WE have in America few women who devote their lives to literature, and produce artistic works. There are many who write " fugitive pieces," cal- culated to give no offence, rather than to excite admiration, or provoke criticism. Commonplace sentiments are smoothly versified ; but the scru- pulous nicety of the public in regard to decorum, or the modesty of authors, prevents the sincere, bold, and natural expression of strong emotion. Prudery and affectation are everywhere offensive ; but in poetry they are unpardonable. Mrs. BROOKS better known as Maria del Occi- dente is not of this class. She is the poet of passion ; her writings are distinguished by a fear- lessness of thought and expression ; she gives the heart its ti ic voice. In an age which allows but little room for the development of character, and which would make men and women after conven- tional patterns, she has manifested individualism in her life, and originality in her works. She was born in Medford, near Boston, about the year 1795. Her maiden name was Go WAX. She very early manifested a love for literature and the fine arts. Before she was nine years old, it is said, she had committed to memory many passages by SHAKSPEARE, POPE, MILTON, and other great authors ; and at twelve she was a proficient in painting and music. At the early age of fourteen, she was betrothed, and as soon as her education was finished, married, to Mr. B HOOKS, a merchant of Boston. The first few years of her womanhood were passed in affluence ; but by some disasters at sea the wealth of her husband was lost, and in the period which followed, poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. She wrote at nineteen a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was never published. In 1820, a small volume of her writings, entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts," appeared, after having been submitted to some of her friends, who were professors in Harvard University, by whom a favourable judgment of its merits was expressed. It contained many creditable passages, arid was praised in some of the critical journals of this country and England. The following lines are descriptive of one of the characters : With even step, in mourning garb array'd, Fair JUDITH walk'd, and grandeur mnrk'd her air; Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid,- Soil'd the dark tresses of her copious hair. The next stanza alludes to her son : Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed, His locks curl'd high, leaving the forehead bare ; \nd o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed, As they had fear'd to hide the brilliance there. The second poem in this volume was founded on the book of Esther. The following verses de- scribe the preparations of the heroine for appear- ing before the king. " Take ye, my maids', this mournful garb away ; Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair ; A nation's fate impending hangs to-day But on my beauty and your duteous care." Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave ; Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold ; Some softly wipe away the limpid wave That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance roll'd. Refresh'd and faultless from their hands she came, Like form celestial clad in raiment bright ; O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame, In mingling beams of rainbow colour'd light. Graceful she enter'd the forbidden court, Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high; Slow were her steps, and unassumed her port, While hope just tremblud in her azure eye. Light on the marble fell her ermine tread, And when the king reclined in musing mood, Lifts at the gentle sound his stately head, Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood. Soon after the death of her husband, in 1821, Mrs. BROOKS became the possessor of some proper- ty in the island of Cuba; and since that time she has not resided permanently in this country. " Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven, by Maria del Occidente," was published in London, in 1833. The first canto had been printed, with a few mis- cellaneous pieces, at Boston, in 1825, but the poem was not completed until 1831, when the last notes to it were written, in Paris. At the time of its publication, Mrs. BHOOKS was the guest of RO- BERT SOUTHET, who corrected the proof-sheets as it passed through the press, and who, in " The Doctor,"* and other works, has alluded to it as one of the most remarkable productions of female ge- nius. The germ of the story is in the sixth, seventh, and eighth chapters of the apocryphal book of TOBIT; but in endeavouring to give authority for the incidents of the poem, the author has not referred to the sacred writings. By the fathers of the Greek and Roman churches, it was supposed that demons or fallen angels, in an early age, had wandered about the earth, formed attachments to beautiful mortals, and caused themselves, at times, to be worshipped as divinities. ZOPHIEL, an out- cast angel, is enamoured of EGLA, the apocryphal SAHA ; and while, in her bridal chamber, she is * MAHIA DEL OCCIDENTE otherwise, we believe, Mrs. BROOKS is styled in "The Doctor." &c. "the most im- passioned and most imaginative of all poetesses." And without taking into account qitasilam ardentiora scattered here and there throughout her singular poem, there is un- doubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with the more accurate substitution of "fanciful" for "imaginative" for the whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an extraor- dinary performance. London Quarterly Jtevieir. 182 MARIA BROOKS. 183 waiting for MF.LES, the first of seven who seek her hand, he appears before her and declares his passion : Then lowly bending with seraphic grace, The vase he proffer'd full ; and not a gem Drawn forth successive from its sparkling place, But put to shame the Persian diadem ; While lie, ''Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind These orient pearls, less smooth; EGLA, for thee, My thrilling substance pain'd by storm and wind, I sought them in the caverns of the sea. Look! here's a ruby; drinking solar rays, I saw it redden on a mountain-tip; Now on thy snowy bosom let it biaze ; 'Twill blush still deeper to behold thy lip. Here 's for thy hair a garland ; every flower That spreads its blossoms, water'd by the tear Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower, Might see its fraf bright hues perpetuate here. For morn's light hjil, this changeful amethyst; A sapphire fur the violet's tender blue ; Large opals, for the queen-rose zephyr-kist; And here are emeralds of every hue, For folded bud and leaflet dropp'd with dew. And here 's a diamond, cull'd from Indian mine, To gift a haughty queen ; it might not be ; I knew a worthier brow, sister divine, And brought the gem ; for well I duem for thee Thff ".rrh-chemic sun in earth's dark bosom wrought To prison thus a ray, that when dull night Frowns o'er her realms, and nature's all seems naught, She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light." Thus spoke he on, while still the wondering maid Gazed as a youthful artist ; rapturously Each perfect, smooth, harmonious limb survey'd, Insatiate still her beauty-loving eye. For ZOPHIEL wore a mortal form ; and blent In mortal form, when perfect, Nature shows Her all that's fair enhanced ; fire, firmament, , Ocean, earth, flowers, and gems, all there disclose Their charms epitomised : the heavenly power To lavish beauty, in this last work, crown'd : And EGLA, form'd of fibres such as dower Those who most feel, forgot all else around. He saw, and softening every wily word, Spoke in more melting music to her soul ; And o'er her sense, as when the fond night-bird Woos the full rose, o'erpowering fragrance stole ; Or when the lilies, sleepier perfume, move, Disturbed by two young sister fawns, that play Among their graceful stalks at morn, and love From their white cells to lap the dew away. She strove to speak, but 'twas in murmurs low; While o'er her cheek, his potent spell confessing, Deeper diffused the warm carnation glow Still dewy-wet with tears, her inmost soul confessing. As the lilhe reptile in some lonely grove, With fix'd bright eye of fasciiiating flame, Lures on by slow degrees the plaining dove, .So nearer, nearer still the bride and spirit came. Success seem'd sure ; but in the secret height And pride of transport, as he braved the power Which battled him, at morn, an evil light Shot from his eyes, with guilt and treachery fraught. Nature upon her children oft bestows The quirk, untaught perception ; and while Art O'ertnsks himself with guile, loves to disclose Tho dark thought in the eye, to warn the o'er-trusting Or haply, 'twas some airy guardian foil'd [heart; The sprite. What miri'd emotions shook his breast, When her fair hand, ere he could clasp, recoil'd ! The spell was broke, and doubts and terrors prest Her sore. While ZOPHIGL : " MELES' step I heard He's a betrayer: wilt receive him still V The rosy blood driven to her heart by fe-ir, She said, in accents faint but firm, " I will." The spirit heard ; and all again was dark, Save, as before, the melancholy flame Of the full moon ; and faint, unfrequent spark, Which from the perfume's burning embers came, That stood in vases round the room disposed. Shuddering and trembling to her couch she crept ; Soft oped the door, and quick again was closed, And through the pale, gray moonlight MELES slept. But ere he yet, with haste, could throw aside His broider'd belt and sandals dread to tell, Eager he sprang he sought to clasp his bride He stopp'd ; a groan was heard he gasp'd and fell Low by the couch of her who widow'd lay, Her ivory hands, convulsive, clasp'd in prayer, But lacking power to move; and when 'twas day, A cold, black corpse was all of MELES there. Four other lovers, in succession, seek the cham- ber of EGLA, and perish. The fifth, ALTHEETOH, a page of the King of Medea, unterrified by the fate of others, approaches her. Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet, Enter'd the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet, And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there. Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, And sweetly thrill'd the gilded roof along ; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows, And truth and love lend fervour to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there She may not see him die. No groan, she springs Frantic between a hope-beam and despair, And twines her long hair round him as he sings. Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near, Art hovering now, behold and pity me ! For love, hope, beauty, music, all that 's dear, Look, look on me, and spare my agony ! " Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause, The hateful cause of this kind being's death! In pity kill me first ! He lives he draws Thou wilt not blast? he draws his harmless breath!" Still lives ALTHEETOR; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul Is lost given up. He fain would turn to gaze, But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole Through every vein, and thrill'd each separate nerve, Himself could not have told, all wound and clasp'd In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve To save him 7 " What a sea of sweets I" he gasp'd, But 't was delight : sound, fragrance, all were breathing. Still swell'd the transport: " Let me look and thank:" He sighed, (celestial smiles his lip enwreathing) " I die but ask no more," he said, and sank ; Still by her arms supported lower lower As by soft sleep oppress'd ; so calm, so fair, He rested on the purple tap'stried floor ; It seem'd an angel lay reposing there. He died of love ; or the o'erperfect joy Of being pitied pray'd for press'd by thee. O! for the fate of that devoted boy I 'd sell iny birthright to Eternity. I 'm not the cause of this thy last distress. Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he flies ! Look on me once, and learn to hate me less! He said ; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. Resolving that no mortal shall wed her, ZOPHIEL finally resolves to preserve EGLA, for his own so- ciety in perpetual youth and beauty ; and with this intention he seeks PHAERIOX, one of the gentlest of the fallen spirits, made up of tenderness and love, and persuades him to lead the way to the palace of the gnomes, under the sea, where TA- HATIITAM keeps the elixir of life. This episode, 184 MARIA BROOKS. which forms the third canto of the poem, I have quoted. A drop of the elixir is obtained, and lost on the return of the spirits to the upper air, in a tempest raised by LUCIFER. Finally, HELOW, who weds EGIA, puts ZOI>HIEL to flight, and in the deserts of Ethiopia, the fallen angel is visited by RAPHAEL, who gives him hopes of restoration to his original rank in Heaven. In 1842 Mrs. BROOKS had printed for private circulation a little romance entitled " Idomen, or the Valley of Yumuri," and she subsequently pub- lished several short poems in a magazine of which the writer of this was editor. After her return from Europe she resided some time in the vicinity of the Military Academy at West Point, where one of her sons, now in the army, was educated. In the autumn of 1842 she left New York for her estate in the island of Cuba, where she died suddenly near the close of 1845. Mrs. BHOOKS was the only American poet of her sex whose mind was thoroughly educated. She was familiar with the literature of Greece, Rome, and the oriental nations, and with the languages and letters of southern Europe. Learning, brilliant imagination, and masculine boldness of thought and diction, are characteristics of her works. In some of her descriptions she was, perhaps, too mi- nute ; and at times, by her efforts to condense, she became obscure. The stanza of Zophiel" will probably never be very popular ; and though the poem may, to use the language of Mr. SOTJTHEY, have a permanent place in the literature of our language, it will never be generally admired. ' PALACE OF GNOMES.* 'T is now the hour of mirth, the hour of love, The hour of melancholy : night, as vain Of her full beauty, seems to pause above, That all may look upon her ere it wane. The heavenly angel watch'd his subject star, O'er all that's good and fair benignly smiling ; The sighs of wounded love he hears, from far, Weeps that he cannot heal, and wafts a hope beguiling. The nether earth looks beauteous as a gem ; High o'er her groves in floods of moonlight laving, The towering palm displays his silver stem, The while his plumy leaves scarce in the breeze are waving. The nightingale among his roses sleeps ; The soft-eyed doe in thicket deep is sleeping ; The dark-green myrrh her tears of fragrance weeps, And every odorous spike in limpid dew is steeping. Proud, prickly cerea, now thy blossom 'scapes Its cell ; brief cup of light ; and seems to say, " I am not for gross mortals : blood of grapes And sleep for them. Come, spirits, while ye may !" A silent stream winds darkly through the shade, And slowly gains the Tigris, where 't is lost ; By a forgotten prince, of old, 't was made, And in its course full many a fragment cross'd Of marble, fairly carved ; and by its side Her golden dust the flaunting lotos threw O'er her white sisters, throned upon the tide, And queen of every flower that loves perpetual dew. Gold-sprinkling lotos, theme of many a song, By slender Indian warbled to his fair ! Still tastes the stream thy rosy kiss, though long Has been but dust the hand that placed thee there. The little temple where its relics rest Long since has fallen ; its broken columns lie Beneath the lucid wave, and give its breast A whiten'd glimmer as 'tis stealing by. * The third canto of Zophiel. Here, cerea, too, thy clasping mazes twine The only pillar time has left erect ; Thy serpent arms embrace it, as 't were thine, And roughly mock the beam it should reflect. An ancient prince, in happy madness blest, Was wont to wander to this spot, and deem'd A water-nymph came to him, and caress' d, And loved him well ; haply he only dream'd ; But on the spot a little dome arose, And flowers were set, that still in wildness bloom; And the cold ashes that were him, repose, , Carefully shrined in this lone ivory tomb. It is a place so strangely wild and sweet, That spirits love to come ; and now, upon A moonlight fragment, ZOPHIEI. chose his seat, In converse with the soft PHRAERIO;* ; Who on the moss beside him lies reclining, O'erstrewn with leaves, from full-blown roses shaken, By nightingales, that on their branches twining, The live-long night to love and music waken. PHRAERIOJT, gentle sprite ! nor force nor fire He had to wake in others doubt or fear : He 'd hear a tale of bliss, and not aspire To taste himself: 'twas meet for his compeer. No soul-creative in this being born, Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid : Within the vortex of rebellion drawn, He join'd the shining ranks as others did. Success but little had advanced ; defeat He thought so little, scarce to him were worse ; And, as he held in heaven inferior seat, Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. He form'd no plans for happiness : content To curl the tendril, fold the bud ; his pain So light, he scarcely felt his banishment. ZopmEr., perchance, had held him in disdain; But, form'd for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul 'T was such relief his burning thoughts to pour In other ears, that oft the strong control Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no more. ZOPHIEL was soft, but yet all flame ; by turns Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy, MARIA BROOKS. 185 Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns : His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. And mild PHRAERIOX was of heaven, and there Nothing imperfect in its kind can be : There every form is fresh, soft, bright, and fair, Yet differing each, with that variety, Not least of miracles, which here we trace : And wonder and admire the cause that form'd So like, and yet so different, every face, Though of the self-same clay, by the same pro- cess warm'd. Order is heaven's first law." But that obey'd, The planets fix'd, the Eternal mind at leisure, A vast profusion spread o'er all it made, As if in endless change were found eternal pleasure. Harmless PHRAERIOX, form'd to dwell on high, Retain'd the looks that had been his above ; And his harmonious lip, and sweet, blue eye, Soothed the fallen seraph's heart, and changed his scorn to love ; Who, when he saw him in some garden pleasant, Happy, because too little thought had he To place in contrast past delight with present, Had given his soul of fire for that inanity. But, ! in him the Eternal had infused The restless soul that doth itself devour, Unless it can create ; and fallen, misused, But forms the vast design to mourn the feeble power. In plenitude of love, the Power benign Nearer itself some beings fain would lift ; To share its joys, assist its vast design With high intelligence ; O, dangerous gift ! Superior passion, knowledge, force, and fire, The glorious creatures took; but each the slave Of his own strength, soon burn'd with wild desire, And basely turn'd it 'gainst the hand that gave. But ZOIMUEL, fallen sufferer, now no more Thought of the past; the aspiring voice was mute, That urged him on to meet his doom before, And all dissolved to love each varied attribute. "Come, my PHHAEUIOX, give me an embrace," He said. " I hope a respite of repose, Like that respiring from thy sunny face ; Even the peace thy guileless bosom knows. Rememberest thou that cave of Tigris, where We went with fruits and flowers, and meteor light, And the fair creature, on the damp rock, there Shivering and trembling so ] Ah ! well she might ! False were my words, infernal my intent, Then, as I knelt before her feet, and sued ; Yet still she blooms, uninjured, innocent, Though now, for seven long months, by ZOPHIEL watch' d and woo'd. Gentle PiinAEHioy, 'tis for her I crave Assistance: what I could have blighted then, 'T is now my only care to guard and save ; Companion, then, my airy flight again. Conduct me to those hoards of sweets and dews, Treasured in haunts to all but thee unknown, For favourite sprites : teach me their power and use, And whatsoe'er thou wilt of ZopHiEL.be it done! 24 Throughout fair Ecbatane the deeds I 've wrought Have cast such dread, that, of all SARIJIVS' train, I doubt if there be one, from tent or court, Who'll try what 'tis to thwart a spirit's love again. My EG LA, left in her acacia grove, Has learnt to lay aside that piteous fear That sorrow'd thee ; and I but live to prove A love for her as harmless as sincere. Inspirer of the arts of Greece, I charm Her ears with songs she never heard before ; And many an hour of thoughtfulness disarm With stories cull'd from that vague, wondrous lore, But seldom told to mortals : arts on gems Inscribed that still exist ; but hidden so From fear of those who told that diadems Have pass'd from brows that vainly ached to know: Nor glimpse had mortal, save that those fair things Loved, ages past, like her I now adore, Caught from their angels some low whisperings, Then told of them to such as dared not tell them more; But toil'd in lonely nooks, far from the eye Of shuddering, longing men ; then, buried deep, Till distant ages bade their secrets lie, In hopes that time might tell what their dread oaths must keep. EGLA looks on me doubtful, but amused ; Admires, but, trembling, dares not bid me stay; Yet, hour by hour, her timid heart, more used, Grows to my sight and words ; and when a day I leave her, for my needful cares, at leisure, To muse upon and feel her lonely state ; At my returning, though restrain'd her pleasure, There needs no spirit's eye to see she does not hate. Oft have I look'd in mortal hearts, to know How love, by slow advances, knows to twine Each fibre with his wreaths ; then overthrow At once each stern resolve. The maiden 's mine ! Yet I have never press'd her ermine hand, Nor touch'd the living coral of her lip ; Though, listening to its tones, so sweet, so bland, I've thought 0, impious thought! who form'd might sip ! Most impious thought ! Soul, I would rein thee in, E'en as the quick-eyed Parthian quells his steeds ; But thou wilt start, and rise, and plunge in sin, Till gratitude weeps out, and wounded reason bleeds ! Soul, what a mystery thou art ! not one Admires, or loves, or worships virtue more Than I ; but passion hurls me on, till torn By keen remorse, I cool, to curse me and deplore. But to my theme. Now, in the stilly night, I hover o'er her fragrant couch, and sprinkle Sweet dews about her, as she slumbers light, Dews sought, with toil, beneath the pale star's twinkle, From plants of secret virtue. All for lust Too high and pure my bliss ; her gentle breath I hear, inhale, then weep ; (for, O, she must : That form is mortal, and must sleep in death.) Q2 186 MARIA BROOKS. And oft, when nature pants, and the thick air, Charged with foul particles, weighs sluggish o'er, I breathe them all ; that deep disgust I bear, To leave a fluid pure and sane for her. How dear is this employ ! how innocent ! My soul's wild elements forbear their strife ; While, on these harmless cares, pleased and intent, I hope to save her beauty and her life, For many a rapturous year. But mortal ne'er Shall hold her to his heart ; to me confined, Her soul must glow ; nor ever shall she bear That mortal fruit for which her form 's design'd. No grosser blood, commingling with her own, Shall ever make her mother. O, that mild, Sad glance I love that lip that melting tone, Shall ne'er be given to any mortal's child. But only for her spirit shall she live : Unsoil'd by earth, fresh, chaste, and innocent ! And all a spirit dares or can I'll give ; And sure I thus can make her far more blest, Framed as she is, than mortal love could do; For more than mortal 's to this creature given, She's spirit more than half; her beauty's hue Is of the sky, and speaks my native heaven. B ut the night wanes ; while all is bright above," He said, and round PHHAERIOX, nearer drawn, One beauteous arm he flung, " first to my love ; We '11 see her safe ; then to our task till dawn." 'T is often thus with spirits : when retired Afar from haunts of men ; so they delight To move in their own beauteous forms attired ; Though like thin shades, or air, they mock dull mortals' sight. Well pleased, PHRAERIOX answer'd that embrace; All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets, From thousand dewy flowers. "But, to what place," He said, "will ZOPHIEI. go? who danger greets As if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome,* TAHATHYAH, for our purpose most were meet; But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom,. The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat. Yet, there are fountains, which no sunny ray E'er danced upon, and drops come there at last, Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way, Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze have past. These take from mortal beauty every stain, And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain, With every wondrous efficacy rife ; Nay, once a spirit whisper'd of a draught, Of which a drop, by any mortal quaff'd, Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering life." " A spirit told thee it would save from death The being who should taste that drop. Is 't so ? ! dear PHRAF.RIOX, for another breath We have not time ! come, follow me ! we 'II go And take one look, then guide me to the track Of the gnome's palace ; there is not a blast * In respect to the birth of TAHATHYAM and his court, 1 have followed the opinion of TERTULLIAN and others. The beings, however, which are described in the text, can only be called gnomes, from their residence in the earth, and their knowledge of mineralogy and gems. To stir the sea-flower ! we will go and back Ere morn, nay, come ! the night is wasting fast." "My friend, O, ZOPHIEL ! only once I went, Then, though bold ANTHEOJJ bore me, such the pain, I came back to the air so rack'd and spent, That for a whole sweet moon I had no joy again. What sayst thou, back at morn ? the night, a day, And half the night that follows it, alas ! Were time too little for that fearful way ; And then such depths, such caverns we must pass" "Nothing, beloved PHRAERIOX, I know how To brave such risks ; and first the path will break, As oft I've done in water depths ; and thou Needst only follow through the way I make." The soft flower-spirit shudder'd, look'd on high, And from his bolder brother would have fled ; But then the anger kindling in that eye He could not bear. So to fair EGLA'S bed Follow'd and look'd ; then shuddering all with dread, To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led ; Continuing long in sunset course his flight, Until for flowery Sicily he bent ; Then, where Italia smiled upon the night, Between their nearest shores chose midway his descent.* The sea was calm, and the reflected moon Still trembled on its surface ; not a breath Curl'd the broad mirror. Night had pass'd her noon; How soft the air! how cold the depths beneath! The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth, ZOPHIEL'S white arm around PHHAEHIOX'S twined, In fond caress, his tender cares to soothe, While cither's nearer wing the other's cross'd behind. Well pleased, PHRAERIO^ half forgot his dread, And first, with foot as white as lotos leaf, The sleepy surface of the waves essayed ; But then his smile of love gave place to drops of grief. How could he for that fluid, dense and chill, Change the sweet floods of air they floated on ? E'en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill ; But ardent ZOPHIEL, panting, hurries on; And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip That whisper'd courage 'twixteach glowing kiss,) Persuades to plunge : limbs, wings, and locks they dip; Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss. Quickly he draws PIIKAF.RIOX on, his toil Even lighter than he hoped : some power benign Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil Mid crags and caverns, as of his design Respectful. That black, bitter element, As if obedient to his wish, gave way ; So, comforting PURAERIOX, on he went, [day, And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of * Not far from the scene of Vulcan's labours ; yet the regions sought by these spirits must have been very much deeper. MARIA BROOKS. 187 Upon the upper world ; and forced them through That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar, That the bold sprite receded ; and would view The cave before he ventured to explore. Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part And not be miss'd, amid such strife and din, He strain'd him closer to his burning heart, And, trusting to his strength, rush'd fiercely in. On, on, for many a weary mile, they fare ; Till thinner grew the floods, long, dark, and dense, From nearness to earth's core ; and now, a glare Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense ; As when, above, the sun his genial streams Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves, Whole fathoms down; while, amorous of his beams, Each scaly monstrous thing leaps from its slimy And now, PHRAEHIOJT, with a tender cry, [caves. Far sweeter than the land-bird's note, afar Heard through the azure arches of the sky, By the long-baffled, storm-worn mariner: "Hold, ZOPHIEL! rest thee now: our task is done, TAHATHTAM'S realms alone can give this light ! ! though 'tis not the life-awakening sun, How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night !" Clear grew the wave, and thin; a substance white, The wide-expanding cavern floors and flanks ; Could one have look'd from high how fair the sight! Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks, Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints, While even his shadw on the sands below Is seen ; as through the wave he glides, and glints, Where lies the polish'd shell, and branching corals grow. No massive gate impedes ; the wave, in vain, Might strive against the air to break or fall ; And, at the portal of that strange domain, A clear, bright curtain seem'd, or crystal wall. The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest ; The while, on either side, a bower of spar Gave invitation for a moment's rest And, deep in either bower, a little throne Look'd so fantastic, it were hard to know If busy nature fashion'd it alone, Or found some curious artist here below. Soon spoke PHHAERION: "Come, TAHATHTAM, come, Thou know'st me well ! I saw thee once to love ; And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome Who comes full fraught with tidings from above." Those gentle tones, angelically clear, Past from his lips, in mazy depths retreating, (As if that bower had been the cavern's ear,) Full many a stadia far ; and kept repeating, As through the perforated rock they pass, Echo to echo guiding them ; their tone (As just from the sweet spirit's lip) at last TAHATHTAM heard; where, on a glittering throne He solitary sat. 'Twas many a year Ere such delightful, grateful sound had blest His pleasured sense ; and with a starting tear, Half joy, half grief, he rose to greet his guest. First sending through the rock an answering strain To give both spirits welcome, where they wait, And bid them haste ; for he might strive in vain Half-mortal as he was, to reach that gate For many a day. But in the bower they hear His bidding ; and, from cumbrous matter free, Arose ; and to his princely home came near With such spiritual strange velocity, They met him, just as by his palace door The gnome appear'd, with all his banJ, elate In the display of his resplendent store, To such as knew his father's high estate. His sire, a seraph, framed to dwell above, Had lightly left his pure and blissful home To taste the blandishments of mortal love ; And from that lowly union sprang the gnome, TAHATHTAM, first of his compeers, and best, He look'd like heaven, fair semi-earthly thing ! The rest were born of many a maid carest After his birth, and chose him for their king. He sat upon a car, (and the large pearl Once cradled in it glimmer'd, now, without) Bound midway on two serpents' backs, that curl In silent swiftness as he glides about. A shell, 'twas first in liquid amber wet; Then ere the fragrant cement harden'd round, All o'er with large and precious stones 'twas set By skilful TSATAVKST,* or made or found. The reins seem'd pliant crystal (but their strength Had match'd his earthly mother's silken band ;){ And, fleck'd with rubies, flow'd in ample length, Like sparkles o'er TA H ATHT AM'S beauteous hand. The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew As if from love, like steeds of Araby ; Like blood of lady's lip their scarlet hue ; Their scales so bright and sleek, 'twas pleasure but to see. With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, They raise their heads, and arch their necks (with eye As bright as if with meteor fire 'twere lit;) And dart then: barbed tongues, 'twixt fangs of ivory. These, when the quick-advancing sprites they saw Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace The smooth fair pavement, check'd their speed in awe, And glided far aside as if to give them space. TAHATHTAM, lighted with a pleasing pride, And in like guise, to meet the strangers bent His courteous steps ; the while on either side Fierce AISHALAT and PSHAAMATIM went. Bright RAMAOTJR follow'd on, in order meet; Then NAHALCOUL and ZOTZARAVEX, best Beloved, save ROUAMASAK of perfume sweet; Then TAIHAZAK and MAHMORAK; the rest A crowd of various use and properties, Arranged to meet their monarch's wishes, vie In seemly show to please the stranger's eyes, And show what could be wrought without or soil or sky. * TSAVAVEN signifies tint-gem. t It has been said that an art once existed of composing a substance which, together with a perfect pliancy, had the colour and transparency of glass or crystal. 188 MARIA BROOKS. And ZUFIIIEL, though a spirit, ne'er had seen The like before ; and, for he had to ask A boon, almost as dear as heaven, his mien Was softness all; but 'twas a painful task To his impatience thus the time to wait Due to such welcome : all his soul possest With thoughts of her he'd left in lonely state, Unguarded, how he burnt to proffer his request ! The fond PHHAERION look'd on him, and knew How much it pain'd him here below to stay ; 1 So towards the princely gnome he gently drew To tell what purpose brought them down from day; And said, " ! king, this humble offering take ; How hard the task to bring I need not tell ; Receive the poor, poor gift, for friendship's sake !" TAIIATHYAIH took a yellow asphodel, A deep-blue lotus, and a full moss-rose, And then spoke out, " My TAIHALAK, come hither, [glows ; Look at these flowers, cropt where the sun-beam Crust them with diamond, never let them wither!" Then, soon, PHRAERIOX : Monarch, if 't is truth, Thou hast (and that 'tis false sweet powers for- fend!) A draught whose power perpetuates life and youth, Wilt thou bestow one drop upon my friend 1" Then ZOPHIEI could no more withhold, but knelt And said, "O ! sovereign! happier far than I ! Born as thou wert, and in earth's entrails pent, Though once I shared thy father's bliss on high. One only draught ! and if its power I prove, By thy sweet mother, to an angel dear, Whate'er thou wilt, of all the world above, Down to these nether realms I'll bring thee every year. Thy tributary slave, I'll scorn the pain, Though storms and rocks my feeling substance TAHATHYAM, let me not implore in vain, [tear ! Give me the draught, and save me from despair !" TAHATHYAM paused ; as if the bold request He liked not to refuse, nor wish'd to grant ; Then, (after much revolving in his breast,) " What of this cup can an immortal want 1 My angel sire, for many a year, endured The vilest toils, deep hidden in the ground, To mix this drink ; nor was 't at last procured Till all he fear'd had happ'd : Death's sleep pro- found Seized my fair mother. I had shared her doom : Mortal, like her he held than heaven more dear ; But, by his chymic arts, he robb'd the tomb And fixed my solitary being here ; As if to hide from the Life-giver's eye, Of his presumptuous task, untried before The prized success, bidding the secret lie For ever here ; I never saw him more, When this was done. Yet what avails to live, From age to age, thus hidden 'neath the wave ? Nor life nor being have I power to give, And here, alas ! are no more lives to save ! For my loved father's sight in vain I pine ! Where is the bright CEPHHOJTIEL ] Spirit,tell But how lie fares, and what thou ask'st is thine !" Fair hope from ZOPHTEL'S look that moment fell. The anxious gnome observed ; and soon bethought How far his exile limited his will ; And half divining why he so besought Gift, worthless, save to man, continued still His speech : " Thou askest much : should I impart, Spirit, to thee, what my great father fain Would hide from Heaven 1 and what with all his art Even the second power desires in vain 1 All long but cannot touch : a sword of flame Guards the life-fruit once seen. Yet, spirit, know There is a service, do what I shall name, And let the danger threaten, I '11 bestow. But first partake our humble banquet, spread Within these rude walls, and repose awhile;" He said, and to the sparry portal led And usher'd his fair guest with hospitable smile. High towered the palace and its massive pile, Made dubious as if of nature or of art, So wild and so uncouth ; yet, all the while, Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. And groves adorn'd it, green in hue, arid bright, As icicles about a laurel-tree ; And danced about their twigs a wonderous light ; Whence came that light so far beneath the sea 1 ZOPHIEL looked up to know, and to his view The vault scarce seem'd less vast than that of No rocky roof was seen; a tender blue [day; Appear'd, as of the sky, and clouds about it play : And, in the midst, an orb looked as 'twere meant To shame the sun, it mimick'd him so well. But ah ! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent ; Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell. Within, from thousand lamps the lustre strays, Reflected back from gems about the wall ; And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays, Just in the centre of a spacious hall ; But whether in the sunbeam form'd to sport, These shapes once lived in supleness and pride, And then, to decorate this wonderous court, Were stolen from the waves and petrified ; Or, moulded by some imitative gnome, And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone, Casting their showers and rainbows 'neath thedome, To man or angel's eye might not be known. No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found, Nor silken ball by maiden loved so well ; But ranged in lightest garniture around, In seemly folds, a shining tapestry fell. And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire, [fleck'd, And all with pearls and sparkling gems o'er- Of that strange court composed the rich attire, And such the cold, fair form of sad TAHATHYAM deck'd. Of marble white the table they surround, And reddest coral deck'd each curious couch, Which softly yielding to their forms was found, And of a surface smooth and wooing to the touch. Of sunny gold and silver, like the moon, Here was no lack ; but if the veins of earth, Torn open by man's weaker race, so soon Supplied the alluring hoard, or here had birth MARIA BROOKS. 189 That baffling 1 , maddening, fascinating art, Half-told l>y sprite most mischievous, that he Might laugh to see men toil, then not impart, The guests left uninquired ; 'tis still a mystery. Here were no flowers, but a sweet odour breathed, Of amber pure ; a glistening coronal, Of various-coloured gems, each brow enwreathed, In form of garland, for the festival. All that the shell contains most delicate, Of vivid colours, ranged and drest with care, Was spread for food, and still was in the state Of its first freshness: if such creatures, rare Among cold rock.s, so far from upper air, By force of art, might live and propagate, Or were in hoards preserved, the muse cannot de- clare. But here, so low from the life-wakening sun, However humble, life was sought in vain ; But when by chance, or gift, or peril won, 'T was prized and guarded well in this domain. Four dusky spirits, by a secret art Taught by a father, thoughtful of his wants, TAHATIIYAM kept, for menial toil apart, But only deep in sea were their permitted haunts. The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape, Boss'd o'er with gems, were beautiful to view; But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, Their only draught was a pure limpid dew, To spirits sweet ; but these half-mortal lips Long'd for the streams that once on earth they quaffed ; And, half in shame, TAHATHYAM coldly sips And craves excuses for the temperate draught. Man tastes," he said, " the grape's sweet blood that streams [he To steep his heart when pain'd; when sorrowing In wild delirium drowns the sense, and dreams Of bliss arise, to cheat his misery." Nor with their dews were any mingling sweets Save those, to mortal lip, of poison fell ; No murmuring bee was heard in these retreats, The mineral clod alone supplied the hydromel. The spirits, while they sat in social guise, Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss, Mark'd many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs ; And thought death happier than a life like this. But they had music; at one ample side Of the vast arena of that sparkling hall, Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied ; In form of canopy, was seen to fall The stony tapestry, over what, at first, An altar to some deity appear'd ; But it had cost full many a year to adjust The limpid crystal tubes that 'neath uprear'd Their different lucid lengths ; and so complete Their wondrous rangcmcnt, that a tuneful gnome Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and sweet, Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome. Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft ; at that quick touch Such modulation woo'd his angel ears That ZOPHIEL wonder'd, started from his couch And thought upon the music of the spheres. TAHATHYAM mark'd ; and casting down the board A wistful glance to one who shared his cheer, "My RAGASYCHEON,"* said he; at his word A gnome arose, and knew what strain he fain would hear. More like the dawn of youth in form and face, And than his many pheres more lightly dress'd, Yet unsurpass'd in beauty and in grace, Silken-haired RAGASYCUEOX soon express'd The feelings rising at his master's heart ; Choosing such tones as when the breezes sigh Through some lone portico ; or far apart, From ruder sounds of mirth in the deep forest die. Preluding' low, in notes that faint and tremble, Swelling, awakening, dying, plaining deep, While such sensations in the soul assemble, As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep. Is there a heart that ever loved in vain, [dear, Though years have thrown their veil o'er all most That lives not each sensation o'er again [here ? In sympathy with sounds like those that mingle Still the fair gnome's light hands the chime prolong ; And while his utmost art the strain employs, CEPHROXIEL'S softened son in gushing song Pour'd forth his sad, deep sense of long departed O, my PHROXEMA ! how thy yellow hair Was fragrant, when, by looks alone carest, I felt it, wafted by the pitying air, Float o'er my lips and touch my fervid breast ! How my least word lent colour to thy cheek ! And how thy gentle form would heave and swell, As if the love thy heart contained would break That warm, pure shrine, where nature bade it dwell. We parted ; years are past, and ihou art dead ! Never, PHROJTEMA, shall I see thee more ! One little ringlet of thy graceful head Lies next my heart ; 't is all I may adore. Torn from thy sight, to save a life of gloom, Hopes unaccomplish'd,warmest wishes cross'd How can I longer bear my weary doom 1 Alas ! what have I gain'd for all I lost 1 The music ceased ; and from TAHATHYAM pass'd The mournful extasy that lent it zest ; But tears adown his paly cheek fell fast, And sprinkled the asbestos o'er his breast. Then thus: "If but a being half so dear Gould to these realms be brought, the slow dis- Of my long solitude were less severe, [tress And I might learn to bear my weariness. There 's a nepenthic draught, which the warm breath Of mortals, when they quaff, keeps in suspense ; Giving the pale similitude of death, While thus chain'd up the quick perceptive sense. Haply 'twere possible. But to the shrine, Where like a god I guard CEPUROJ-IEI.'S gift!" * This name is compounded of a Hebraic and a Greek word, and signifies to move or affect the soul. 190 MARIA BROOKS. Soon through the rock they wind ; the draught divine Was hidden by a veil tho king alone might lift. CEPHRONJEL'S son, with half-averted face And faltering hand, that curtain drew and show'd, Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase ; And warm within the pure elixir glow'd ; Bright red, like flame and blood, (could they so meet,) Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever In quick perpetual movement ; and of heat So high, the rock was warm beneath their feet, (Yet heat in its intensencss hurtful never,) Even to the entrance of the long arcade Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast As far as if the half-angel were afraid To know the secret he himself possessed. TAHATHYAM filled a slip of spar with dread, As if stood by and frown'd some power divine ; Then trembling, as he turn'd to ZOPHIEL, said, " But for one service shall thou call it thine. Bring me a wife ; as I have named the way; (I will not risk destruction save for love!) Fair-haired and beauteous like my mother; say Plight me this pact ; so shall thou bear above, For thine own purpose, what has here been kept Since bloom'd the second age, to angels dear. Bursting from earth's dark womb, the fierce wave swept Off every form that lived and loved, while here, Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept." Then, ZOPHIEL, pitying his emotion: "So I promise ; nay, unhappy prince, I swear By what I dare not utler ; I will go And search ; and one of all Ihe loveliest bear Away, the while she sleeps, to be thy wife : Give her nepenthic drink, and through the wave Brave hell's worst pains to guard her gentle life. Monarch ! 't is said ; now, give me what I crave ! TAHATHYAM: EVANATH,* son of a sire Who knew how love burns in a breast divine, If this thy gift sustain one vital fire, Sigh not for things of earth, for all earth's best are thine." He took the spar: the high-wrought hopes of both Forbad delay. So to the palace back They came; TAHATHYAM fainlly pressed ; nor loth Saw his fair guests depart to wend their watery track. THE STORM/f OVER that coast whither wrong'd DIDO fled From brother's murderous hand, low vapours brood. But all is hush'd ; and reigns a calm as dread As that fell Roman's who, like wolf pursued,^ In aftertimes upon a fragment sate Of ruin'd CARTHAGE, his fierce eye at rest, While hungry, cold, and spent, he mock'd at fate, And fed on the revenge deep smouldering in his breast. * From eva, life ; and nnthnn, to give, t The fourth canto of Zopliiel. JCAius MARIUS. But now that city's turrets frown on high ; And from her distant streets is heard the shriek Of frantic mothers, utter'd as they fly From where with children's blood their guilty altars reek. But far, far off, upon the sea's expanse, The very silence has a shriek of fear; And, 'cross the sight, thick shadows seem to glance ; And sounds like laughter ring, yet leave the ear In racking doubt if it has heard such peal, Or if 't was but affrighted fancy spoke : Past that suspense, and lesser pain to feel, As giant rends his chains the bursting teinpest Alas ! for the poor pilot at his prow, [woke. Far from the haven ! Will his Neptune save ? The muse no longer hears his frantic vow, But follows her fair sprites still deep beneath the wave. Soon through the cavern, the receding light Refused its beam; ZOPHIEL, with toil severe, But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night, Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared To breathe for years ; but rougher grew the way ; And soft PHRAERIOX, shrinking back and scared At every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and day. Shiver'd, and pain'd, and shrieking, as the waves Wildly impel them 'gainst the jutting rocks ; Not all the care and strength of ZOPHIEL saves His tender guide from half the wildering shocks He bore. The calm, which favour'd their descent, And bade them look upon their task as o'er, Was past ; and now the inmost earth seem'd rent With such fierce storms as never raged before. Of a long mortal life had the whole pain Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne, Known, and survived ; it still would be in vain To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites for- lorn. The power that made, intending them for bliss, And gave their thrilling organs but to bless, Had they been form'd for such a world as this, Had kindly dull'd their powers and made their tortures less. The precious drop closed in its hollow spar, Between his lips ZOPHIEL in triumph bore. Now, earth and sea seem shaken ! Dash'd afar He feels it part; 'tis dropt; the waters roar. He sees it in a sable vortex whirling, Form'd by a cavern vast, that 'neath the sea, Sucks the fierce torrent in ; and madly furling [he His wings would plunge ; one moment more and Suck'd down, in earth's dark womb must wait eternity. "Pursue no farther! stop! alas! forme, If not thyself!" PHRAERION'S shrieks accost Him thus "Who, ZOPHIEL, shall protect for thee The maid thou lovestl Hear! stop! or all are lost." The verge, the verge is near. Must such a state, Seraph, be thine? No! sank the spar within, MARIA BROOKS. 191 But the shrill warning reach'd him through the din Of waves : back, back, he struggles, ere too late, And the whole horror of the avoided fate Shot through his soul. The wages of his sin He felt, for once, were light, and clasp'd his shrieking mate, Who thus entreats, "Up! to earth's pleasant fields! O, ZOIMIIKL, all this torture's for thy pleasure !" Twined in his arms, the baffled seraph yields, And flies the hungry depth that gorged his dear- est treasure. What added torment gain'd; then snatch'd away Presa'd to his heart and then, to feel it riven From heart and hand, while bearing it to day With joy complete as if recall'd to heaven ! That which, to own was perfect transport, lost ; Yet still, (to urge a dangerous course contending And the fierce passions which his bosom crost For pity, or some other hope, suspending ;) Resisting all, he forced a desperat%way; His gentle phere with plaints no longer vain, Clung closer to his neck; nor ceased to pray To be restored to sun and flowers again. Thus all entwined they rose again to air, Near Lybia's coast. Black clouds,in mass deform, Were frowning ; yet a moment's calm was there, As it had stopp'd to breathe a while the storm. Their white feet press'd the desert sod ; they shook From their bright locks the briny drops ; nor stay 'd ZOPHIEL on ills, present or past, to look ; For, weary as he was, his lonely maid Came to his ardent soul in all her charms ; Unguarded she, what being might molest Even now? his chill'd and wounded substance warms But at the thought ; the while he thus addrest The shivering sprite of flowers : " We must not stay ; All is but desolation here, and gloom: Up ! let us through the air, nor more delay ; Nay, droop not now; a little more essay, I '11 bear thee forward to thy bower of bloom, And on thy roses lay thee down to rest. Come through the desert ! banquet on thy store Of dews and sweets. Come, warm thee at my breast ! On ! through the air, nor think of danger more, As grateful for the service thou hast done I live, though lost the object of our task, As if were still possess'd the treasure won ; And all thou wouldst of ZOPHIEL, freely ask. The gnome, the secret path, the draught divine I know: TAIIATHTAM sighs, beneath the wave, For mortal bride ; valour and skill are mine ; He may again bestow what once he gave." Thus, ZOPHIEL, renovated, though the air Was thick and dull, with just enough of hope To save him from the stupor of despair, Too much disdain'd the pains he felt, to droop. But soft PHHAEKIOV, smarting from his toil, To buffet not a tempest was in plight ; And ERLA'S lover saw him shrink, recoil, And beg some nearer shelter for the night ; For now the tempest, bursting in its might, Raged fiercely round, and made him fain to rest In cave or tomb. But ZOFHIEL gently caught him, Sustain'd him firmly at his fearless breast, And twixt Euphrates and the Tigris brought him. Then paused a moment o'er a desert drear, Until the thunder-clouds around him burst ; His flights renew'd, and wish'd for Media near ; But stronger grows the gale : what sprites accurst Ride on the tempest ? Warring elements Might not alone such ardent course impede ; The wretched spirit from his speed relents With sense like mortal bosom, when they bleed. Loud and more loud the blast; in mingled gyre, Flew leaves and stones ; and with a deafening crash Fell the uprooted trees ; heaven seem'd on fire Not, as 'tis wont, with intermitting flash, But, like an ocean all of liquid flame, The whole broad arch gave one continuous glare, While through the red light from their prowlings came, [lair. The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a "Rest,ZopHiEt, rest!" PHRAEUIOX cries: "the surge Was lesser pain ; I cannot bear it more ! Beaten in seas so long we but emerge To meet a fiercer conflict on the shore !" Then ZOPHIEL : "There's a little grot on high, The wild doves nestle there : it is secure ; To Ectabane, but for an hour, I '11 fly, And come for thee at morn : no- more endure. Nay wilt not leave me 1 then I '11 bear thee through As lately through the whirling floods I bore." Still closer clinging, to his bosom grew The tender sprite ; " then bear I can no more." He said, and came a shock, as if the earth Crash'd 'gainst some other planet; shivered brands [birth !) Whirl round their heads ; and (shame upon their Both sprites lay mazed and prostrate on the sands. The delicate PHRAEHION sought a cave Low browed ; and crouching down mid trailing snakes, And slimy worms, (things that would hide to save Their loathsome lives,) hearkens the roar and quakes. But ZOPHIEL, stung with shame, and in a mood Too fierce for fear, uprose ; yet ere for flight Served his torn wings a form before him stood In gloomy majesty. Like starless night A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold From its stupendous breast ; and as it trod The pale and lurid light, at distance rolled Before its princely feet receding on the sod. 'T was still as death ; save that the thunder spoke In mutterings low and far ; a look severe Seemed as preluding speech ; but ZOPHIEL broke The silence first : " Why, spirit, art thou here 1" It waved its hand, and instantaneous came A hissing bolt with new impetus back , Darts round a group of verdant palms the flame ; That being pointed to them, blasted black. ! source of all my guilt ! at such an hour," (The mortal-lover said,) " thine answer there 192 MARIA BROOKS. I need not read : too well I know thy power In all I've felt and feel. But has despair, Or grief, or torment, e'er made ZOPIUEL bow 7 Declare me that, nor spend thine arts in vain To torture more : if, like a miscreant, now I bend to thee, 'tis not for dread of pain ; That I can bear : yet, bid thy legions cease Their strife. O ! spare me this resistance rude But for an hour ! let me but on in peace ; So shall I taste the joy of gratitude, Even to thee." The joy 1" then first with scorn Replied that sombre being : " dream'st thou still Of joy 1 a thing accursed, demean'd, forlorn, As thou art 1 Is 't for joy thou mock'st my will ? Canst thou taste pleasure 1 banish'd, crush'd, de- based." " I can, betrayer ! dost thou envy me 7 But leave me to my wrongs, and I can taste Ev'n yet of heaven, spite of my fall and thee. But that affects not thee: thine insults spare But for an hour ; leave me to go at will Only till morn, and I will back and bear Whate'er thou wilt. What dost obstruct me still ? Thine armies dim, and shrouded in the storm Then I must meet ; and weary thus, and torn, Essay the force of an immortal arm. Lone as I am, until another morn Shall shame both them and thee to thine abode. There, on the steam of human heart-blood spilt By priest or murderer, make repast ; or brood Over the vile creations of thy guilt, Waste thy life-giving power on reptiles foul ; Slow, slimy worms, and poisonous snakes ; then watch, Like the poor brutes that, here, for hunger prowl, To mar the beauty that thou canst not match?" Thus he : the other folded o'er its breast Its arms, and stood as cold and firm the while, As if no passion stirr'd ; save that express'd Its pale, pale lip, a faint, ferocious smile. While, blent with winds, ten thousand agents wage Anew the strife, and ZOPHIEL, fain to fly, But foil'd, gave up to unavailing rage, And strove, and toil'd, and strove, but could not mount on high. Then thus the torturer : " Hie thee to the bed Of her thou lov'st ; pursue thy dear design ; Go dew the golden ringlets of her head ! Thou wait'st not, sure, for any power of mine. Yet better were the duties, spirit dull, Of thine allegiance ! Win her o'er to me, Take all thou canst, a pleasure brief but full, Vain dreamer, if not mine, she 's lost to thee." Wilt thou then hurt her 7 Why am I detain'd 7 O, strength ! once serving 'gainst the powers above, [strain'd Where art thou now 7" Thus ZOPHIEL ; and he His wounded wings to mount,but could not move. Then thus the scorner : Nay, be calm ! F 11 still The storm for thee : hear ! it recedes 't is ended. Yet, if thou dream'st success awaits thee, ill Dost thpu conceive of boundless power offended. ZOPHIEL, bland sprite, sublime intelligence, Once chosen for my friend and worthy me ; Not so wouldst thou have labour'd to be hence, Had my emprise been crowned with victory. When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes Sought only mine. But he who every power Beside, while hope allured him, could depise, Changed and forsook me, in misfortune's hour." " Changed and forsook thee 7 this from thee to me 7 Once noble spirit ! O ! had not too much My o'erfond heart adored thy fallacy, [proach ;" I had not, now, been here to bear thy keen re- ZOPHIEL replied : Fallen, wretched, nnd debased, E'en to thy scornful word's extent, my doom Too well I know, and for what cause displaced ; But not from thee should the remembrance come. Forsook thee in misfortune 7 at thy side I closer fought as peril thicken'd round, Watched o'er thee fallen : the light of heaven denied, But proved my love more fervent and profound. Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal-borne, And own'd as many lives as leaves there be, From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn I had lost than, one by one, and given the last for thee. Pain had a joy, for suffering could but wring Love from my soul, to gild the murky air Of our first rude retreat ; while I, fond thing ! Still thought thee true and smiled upon despair O ! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept, Still unaccomplish'd were the curse of sin ; Mid all the woes thy ruin'd followers wept, Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been. But when, to make me thy first minister Came the proposal ; when the purpose burst Forth from thy heart's black den disclosed and bare, Then first I felt alone, and knew myself accurs'd. Though the first seraph form'd, how could I tell The ways of guile 7 What marvel I believed, When cold ambition mimick'd love so well, That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived? .Ambition thine; to me the Eternal gave So much of love his kind design was cross'd : Held to thy heart I thought thee good as brave, Nor realized my guilt till all was lost. Now, writhing at my utmost need, how vain Are ZOPHIEL'S tears and prayers ! Alas ! hea- ven-born, Of all heaven's virtues, doth not one remain 7 Pity me once, and let me now begone !" " Go !" said the cold detainer, with a smile That heighten'd cruelty: "yet know, from me, Thy foolish hopes but lure thee on awhile To wake thy sense to keener misery." " ! skill'd to torment! spare me! spare me now!" Chill'd by a dread foreboding, ZOPHIEL said: "But little time doth waning night allow." He knelt; he wept; calm grew the winds; he fled. The clouds disperse ; his he^enly voice he sent In whispers through the caves; PHIIAEIUOX there In covert loathed, to that low music lent His soft, quick ear, and sprang to join his phere. Soon through the desert, on their airy way, Mantled in dewy mists the spirits press'd, And reached fair Media ere the twilight gray Recall'd the rose's lover to his nest. MARIA BROOKS. 193 But on the Tigris' winding banks, though night Still lingers round, two early mortals greet The first faint gleam with prayer ; and bathed and dight As travellers came forth. The morn rose sweet. And rushing by them as the spirits past, In tinted vapours while the pale star sets ; The younger asked, " Whence are these odours cast, The breeze has waked from beds of violets !" SONG.* DAT, in melting purple dying, Blossoms, all around me sighing, Fragrance, from the lilies straying, Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, Ye but waken my distress ; I am sick of loneliness. Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me, Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 believe thee ; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure: All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; Let the shining ore lie darkling, Bring no gem in lustre sparkling: Gifts and gold are nought to me, I would only look on thee ! Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Ecstasy but in revealing; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation, Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast. Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! Let these eyes again caress thee; Once, in caution, I could fly thee: Now, I nothing could deny thee ; In a look if death there be, Come, and I will gaze on thee ! THE MOON OF FLOWERS. 0, MOOK of flowers ! sweet moon of flowers !-( Why dost thou mind me of the hours Which flew so softly on that night, When last I saw and felt thy light ] O, moon of flowers ! thou moon of flowers ! Would thou couldst give me back those hours, Since which a dull, cold year has fled, Or show me those with whom they sped ! 0, moon of flowers ! 0, moon of flowers ! In scenes afar were past those hours, Which still with fond regret I see, And wish my heart could change like thee ! * From "Zophiel." t The savages of the northern part of America some- times count by moons. May is called by them the moon of flowers, and October the moon of falling leaves. 25 MORNING. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun ! The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done, As when he moved exulting in his fires. The infant strains his little arms to catch The rays that glance about his silken hair ; And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match Thy face, when turn'd away from bower and palace fair. Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit ; Music and perfumes mingle with the soul ; How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute ! And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole. Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee : Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius warms ; Thou never weariest ; no inconstancy But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. How many lips have sung thy praise, how long ! Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, The pleasured bard pours forth another song, And finds in thee, like love, a theme forever new. Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth, In thy near realms ; and, like their snow-wreaths fair, The bright-hair'd youths and maidens of the north Smile in thy colours when thou art not there. 'T is there thou bidst a deeper ardour glow, And higher, purer reveries completest ; As drops that farthest from the ocean flow, Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night, Some wretch, impassion'd, from sweet morning's breath, Turns his hot brow, and sickens at thy light ; But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him death. THE SOUL'S SEARCH FOR LOVE. THE bard has sung, GOD never form'd a soul Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most com- plete ! But thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness ; these hurt, impede, [fate, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed. And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure,congenial spring unfound,unquaff'd, Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. R 194 MARIA BROOKS. EGLA BEFORE THE KING. WITH unassured yet graceful step advancing, The light vermilion of her cheek more warm For doubtful modesty ; while all were glancing Over the strange attire that well became such form. To lend her space the admiring band gave way ; The sandals on her silvery feet were blue ; Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew. Light was that robe, as mist ; and not a gem Or ornament impedes its wavy fold, Long and profuse ; save that, above its hem, 'Twas broideredwith pomegranate-wreath, in gold. And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue In shapely guise about the waste confined, Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue, Half floated, waving in their length behind ; The other half, in braided tresses twined, Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure too. Arranged with curious skill to imitate The sweet acacia's blossoms ; just as live And droop those tender flowers in natural state ; And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive ; And pendant, sometimes touch her neck ; and there Seem'd shrinking from its softness as alive. And round her arms flower-white and round and fair, Slight bandelets were twined of colours five ; Like little rainbows seemly on those arms : None of that court had seen the like before ; Soft, fragrant, bright, so much like heaven her It scarce could seem idolatry t' adore, [charms, He who beheld her hand forgot her face ; Yet in that face was all beside forgot ; And he, who, as she went, beheld her pace, And locks profuse, had said, " nay, turn thee not." ZAMBIA DISCOVERED BY THE SEA. PALLID and worn, but beautiful and young, [trace ; Though mark'd her charms by wildest passion's Her long round arms over a fragment flung, From pillow all too rude protect a face, Whose dark and high arch'd brows gave to the thought To deem what radiance once they tower'd above ; But all its proudly beauteous outlines taught That anger, there, had shared the throne of love. Rich are her robes, but torn, and soil'd; and gleams Above her belt a dagger set with gems. Her long thick hair, 'scaped from its braiding, streams Black as a serpent, to her garments' hems. Black as a serpent ; daughters of the woods, You see him mid Mcchaceba's roses ; while Your light canoes upon the vernal floods, Are thrown to bear you to some floating isle : Where sleeping bisons sail upon the tide ; There, while thro' golden blossom'd nenuphar, Your arrows pierce some tall flamingo's side, He rears his white-ringed neck and watches you from far. Her sandall'd feet were Bcarr'd, and drops of blood Still rested fresh on them, by tooth of thorn Express'd; and let day's eye look where it would, 'T were hard to find such beauty so forlorn. Near on the moss lay one who seem'd her guide ; A mule among the herbs his pittance took ; A little slave of Ethiope, at her side, [look. Sat watching o'er them all with many a sorrowing HOPE. YET, though 't was sad to see her so deceived, I could but bless the tears her cheek was drinking; For pity framed the falsehood hope believed, And so by this slight reed her soul was saved from sinking. But as the date-tree sees her blossoms die, And blasted on the earth her fruit's soft germ, Unless her vegetable love come nigh, With .genial power, while yet endures her term ; So poor Zatnci'a's hopes, like date-buds, down Must fall to earth unblest and immature: Alas ! unless her Melcs come to crown With fruit, hope's blossoms cannot long endure ! VIRTUE. VIIITUE! how many as a lowly thing, Born of weak folly, scorn thee ! but thy name Alone they know; upon thy soaring wing They'd fear to mount ; nor could thy sacred flame Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn, The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field ; Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn Of the frail easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. Who says thy ways arc bliss, trolls but a lay To lure the infant: if thy paths, to view, Were always pleasant, crime's worst sons would lay Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth, pursue. SUBSIDING EXCITEMENT. As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past, And the blue smiling heavens swell o'er in peace, Shook to the centre by the recent blast,- [cease; Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath not power to So still each little pulse was seen to throb, Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest; And ever and anon a piteous sob Shook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast.* * Every one must have observed this effect in little children, who for several hours after they have cried themselves to sleep, and sometimes, even, when a smile is on their lips, are heard from time to time to sob. JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. [Born, 1795.] Mn. PEHCIVAL was born in Berlin, near Hart- ford, in Connecticut, on the fifteenth of September, 1795. His father, an intelligent physician, died in 1807, and he was committed to the care of a guardian. His instruction continued to be care- fully attended to, however, and when fifteen years of age he entered Yale College. The condition of his health, which had been impaired by too close application to study, rendered necessary a tempo- rary removal from New Haven, but after an ab- sence of about a year he returned, and in 1815 graduated with the reputation of being the first scholar of his class. He subsequently entered the Yale Medical School, and in 1820 received the degree of Doctor of Medicine. He began to write verses at an early age, and in his fourteenth year is said to have produced a satire in aim and execution not unlike Mr. BHT- AXT'S " Embargo." In the last year of his col- lege life he composed a dramatic piece to be spoken by some of the students at the annual commence- ment, which was afterwards enlarged and printed under the title of Zamor, a Tragedy." He did not appear as an author before the public, how- ever, until 1821, when he published at New Haven, with some minor poems, the first part of his " Pro- metheus," which attracted considerable attention, and was favourably noticed in an article by Mr. EDWARD EVERETT, in the North American Re- view. In 1822 he published two volumes of miscella- neous poems and prose writings under the title of " Clio," the first at Charleston, South Carolina, and the second at New Haven. They contain "Consumption," "The Coral Grove," and other pieces which have been regarded as among the finest of his works. In the same year they were followed by an oration, previously delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, " On Some of the Moral and Political truths Derivable from His- tory," and the second part of " Prometheus." The whole of this poem contains nearly four hundred stanzas in the Spenserian measure. An edition of his principal poetical writings, embracing a few original pieces, appeared soon after in New York and was reprinted in London. In 1824 Ur. PEHCIYAT. was appointed an assist- ant-surgeon in the army, and stationed at West Point with orders to act as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy. He had supposed that the duties of the office were so light as to allow him abundant leisure for the pursuit of his favourite studies, and when undeceived by the experience of a few months, he resigned his commission and went to Boston, where he passed in various literary avo- cations the greater portion of the year 1825. In this period he wrote his poem on the mind, in which he intimates that its highest office is the creation of beauty, and that there are certain unchanging principles of taste, to which all works of art, all "linked sounds of most elaborate music," must be conformable, to give more than a feeble and tran- sient pleasure. Early in 1827 he published in New York the third volume of " Clio," and was afterwards engaged nearly two years in superintending the printing of the first quarto edition of Dr. WEBSTER'S Ameri- can Dictionary, a service for which he was emi- nently qualified by an extensive and critical ac- quaintance with ancient and modern languages. His next work was a new translation of MALTE- Bnus's Geography, from the French, which was not completed until 1 843. From his boyhood Dr. PF.HCIVAI has been an earnest and constant student, and there are few branches of learning with which he is not familiar. Perhaps there is not in the country a man of more thorough and comprehensive scholarship. In 1 835 he was employed by the government of Connecti- cut to make a geological survey of that state, which he had already very carefully explored on his own account. His Report on the subject, which is very able and elaborate, was printed in an octavo volume of nearly five hundred pages, in 1842. While en- gaged in these duties he published poetical trans- lations from the Polish, Russian, Servian, Bohe- mian, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages, and wrote a con- siderable portion of The Dream of Day and other Poems," which appeared at New Haven hi 1843. This is his last volume ; it embraces more than one hundred and fifty varieties of measure, and its contents generally show his familiar acquaint- ance with the poetical art, which hi his preface he observes, " requires a mastery of the riches and niceties of a language ; a full knowledge of the science of versification, not only in its own pe- culiar principles of rhythm and melody, but in its relation to elocution and music, with that delicate natural perception and that facile execution which render the composition of verse hardly less easy than that of prose ; a deep and quick insight into the nature of man, in all his varied faculties, in- tellectual and emotive ; a clear and full perception of the power and beauty of nature, and of all its various harmonies with our own thoughts and feel- ings ; and, to gain a high rank in the present age, wide and exact attainments in literature and art in general. Nor is the possession of such faculties and attainments all that is necessary ; but such a sustained and self-collected state of mind as gives one the mastery of his genius, and at the same time presents to him the ideal as an immediate reality, not as a remote conception." 105 x 196 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. There are few men who possess these high quali- ties in a more eminent degree than PERCIYAL ; but with the natural qualities of a great poet, and his comprehensive and thorough learning, he lacks the executive skill, or declines the labour, without which few authors gain immortality. He has considerable imagination, remarkable com- mand of language, and writes with a facility rarely equalled ; but when his thoughts are once committed to the page, he shrinks from the labour of revising, correcting, and condensing. He remarks in one of his prefaces, that his verse is " very far from bearing the marks of the file and the burnisher," uiid that he likes to see "poetry in the full ebulli- tion of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a glad inspiration." If by this he means that a poet should reject the slow and laborious process by which a polished excellence is attained, very few who have acquired good reputations will agree with him. CONCLUSION OF THE DREAM OF A DAY. A SPIRIT stood before me, half unseen, Majestic and severe ; yet o'er him play'd A genial light subdued though high his mien, As by a strong collected spirit sway'd In even balance justly poised between [stay'd Each wild extreme, proud strength by feeling Dwelling in upper realms serenely bright, Lifted above the shadowy sphere of night He stood before me, and I heard a tone, Such as from mortal lips had never flow'd, Soft yet commanding, gentle yet alone, It bow'd the listener's heart anon it glow'd Intensely fervent, then like wood-notes thrown On the chance winds, in airy lightness rode Now swell'd like ocean surge, now pausing fell Like the last murmur of a muffled bell. " Lone pilgrim through life's gloom," thus spake the shade, " Hold on with steady will along thy way : Thou, by a kindly favouring hand wert made Hard though thy lot, yet thine what can repay Long years of bitter toil the holy aid Of spirit aye is thine, be that thy stay : Thine to behold the true, to feel the pure, To know the good and lovely these endure. Hold on thou hast in thee thy best reward ; Poor are the largest stores of sordid gain, If from the heaven of thought thy soul is barr'd, If the high spirit's bliss is sought in vain : Think not thy lonely lot is cold or hard, The world has never bound thee with its chain ; Free as the birds of heaven thy heart can soar, Thou canst create new worlds what wouldst thou morel The future age will know thee yea, even now Hearts beat and tremble at thy bidding, tears Flow as thou movest thy wand, thy word can bow Even ruder natures, the dull soul uprears As thou thy trumpet blast attunest thou Speakest, and each remotest valley hears : Thou hast the gift of song a wealth is thine, Richer than all the treasures of the mine. Hold on, glad spirits company thy path They minister to thee, though all unseen : Even when the tempest lifts its voice in wrath, Thou joyest in its strength ; the orient sheen Gladdens thee with its beauty ; winter hath A holy charm that soothes thee, like the green Of infant May all nature is thy friend, All seasons to thy life enchantment lend. Man, too, thou know'st and feelest all the springs That wake his smile and tear, his joy and sorrow, All that uplifts him on emotion's wings, Each longing for a fair and blest to-morrow, Each tone that soothes or saddens, all that rings Joyously to him, thou canst fitly borrow From thy own breast, and blend it in a strain, To which each human heart beats back again. Thine the unfettcr'd thought, alone controll'd By nature's truth ; thine the wide-seeing eye, Catching the delicate shades, yet apt to hold The whole in its embrace before it lie Pictured in fairest light, as chart unroll'd, Fields of the present and of destiny : The voice of truth amid the senseless throng May now be lost; 'tis heard and felt ere long. Hold on live for the world live for all time Rise in thy conscious power, but gently bear Thy form among thy fellows ; sternly climb The spirit's alpine peaks ; mid snow towers there Nurse the pure thought, but yet accordant chime With lowlier hearts in valleys green and fair, Sustain thyself yield to no meaner hand, Even though he rule awhile thy own dear land. Brief is his power, oblivion waits the churl Bound to his own poor self; his form decays, But sooner fades his name. Thou shall unfurl Thy standard to the winds of future days Well mayest thou in thy soul defiance hurl On such who would subdue thee ; thou shalt raise Thy name, when they are dust, and nothing more : Hold on in earnest hope still look before. Nerved to a stern resolve, fulfil thy lot Reveal the secrets nature has unveil'd thee ; All higher gifts by toil intense are bought Has thy firm will in action ever fail'd thee? Only on distant summits fame is sought Sorrow and gloom thy nature has entail'd thee, But bright thy present joys, and brighter far The hope that draws thee like a heavenly star." The voice was still its tone in distance dying Breathed in my ear, like harp faint heard at even, JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 197 Soft as the autumn wind through sere leaves s ighing When flaky clouds athwart the moon are- driven Far through the viewless gloom the spirit flying, Wing'd his high passage to his native heaven, But o'er me still he seem'd in kindness bending, Fresh hope and firmer purpose to me lending. THE POET. DEEP sunk in thought, he sat beside the river Its wave in liquid lapses glided by, Nor watch'd, in crystal depth, his vacant eye The willow's high o'er- arching foliage quiver. From dream to shadowy dream returning ever, He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge ; His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge Stream'd visionary onward, pausing never. As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove A wreath of flowers ; the golden thread was love. NIGHT. A.y[ I not all alone 1 The world is still In passionless slumber not a tree but feels The far-pervading hush, and softer steals The misty river by. Yon broad bare hill Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound By some unearthly spell no other sound But the owl's unfrcquent moan. Their airy cars The winds have station'd on the mountain peaks. Am I not all alone ? A spirit speaks From the abyss of night, " Not all alone Nature is round thee with her banded powers, And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours Mind and its kingdom now are all thy own." CHORIAMBIC MELODY. BEAR me afar o'er the wave, far to the sacred islands, Where ever bright blossoms the plain, where no cloud hangs on the highlands There be my heart ever at rest, stirr'd by no wild emotion : There on the earth only repose, halcyon calm on the Lay me along, pillow'd on flowers, where steals in silence for ever Over its sands, still as at noon, far the oblivious river. Scarce through the grass whispers it by; deep in its wave you may number Pebble and shell, and image of flower, folded and bent in slumber. Spirit of life ! rather aloft, where on the crest of the mountain, Clear blow the winds, fresh from the north, sparkles and dashes the fountain, Lead me along, hot in the chase, still 'mid the storm high glowing Only we live only, when life, like the wild torrent, is flowing. SAPPHO. SHE stands in act to fall her garland torn, Its wither'd rose-leaves round the rock are blowing; Loose to the winds her locks dishevell'd flowing Tell of the many sorrows she has borne. Her eye, up-turn'd to heaven, has lost its flre One hand is press'd to feel her bosom's beating, And mark her lingering pulses back retreating The other wanders o'er her silent lyre. Clear rolls the midway sun she knows it not ; Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume ; To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom She only feels the noon-beam burning hot. What to the broken heart the dancing waves, The air all kindling what a sounding name 1 ! what a inockery, to dream of fame It only lures us on to make us slaves. And Love O ! what art thou with all thy light ! Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know, Thou art but as a vision of the night And then the bursting heart, how deep its wo. They tell me I shall live my name shall rise, When nature falls O ! blest illusion, stay " A moment hopes and joys around her play; Then darkness hides her faint she sinks and dies. THE FESTIVE EVENING. CHEERFUL glows the festive chamber; In the circle pleasure smiles : Mounts the flame, like wreaths of amber ; Bright as love, its warmth beguiles. Glad the heart with joy is lighted ; Hand with hand, in faith, is plighted, As around the goblet flows. Fill fill fill, and quaff the liquid rose ! Bright it glows O ! how bright the bosom glows. Pure as light, our social meeting : Here no passion dares invade. Joys we know, not light and fleeting : Flowers we twine, that never fade. Ours are links, not time can sever: Brighter still they glow for ever Glow in yon eternal day. No no no, ye will not pass away Ye will stay Social joys, for ever stay ! R2 193 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. THE SUN. of light and energy ! thy way Is through the unknown void ; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Far in the blue, untended and alone : Ere the first-waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light ; Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and bright. We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give To earth the fire that animates her crust, And wakens all the forms that move and live, From the fine, viewless mould which lurks in dust, To him who looks to heaven, and on his bust Bears stamp'd the seal of Gon, who gathers there Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust In his own center'd powers, who aims to share In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair. Thy path is high in heaven ; we cannot gaze On the intense of light that girds thy car; There is a crown of glory in thy rays, Which bears thy pure divinity afar, To mingle with the equal light of star, For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole One of the sparks of night that fire the air, And, as around thy centre planets roll, So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul. I am no fond idolater to thee, One of the countless multitude, who burn, As lamps, around the one Eternity, In whose contending forces systems turn Their circles round that seat of life, the urn Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies : Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes, Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies. And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone, And movest through the wide, aerial sea, Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne From a new victory, where he late had shown Wider his power to nations ; so thy light Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had grown With each revolving day, or thou, at night, Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might. Age o'er thee has no power : thou bring'st the same Light to renew the morning, as when first, If not eternal, thou, with front of flame, On the dark face of earth in glory burst, And warm' d the seas, and in their bosom nursed The earliest things of life, the worm and shell ; Till, through the sinking ocean, mountains pierced, And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, Rear'd, like a magic fane, above the watery swell. And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends An energy to nature ; all that feeds On the rich mould, and then, in bearing, bends Its fruits again to earth, wherein it blends The last and first of life ; of all who bear Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends, Instinctive, in their common good to share, Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living there. They live in thee : without thee, all were dead And dark ; no beam had lighted on the waste, But one eternal night around had spread Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced This Eden, which thy fairy hand hath graced With such uncounted beauty ; all that blows In the fresh air of spring, and, growing, braced Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows In the full-temper'd beam, that gladdens as it goes. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles ; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn ; Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake ; All, that was once so beautiful, is torn By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And, in their maddening rush, the crested moun- tains shake. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Life lingers, and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair. The vales are thine ; and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore. The vales are thine ; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore. The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam, And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream, That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters : so thy rays Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays. JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 199 Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift Snows that have never wasted, in a sky Which hath no stain ; below, the storm may drift Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by; Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie, Dazzling, but cold ; thy farewell glance looks there ; And when below thy hues of beauty die, Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear, Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair. The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues Are pencill'd by thee ; when thou bendest low, Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues Their waving fold with such a perfect glow Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw Shame on the proudest art ; the tender stain Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain All tints to the deep gold that flashes in thy train : These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine, Where the spent storm is hasting on its march, And there the glories of thy light combine, And form with perfect curve a lifted line, Striding the earth and air; man looks, and tells How peace and mercy in its beauty shine, And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal ; thou dost sway His waves to thy dominion, and they go Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Rising and falling in eternal flow ; Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow; They take them wings, and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast, Widest of waters ; I have seen thee lie Calm, as an infant pillow'd in its rest On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky, Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye, Till a new heaven was arch'd and glass'd below; And then the clouds, that, gay in sunset, fly, Cast on it such a stain, it kindled so, As in the cheek of youth the living roses grow. I, too, have seen thee on thy surging path, When the night-tempest met thee: thou didst dash Thy white arms high in heaven, as if in wrath, Threatening the angry sky ; thy waves did lash The labouring vessel, and with deadening crash Rush madly forth to scourge its groaning sides ; Onward thy billows came, to meet and clash In a wild warfare, till the lifted tides Mingled their yesty tops, where the dark storm- cloud rides. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles. When the quick winds uprear it in a swell, That rolls, in glittering green, around the isles, Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell; O ! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell, I hurry o'er the waters, when the sail Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale Comes off the spicy groves to tell its winning tale. The soul is thine : of old thou wert the power Who gave the poet life ; and I in thee Feel my heart gladden at the holy hour When thou art sinking in the silent sea; Or when I climb the height, and wander free In thy meridian glory, for the air Sparkles and burns in thy intensity, I feel thy light within me, and I share In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there. CONSUMPTION. THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay, When the light of beauty is fading away, When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone, And darted around its glance of power, And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower That ever in Paestum's* garden blew, Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew, When all that was bright and fair is fled, But the loveliness lingering round the dead. O ! there is a sweetness in beauty's close, Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose; For a nameless charm around her plays, And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays; And a veil of spotless purity Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, Like a cloud whereon the queen of night Has pour'd her softest tint of light ; And there is a blending of white and blue, Where the purple blood is melting through The snow of her pale and tender cheek ; And there are tones that sweetly speak Of a spirit who longs for a purer day, And is ready to wing her flight away. In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling, When life, like a sunny stream, is stealiag Its silent steps through a flowery path. And all the endearments that pleasure hath Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song The maiden may trip in the dance along, And think of the passing moment, that lies, Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, And yield to the present, that charms around With all that is lovely in sight and sound ; Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, And the music that steals to the bosom's core, And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd, For short is the stay of grief in her breast : * Biferique rosaria Psesti. Virg. 200 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. In this enliven'd and gladsome hour The spirit may burn with a brighter power ; But dearer the calm and quiet day, When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away. And when her sun is low declining, And life wears out with no repining, And the whisper, that tells of early death, Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, When it comes at the hour of still repose, To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose : And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow, Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling. And giving a tinge to her icy lips, Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red, and as transient too As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory, met To honour the sun at his golden set ; O ! then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his In a deep and long-imprinted kiss ; So fondly the panting camel flies, Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes ; And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. And though her dying voice be mute, Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, And though the glow from her cheek be fled, And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, Her eye still beams unwonted fires, With a woman's love, and a saint's desires, And her last, fond, lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to heaven, As if she would bear that love away To a purer world, and a brighter day. TO THE EAGLE. Binn of the broad and sweeping wing, Thy home is high in heaven, Where wide the storms their banners fling, And the tempest clouds are driven. Thy throne is on the mountain top ; Thy fields, the boundless air; And hoary peaks, that proudly prop The skies, thy dwellings are. Thou sittest like a thing of light, Amid the noontide blaze : The midwr.y sun is clear and bright; It cannot dim thy gaze. Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, O'er the bursting billow, spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead. Thou art perch'd aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below, And on, with a haste that cannot lag, They rush in an endless flow. Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight To lands beyond the sea, And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest, wild and free. Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, And thou leavcst them all behind ; Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, Fleet as the tempest wind. When the night-storm gathers dim and dark With a shrill and boding scream, Thou rushest by the foundering bark, Quick as a passing dream. Lord of the boundless realm of air, In thy imperial name, The hearts of the bold and ardent dare The dangerous path of fame. Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, The Roman legions bore, From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, Their pride, to the polar shore. For thee they fought, for thee they fell, And their oath was on thee laid ; To thee the clarions raised their swell, And the dying warrior pray'd. Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, The image of pride and power, Till the gather'd rage of a thousand years Burst forth in one awful hour. And then a deluge of wrath it came, And the nations shook with dread ; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, And piled with the mingled dead. Kings were roll'd in the wasteful flood, With the low and crouching slave ; And together lay, in a shroud of blood, The coward and the brave. And where was then thy fearless flight? " O'er the dark, mysterious sea, To the lands that caught the setting light, The cradle of Liberty. There, on the silent and lonely shore, For ages, I watch'd alone, And the world, in its darkness, ask'd no more Where the glorious bird had flown. But then came a bold and hardy few, And they breasted the unknown wave; I caught afar the wandering crew; And I knew they were high and brave. I wheel'd around the welcome bark, As it sought the desolate shore, And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, My quivering pinions bore. "And now that bold and hardy few Are a nation wide and strong; And danger and doubt I have led them through, And they worship me in song; And over their bright and glancing arms, On field, and lake, and sea, With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, I guide them to victory." JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 201 PREVALENCE OF POETRY. THE world is full of poetry the air Is living with its spirit ; and the waves Dance to the music of its melodies, And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd, And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls, That close the universe with crystal in, Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim The unseen glories of immensity, In harmonies, too perfect, and too high, For aught but beings of celestial mould, And speak to man in one eternal hymn, Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. The year leads round the seasons, in a choir Forever charming, and forever new, Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay, The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore Of the wide ocean, resting after storms ; Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof, And pointed arches, and retiring aisles Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand, Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art, Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls, By mellow touches, from the softer tubes, Voices of melting tenderness, that blend With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, Commingling with the melody, is borne, Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to heaven. 'T is not the chime and flow of words, that move In measured file, and metrical array ; 'T is not the union of returning sounds, Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, And quantity, and accent, that can give This all-pervading spirit to the ear, Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines Man with the world around him, in a chain Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till He taste the high communion of his thoughts, With all existence, in earth and heaven, That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 'T is not the noisy babbler, who displays, In studied phrase, and ornate epithet, And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments That overload their littleness. Its words Are few, but deep and solemn ; and they break Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath, Commission'd to affright us, and destroy. Passion, when deep, is still : the glaring eye That reads its enemy with glance of fire, The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness, The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide The keen, fix'd orbs, that burn and flash below, The hand firm clcnch'd and quivering, and the foot 20 Planted in attitude to spring, and dart Its vengeance, are the language it employs. So the poetic feeling needs no words To give it utterance ; but it swells, and glows, And revels in the ecstasies of soul, And sits at banquet with celestial forms, The beings of its own creation, fair And lovely, as e'er haunted wood and wave, When earth was peopled, in its solitudes, With nymph and naiad mighty, as the gods, Whose palace was Olympus, and the clouds, That hung, in gold and flame, around its brow ; Who bore, upon their features, all that grand And awful dignity of front, which bows The eye that gazes on the marble Jove, Who hurls, in wrath, his thunder, and the god, The image of a beauty, so divine, So masculine, so artless, that we seem To share in his intensity of joy, When, sure as fate, the bounding arrow sped, And darted to the scaly monster's heart. This spirit is the breath of Nature, blown Over the sleeping forms of clay, who else Doze on through life in blank stupidity, Till by its blast, as by a touch of fire, They rouse to lofty purpose, and send out, In deeds of energy, the rage within. Its seat is deeper in the savage breast, Than in the man of cities ; in the child, Than in the maturer bosoms. Art may prune Its rank and wild luxuriance, and may train Its strong out-breakings, and its vehement gusts To soft refinement, and amenity ; But all its energy has vanish'd, all Its maddening, and commanding spirit gone, And all its tender touches, and its tones Of soul-dissolving pathos, lost and hid Among the measured notes, that move as dead And heartless, as the puppets in a show. Well I remember, in my boyish days, How deep the feeling, when my eye look'd forth On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms ; How my heart gladden'd, as the light of spring Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with showers, Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods To music, and the atmosphere to blow, Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm. O ! how I gazed upon the dazzling blue Of summer's heaven of glory, and the waves, That roll'd, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain; And on the tempest, when it issued forth, In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, And stood above the mountains, silent, dark, Frowning, and terrible ; then sent abroad The lightning, as its herald, and the peal, That roll'd in deep, deep volleys, round the hills, The warning of its coming, and the sound, That usher'd in its elemental war. And, ! I stood, in breathless longing fix'd, Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds, That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood, A long, hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves, That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore. 202 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang Fresh from the hand that wrought her ; where the eye Caught not a speck upon the soft serene, To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud, That floated, like a lonely spirit, there, White as the snow of Zemla, or the foam That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, In easy undulations, with a belt Woven of bright APOLLO'S golden hair. Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night, Mantled in ebon darkness, strew'd with stars Its canopy, that secm'd t^ swell, and swell The higher, as I gazed upon it, till, Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through, In glory's effulgence, and a wave, Intensely bright, roll'd, like a fountain, forth Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and stream'd Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow, B athing the heavens in light, the spring, that gush'd, In overflowing richness, from the breast Of all-maternal nature. These I saw, And felt to madness ; but my full heart gave No utterance to the ineffable within. Words were too weak ; they were unknown ; but still The feeling was most poignant: it has gone; And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er Pour'd, in a torrent fulness, from the tongue Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored With all the patriarchs of British song Hallow'd and render'd glorious, cannot tell Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. CLOUDS. YE Clouds, who are the ornament of heaven ; Who give to it its gayest shadowings, And its most awful glories ; ye who roll In the dark tempest, or at dewy evening Hang low in tenderest beauty ; ye who, ever Changing your Protean aspects, now are gather'd, Like fleecy piles, when the mid-sun is brightest, Even in the height of heaven, and there repose, Solemnly calm, without a visible motion, Hour after hour, looking upon the earth With a serencst smile : or ye who rather Heap'd in those sulphury masses, heavily Jutting above their bases, like the smoke Pour'd from a furnace or a roused volcano, Stand on the dun horizon, threatening Lightning and storm who, lifted from the hills, March onward to the zenith, ever darkening, And heaving into more gigantic towers And mountainous piles of blackness who then roar With the collected winds within your womb, Or the far utter'd thunders who ascend Swifter and swifter, till wide overhead Your vanguards curl and toss upon the tempest Like the stirr'd ocean on a reef of rocks Just topping o'er its waves, while deep below The pregnant mass of vapour and of flame Rolls with an awful pomp, and grimly lowers, Seeming to the struck eye of fear the car Of an offended spirit, whose swart features Glare through the sooty darkness fired with ven- geance, And ready with uplifted hand to smite And scourge a guilty nation ; ye who lie, After the storm is over, far away, Crowning the dripping forests with the arch Of beauty, such as lives alone in heaven, Bright daughter of the sun, bending around From mountain unto mountain, like the wreath Of victory, or like a banner telling Of joy and gladness ; ye who round the moon Assemble when she sits in the mid-sky In perfect brightness, and encircle her With a fair wreath of all aerial dyes : Ye who, thus hovering round her, shine like moun- tains Whose tops are never darken'd, but remain, Centuries and countless ages, rear'd for temples Of purity and light ; or ye who crowd To hail the new-born day, and hang for him, Above his ocean-couch, a canopy Of all inimitable hues and colours, Such as are only pencil'd by the hands Of the unseen ministers of earth and air, Seen only in the tinting of the clouds, And the soft shadowing of plumes and flowers ; Or ye who, following in his funeral train, Light up your torches at his sepulchre, And open on us through the clefted hills Far glances into glittering worlds beyond The twilight of the grave, where all is light, Golden and glorious light, too full and high For mortal eye to gaze on, stretching out Brighter and ever brighter, till it spread, Like one wide, radiant ocean, without bounds, One infinite sea of glory : Thus, ye clouds, And in innumerable other shapes Of greatness or of beauty, ye attend us, To give to the wide arch above us, life And all its changes. Thus it is to us A volume full of wisdom, but without ye One awful uniformity had ever With too severe a majesty oppress'd us. MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. A NIGHT had pass'd away among the hills, And now the first faint tokens of the dawn Show'd in the east. The bright and dewy star, Whose mission is to usher in the morn, Look'd through the cool air, like a blessed thing In a far purer world. Below there lay, Wrapp'd round a woody mountain tranquilly, A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light, That now came up from out the unseen depth Of the full fount of day, and they were laced With colours ever brightening. I had waked From a long sleep of many changing dreams, And now in the fresh forest air I stood Nerved to another day of wandering. JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 203 Before me rose a pinnacle of rock. Lifted above the wood that hemm d it in, And now already glowing. There the beams Came from the far horizon, and they wrapp'd it In light and glory. Round its vapoury cone A crown of far-diverging rays shot out, And gave to it the semblance of an altar Lit for the worship of the undying flame, That center'd in the circle of the sun, Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves, Anon would stand in solitary pomp Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them With splendour as a garment. Thitherward I bent my eager steps ; and through the grove, Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems, Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues Shed from the starry fringes of its veil On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown In infinite reflections, on I went, Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging, I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited Silent the full appearing of the sun. Below there lay a far-extended sea, Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it, And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks, And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops, Till, like an ocean waking into storm, It heaved and welter'd. Gloriously the light Crested its billows, and those craggy islands Shone on it like to palaces of spar Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead, Thy sky, without a vapour. or a stain, Intensely blue, even deepen'd into purple, When nearer the horizon it received A tincture from the mist that there dissolved Into the viewless air, the sky bent round, The awful dome of a most mighty temple, Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me, Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, So bright, so glorious ! Such a majesty In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints In yonder waste of waves, so like the ocean With its unnumber'd islands there encircled By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle, Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds To bathe in purest sunbeams, seem'd an ospray Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines, Their tops half-mantled in a snowy veil, A frigate with full canvass, bearing on To conquest and to glory. But even these Had round them something of the lofty air In which they moved ; not like to things of earth, But heighten'd, and made glorious, as became Such pomp and splendour. Who can tell the brightness, That every moment caught a newer glow, That circle, with its centre like the heart Of elemental fire, and spreading out In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky And on the ophaline waves, crown'd with a rainbow Bright as the arch that bent above the throne Seen in a vision by the holy man In Patmos ! who can tell how it ascended, And flow'd more widely o'er that lifted ocean, Till instantly the unobstructed sun Roll'd up his sphere of fire, floating away Away in a pure ether, far from earth, And all its clouds, and pouring forth unbounded His arrowy brightness ! From that burning centre At once there ran along the level line Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold Liquid and flowing gold, that seem'd to tremble Even with a furnace heat, on to the point Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour Parted away, and melting into air, Rose round me, and I stood involved in light, As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapp'd me In its innocuous blaze. Away it roll'd, Wave after wave. They climb'd the highest rocks, Pour'd over them in surges, and then rush'd Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent Dash'd instant to the plain. It seem'd a moment, And they were gone, as if the touch of fire At once dissolved them. Then I found myself Midway in air ; ridge after ridge below, Descended with their opulence of woods Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake Flash'd in the sun, and from it wound a line, Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge Of the encircling Mils. A waste of rocks Was round me but below how beautiful, How rich the plain ! a wilderness of groves And ripening harvests ; while the sky of June The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air, That makes it then a luxury to live, Only to breathe it, and the busy echo Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks, Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart, That where I stood seem'd heaven. THE DESERTED WIFE. HE comes not I have watched the moon go down, But yet he comes not. Once it was not so. He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, The while he holds his riot in that town. Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep ; And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. ! how I love a mother's watch to keep, Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep. 1 had a husband once, who loved me now He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip ; But yet I cannot hate ! there were hours, When I could hang forever on his eye, And time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. I loved him then he loved me too. My heart Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile ; The memory of our loves will ne'er depart ; And though he often sting me with a dart, 204 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ; Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear His madness, and should sickness come and lay Its paralyzing hand upon him, then I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, Until the penitent should weep, and say, How injured, and how faithful I had been ! THE CORAL GROVE. in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove ; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with felling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle* the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air : There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea ; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea: And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the wave his own : And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION. WHY have ye linger'd on your way so long, Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call, And with the harmony of dance and song Keep round my dreaming couch a festival ? Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light, And where the flowery voice I loved to hear, When, through the silent watches of the night, Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear 1 ! fly not with the rapid wing of time, But with your ancient votary kindly stay; And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime In years of higher hope, have flown away : ! with the colours of a softer clime, Give your last touches to the dying day. GENIUS SLUMBERING. HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame ; He has no feeling of the glory gone ; He has no eye to catch the mounting flame, That once in transport drew his spirit on ; He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares Who the wreathed laurel bears. And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there ; There are who still remember how he bore Upward his daring pinions, till the air Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore ; There are who, now his early sun has set, Nor can, nor will forget. He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays ; Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie, There hovers still the light of other days; Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth, Still struggles for its birth. He will not sleep forever, but will rise Fresh to more daring labours ; now, even now, As the close shrouding mist of morning flics, The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow; From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams, His waken'd spirit streams. Yes, he will break his sleep ; the spell is gone ; The deadly charm departed ; see him fling Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on, Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing ; The goal is still before him, and the prize Still woos his eager eyes. He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, When he forgot the contest shall they take, Now he renews the race, the victor's bay ! Still let them strive when he collects his might, He will assert his right. The spirit cannot always sleep in dust, Whose essence is ethereal ; they may try To darken and degrade it ; it may rust Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher. GENIUS WAKING. SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee Where is now thy fire ? Feebler wings are gathering round thee Shall they hover higher? Can no power, no spell, recall thee From inglorious dreams ? 0, could glory so appal thee, With his burning beams ! Thine was once the highest pinion In the midway air; With a proud and sure dominion, Thou didst upward bear, Like the herald, wing'd with lightning, From the Olympian throne, JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 205 Ever mounting, ever brightening, Thou vvert there alone. Where the pillar'd props of heaven Glitter with eternal snows, Where no darkling clouds are driven, Where no fountain flows Far above the rolling thunder, When the surging storm Rent its sulphury folds asunder, We beheld thy form. 0, what rare and heavenly brightness Flow'd around thy plumes, As a cascade's foamy whiteness Lights a cavern's glooms ! Wheeling through the shadowy ocean, Like a shape of light, With serene and placid motion, Thou wert dazzling bright. From that cloudless region stooping, Downward thou didst rush, Not with pinion faint and drooping ' But the tempest's gush. Up again undaunted soaring, Thou didst pierce the cloud, When the warring winds were roaring Fearfully and loud. Where is now that restless longing After higher things 1 Come they not, like visions, thronging On their airy wings 1 Why should not their glow enchant thee Upward to their bliss ? Surely danger cannot daunt thee From a heaven like this 1 But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing ; Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Thy imperial flight 1 ,,Where is now thy heart's devotion ? Where thy spirit's light 1 ? Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Closer to his side ; Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide. Now his nodding beak is steady Wide his burning eye Now his open wings are ready, And his aim how high ! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Now is stretch'd for flight Hark! his wings they thunder loudly, And their flash how bright ! Onward onward over mountains, Through the rock and storm, Now, like sunset over fountains, Flits his glancing form. Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee Thou hast rcach'd thy heaven Lingering slumber hath not reft thee Of the glory given. With a bold, a fearless pinion, On thy starry road, None, to fame's supreme dominion, Mightier ever trode. NEW ENGLAND. HAII to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here ; our unchain 'd feet Walk freely as the waves that beat Our coast. Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave To seek this shore ; They left behinAhe coward slave To welter in his living grave ; With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd ; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore ; Thou art the shelter of the free ; The home, the port of Liberty, Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son She bore. Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, On which we rest; And, rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppress'd : All, who the wreath of Freedom twine Beneath the shadow of their vine, Are bless'd. We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land; They still shall find our lives are given To die for home ; and leant on Heaven Our hand. S 206 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. MAY. I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours, Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there ; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playfrl mates again, A canopy of leaves;^ And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. TO SENECA LAKE. Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O ! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. Now the growing year is over, And the shepherd's tinkling bell Faintly from its winter cover Rings a low farewell : Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Reddening in the rising sun ; Now the flowers around the fountains Perish one by one : Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, Now its blighted green are strewing With a mantle dun. Now the torrent brook is stealing Faintly down the furrow'd glade Not as when in winter pealing, Such a din is made, That the sound of cataracts falling Gave no echo so appalling, As its hoarse and heavy brawling In the pine's black shade. Darkly blue the mist is hovering Round the clifted rock's bare height- All the bordering mountains covering With a dim, uncertain light : Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Wide its heavy burden sailing, Deepens as the day is failing, Fast the gloom of night. Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding Through the still and hazy air, Like a sheeted spectre gliding In a torch's glare : Few the hours, her light is given Mingling clouds of tempest driven O'er the mourning face of heaven, All is blackness there. THE FLIGHT OF TIME. FAINTLY flow, thou falling river, Like a dream that dies away; Down to ocean gliding ever, Keep thy calm unruffled way : Time with such a silent motion, Floats along, on wings of air, To eternity's dark ocean, Burying all its treasures there. Roses bloom, and then they wither ; Cheeks are bright, then fade and die ; Shapes of light are wafted hither Then, like visions hurry by :. Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-colour'd west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 207 IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. ! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending : Bright is the wreath of our fame ; Glory awaits us for aye Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending Glory that never shall fade, never, ! never away. ! it is sweet for our country to die how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears ; they crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd : HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile ; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish' d ; Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river ; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea ; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever ; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free. ! then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish, Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout in our ear : Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish ; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear. EXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS. Oun thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail, Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay ; Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play In truth's eternal sunbeams ; on the way To heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll ; The temple of the Power whom all obey, That is the mark we tend to, for the soul Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. I feel it though the flesh is weak, I feel The spirit has its energies untamed By all its fatal wanderings ; time may heal The wounds which it has suffer'd ; folly claim'd Too large a portion of its youth ; ashamed Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by, Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. We are as barks afloat upon the sea, Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead Cold night of mortal darkness ; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call, And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to GOD his strength, his heart, his mind, his all. Our home is not on e*arth; although we sleep, And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then, The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap To life, and energy, and light, again; We cannot slumber always in the den Of sense and selfishness ; the day will break, Ere we forever leave the haunts of men ; Even at the parting hour the soul will wake, Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take. How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And, screaming like a vulture in his ears, Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame , How wild the fury of his soul careers ! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame. HOME. MT place is in the quiet vale, The chosen haunt of simple thought ; I seek not Fortune's flattering gale, I better love the peaceful lot. I leave the world of noise and show, To wander by my native brook ; I ask, in life's unruffled flow, No treasure but my friend and' book. These better suit the tranquil home, Where the clear water murmurs by ; And if I wish a while to roam, I have an ocean in the sky. Fancy can charm and feeling bless With sweeter hours than fashion knows ; There is no calmer quietness Than home around the bosom throws. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [Boro, 1795.] THE author of "Fanny," "Burns," "Marco Bozzaris," etc., was born at Guilford in Connecti- cut, in August, 1795. In his eighteenth year he removed to the city of New York, where he has since resided. It is said that he evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early period ; but the oldest of his effusions that I have seen are those under the signatures of " Croaker," and " Croaker & Co.," published in the New York Evening Post, in 1819. In the production of these pleasant satires* he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, the author of the " Culprit Fay," a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after wrote for the New York Review, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his memory, beginning "Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ; None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise." Near the close of the year 1819, HALLECK pub- lished "Fanny," his longest poem, which has since passed through numerous editions, though its authorship has never been publicly avowed. It is a humorous satire, containing from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was written and printed in three weeks from its commencement. In 1827 he published a small volume, contain- ing " Alnwick Castle," " Marco Bozzaris," and a few other pieces, which had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition of all his serious poems then written, including "Burns," "Red Jacket," "The Field of the Grounded Arms," and those before alluded to. The last and most complete collection of his works appeared early in the present year. Mr. HALLECK is the only one of our poets who possesses a decided local popularity. With the subjects of " Fanny," the " Croakers," and some of his other pieces, every person in New York is in some degree acquainted, and his name is che- rished in that city with fondness and enthusiasm. His humorous poems are marked with an uncom- mon ease of versification, a natural, unstudied flow of language, and a careless playfulness and felicity of jest. " Sometimes," remarks Mr. BRY- ANT, "in the midst of a strain of harmonious diction, and soft and tender imagery, he surprises by an irresistible stroke of ridicule, as if he took pleasure in showing the reader that the poetical vision he had raised was but a cheat. Sometimes, * The curiosity of the town was greatly excited to know by whom these pieces had been written, and they were ascribed, at different times, to various literary gen- tlemen, while the real authors proved, for a long while, entirely unsuspected. WILLIAM LEGGETT. The Critic. with that aerial facility which is his peculiar en- dowment, he accumulates graceful and agreeable images in a strain of irony so fine, that did not the subject compel the reader to receive it as irony, he would take it for a beautiful passage of serious poetry so beautiful, that he is tempted to regret that he is not in earnest, and that phrases so ex- quisitely chosen, and poetic colouring so brilliant, should be employed to embellish subjects to which they do not properly belong. At other times, he produces the effect of wit by dexterous allusion to contemporaneous events, introduced as illustra- tions of the main subject, with all the unconscious gracefulness of the most animated and familiar conversation. He delights in ludicrous contrasts, produced by bringing the nobleness of the ideal world into comparison with the homeliness of the actual ; the beauty and grace of nature with the awkwardness of art. He venerates the past and laughs at the present. He looks at them through a medium which lends to the former the charm of romance, and exaggerates the deformity of the latter. His poetry, whether serious or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of the numbers. It is not the melody of monotonous and strictly regular measurement. His verse is constructed to please an ear naturally fine, and accustomed to a range of metrical modulation. It is as different from that painfully-balanced versification, that uniform succession of iambics, closing the scene with the couplet, which some writers practise, and sorrie critics praise, as the note of the thrush is unlike that of the cuckoo. He is familiar with those general rules and principles which are the basis of metrical harmony ; and his own unerring taste has taught him the exceptions which a pro- per attention to variety demands. He under- stands that the rivulet is made musical by obstruc- tions in its channel. In no poet can be found passages which flow with more sweet and liquid smoothness ; but he knows very well that to make this smoothness perceived, and to prevent it from degenerating into monotony, occasional roughness must be interposed." HALLECK'S serious poems are as admirable as his satirical. There are few finer martial lyrics than "Marco Bozzaris;" "Burns" and "Red Jacket" are distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language ; and several of his shorter pieces have rarely been excelled in melodiousness of versification or quiet beauty of imagery. HALLECK has generally been engaged in commer- cial pursuits. He was once in "the cotton trade, and sugar line ;" but I believe he has for several years been the principal superintendent of the af- fairs of the great capitalist, Mr. ASTOH. He is a bachelor, and is as popular among his friends for his social qualities, as he is with the world as a poet. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 209 BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOW AY KIRK, IN AYR- SHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF l&O. WILD rose of Alloway! ray thanks, Thou mindst me of that autumn noon, When first we met upon " the banks And braes o' bonny Boon." Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough, My sunny hour was glad and brief, We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou Art wither' d flower and leaf. And will not thy death-doom be mine The doom of all tilings wrought of clay And wither'd my life's leaf, like thine, Wild rose of Alloway I Not so his memory, for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long, His, who an humbler flower could make Immortal as his song. The memory of BURNS a name That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. 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-thatch'd 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. 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 Tharoll 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. 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 listen'd, 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 ; 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 hac 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. 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. Though 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 and in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. 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. 210 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 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. 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 hallow'd 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, Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour ; 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 press'd 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 Boon's low trees, And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! The poet's tomb is there. 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 RED JACKET, A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TCSCARORAS. COOPF.H, 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 ; 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 pass'd nem. con. He writes that we are, as ourselves ha- r e voted, The most enlighten'd 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 nor 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 Zcuibla to the line. If he were with me, King of Tuscarora, Gazing as I, upon thy portrait now, In all its medall'd, fringed, and beaded glory, Its eyes' 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 wert 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. Though no poet's magic Could make RED JACKET grace an English Unless he had a genius for the tragic, [rhyme, And introduced it in a pantomime; Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land ; and on her herald-roll, As nobly fought for, and as proud a token As COSCR 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 GKORGE the FOURTH wore, in the dance 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 ROT'S tartans 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. Is eloquence 1 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^hort. Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed, But the love-legends of thy manhood's VP;T-S, And she who perish'd, young and broken-hearted, Are but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears. The monarch mind the mystery of commanding, The godlike power, the art NAPOLF.OX, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 1 The hearts of millions till they move as one; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 211 Thou hast it At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival ; And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory their dark pall. 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, soothe a dying hour ; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight 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 cliricli'd fingers in a captive's hair? That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree ; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat o' mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee 1 And underneath that face like summer's 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 pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; Hatred of missionaries and cold water; Pride in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone ; Sorrow that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne. CONNECTICUT. AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea That murmurs at their feet, a conquer"d wave ; 'T is a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabin'd 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 Nor even then, unless in their own way. [pray, 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; (1C red, they might to DRACO'S code belong;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise vin like her own eagle's nest, Sacred the San Marino of the west. . A justice of the peace, for the time bcin;it expense, to disprove the. prophecy of our Saviour, as it was understood by the Jews; but the work and the workmen were destroyed by an earth- quake. The pools of De.ihi'sda and Gilion the tomb of the Virsin MARV, mid of Kins JEIIOSAPHAT the pillar of ABSALOM tin? tomb of /ACHARIAH and the campo sn-nto, or holy field, which is supposed to have been pur- chased with the price of JUDAS'S treason, are, or were lately, the most interesting pans of Jeiusalem. While through the panelFd roof the cedar flings Its sainted arms o'er choir, and roof, and dome, And every porphyry-pillar'd cloister rings To every kneeler there its " welcome home," As every lip breathes out, LORD, thy kingdom come." A mosque was garnish'd with its crescent, moons, And a clear voice call'd Mussulmans to prayer. There were the splendours of Judea's thrones There were the trophies which its conquerors wear All but the truth, the holy truth, was there : For there, with lip profane, the crier stood, And him from the tall minaret you might hear, Singing to all whose steps had thither trod, That verse misunderstood, " There is no GOD but GOD." Hark ! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneel'd ? And did the turban 'd Turk his sins confess ? Those mighty hands the elements that wield, That mighty Power that knows to curse or bless, Is over all ; and in whatever dress His suppliants crowd around him, He can see Their heart, in city or in wilderness, And probe its core, and make its blindness flee, Owning Him very Gon, the only Deity. There was an earthquake once that rent thy fane, Proud JUIIAN ; when (against the prophecy Of Him who lived, and died, and rose again, " That one stone on another should not lie") Thou wouldst rebuild that Jewish masonry To moc-k the eternal Word. The earth below Gush'd out in fire ; and from the brazen sky, * JOHN G. WHITTIEH was one of HRAIXARD'S inti- mate friends, and, soon after his death, he wrote an in- teresting account of his life, which was prefixed to an edition of bis poems, printed in 1832. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 217 And from the boiling seas such wrath did flow, As saw not Shinar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow. Another earthquake comes. Dome, roof, and wall Tremble ; and headlong to the grassy bank, And in the muddied stream the fragments fall, While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power! Thou whom we all should worship, praise, and thank, Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, When hell moved from beneath, and thine own heaven did lower! Say, Pilate's palaces proud Herod's towers Say, gate of Bethlehem, did your arches quake? Thy pool, Bethesda, was it fill'd with showers 7 Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake ? Tomb of thee, MART Virgin did it shake '! Glow'd thy bought field, Aceldama, with blood ? Where were the shudderings Calvary might Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood, [make ? To wash away the spot where once a GOD had stood 1 Lost Salem of the Jews great sepulchre Of all profane and of all holy things Where Jew, and Turk, and Gentile yet concur To make thee what thou art ! thy history brings Thoughts mix'd of joy and wo. The whole earth rings With the sad truth which He has prophesied, Who would have shelter'd with his holy wings Thee and thy children. You his power defied : You scourged him while he lived, and mock'd him as he died ! There is a star in the untroubled sky, [made That caught the first light which its Maker It led the hymn of other orbs on high ; 'T will shine when all the fires of heaven shall fade. Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid ! For it has kept its watch on Palestine ! Look to its holy light, nor be dismay 'd, Thouirh broken is each consecrated shrine, Though crush'd and ruin'd all which men have call'd divine. OX CONNECTICUT RIVER. FROM that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain That links the mountain to the mighty main, Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree, Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea Fair, noble, glornus river! in thy wave The sunniest slopes and swootest pastures lave ; The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar, S prin 'TS from its home and leaps upon thy shore: The promontories love thee and for this Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss. Stern, at thy source, thy northern guardians Ru'le rulers of the solitary land, [stand, Wild dwellers by thy cold, scquester'd springs, Of earth the feathers and of air the wings ; 28 Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form Yet, bless'd by all the elements that sweep The clouds above, or the unfathom'd deep, The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills, The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills, By the moss'd bank, and by the aged tree, The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee. The young oak greets thee at the water's edge, Wet by the wave, though anchor'd in the ledge. 'T is there the otter dives, the beaver feeds, Where pensive osiers dip their willowy weeds, And there the wild-cat purs amid her brood, And trains them in the sylvan solitude, To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink Paddling the water by the quiet brink ; Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark, Or hear the young fox practising to bark. Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strew'd the ground, The Indian hunter here his shelter found ; Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe, Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall, And slew the deer without the rifle-ball ; [choose, Here his young squaw her cradling tree would Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose ; Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude, And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood. No more shall they thy welcome waters bless, No more their forms thy moon-lit banks shall press, No more be heard, from mountain or from grove, His whoop of slaughter, or her song jf love. Thou didst not shake, thou didst not shrink when, late, The mountain-top shut down its ponderous gate, Tumbling its tree-grown ruins to thy side, An avalanche of acres at a slide. Nor dost thou say, when winter's coldest breath Howls through the woods and sweeps along the heath One mighty sigh relieves thy icy breast, And wakes thee from the calmness of thy rest. Down sweeps the torrent ice it may not stay By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes, And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose. Yet as the unharm'd swallow skims his way, And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray, So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas, And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze, New paddles dip thy waters, and strange oars Feather thy waves and touch thy noble shores. Thy noble shores ! where the tall steeple shines, At mid-day, higher than thy mountain pines ; Where the white school-house with its daily drill Of sunburn'd children, smiles upon the hill ; Where the neat village grows upon the eye, Deck'd forth in nature's sweet simplicity Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth, Gains merit, honour, and gives labour health ; Where GOLDSMITH'S self might send his exiled band To find a new " Sweet Auburn" in our land. What Art can execute, or Taste devise, Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes T 218 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream, To meet the southern sun's more constant beam. Here cities rise, and sea-wash'd commerce hails Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails, From tropic isles, or from the torrid main Where grows the grape,or sprouts the sugar-cane Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play, By each cold, northern bank and frozen bay. Here, safe return'd from every stormy sea, Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free, That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curl'd Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world. In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found, More hospitable welcome, or more zeal To make the curious " tarrying" stranger feel That, next to home, here best may he abide, To rest and cheer him by the chimney-side ; Drink the hale farmer's cider, as he hears From the gray dame the tales of other years. Cracking his shag-barks, as the aged crone Mixing the true and doubtful into one Tells how the Indian scalp'd the helpless child, And bore its shrieking mother to the wild, Butcher'd the father hastening to his home, Seeking his cottage finding but his tomb. How drums, and flags, and troops were seen on high, Wheeling and charging in the northern sky, And that she knew what these wild tokens meant, When to the Old French War her husband went. How, by the thunder-blasted tree, was hid The golden spoils of far-famed ROBERT KIDD ; And then the chubby grandchild wante to know About the ghosts and witches long ago, That haunted the old swamp. The clock strikes ten The prayer is said, nor unforgotten then The stranger in their gates. A decent rule Of elders in thy puritanic school. [dream, When the fresh morning wakes him from his And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream, Are there not glossy curls and sunny eyes, As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies ; Voices as gentle as an echo'd call, And sweeter than the soften'd waterfall That smiles and dimples in its whispering spray, Leaping in sportive innocence away : And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay As wild-brier, budding in an April day ! How like the leaves the fragrant leaves it bears, Their sinless purposes and simple cares. Stream of my sleeping fathers ! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around, How did thy sons start forth from every glade, Snatching the musket where they left the spade. How did their mothers urge them to the fight, Their sisters tell them to defend the right ; How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin and the turf their pall; How did the aged pastor light his eye, When, to his flock, he read the purpose high And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, To pledge life, name, fame, all for liberty. Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious page Still in the grave the body of that sage Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal Made patriots act and listening statesmen feel Brought thy green mountains down upon their foes, And thy white summits melted of their snows, While every vale to which his voice could come, Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum. Bold river ! better suited are thy waves To nurse the laurels clustering round thy graves, Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood, And felt, beyond all other mortal pain, They ne'er should see their happy home again. Thou hadst a poet once, and he could tell, Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell ; Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore But we shall hear his classic lays no more ! He loved thee, but he took his aged way, By Erie's shore, and PERRY'S glorious day, To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood, Remote beside the dreary solitude. Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread, Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head, And our gnarl'd charter-oak put forth a bough, Whose leaves shall grace thy TBUM BULL'S ho- nour'd brow. ON THE DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD, AT EDINBURGH. " The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze." ANOTHER ! 'tis a sad word to the heart, That one by one has lost its hold on life, From all it loved or valued, forced to part In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife That cuts at once and kills its tortured strife Is with distill'd affliction, drop by drop Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife With grief and sorrow ! all that we would prop, Or would be propp'd with, falls when shall the ruin stop ? The sea has one,* and Palestine has one, And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, Turn to some other monument nor know Whose grave she passes, or whose name she, read : Whose loved and honour'd relics lie below; Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo. There is a world of bliss hereafter else Why are the bad above, the good beneath The green grass of the grave 1 The mower fells Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe (When he his desolating blade shall sheathe And rest him from his work) in a pure sky, Above the smoke of burning worlds ; and Death On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, When time, with all his years and centuries has pass'd by. * Professor FISHER, lost in the " Albion," and Rev. LEVI PARSONS, missionary to Palestine, who died at Alexandria JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 219 ON A LATE LOSS.* Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime ? " He shall not float upon his watery bier Unwept.** O ! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! Yea, what is all the riot man can make THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drown'd a world, and heaped the waters far Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form ; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Above its loftiest mountains 1 a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, * Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. WHO shall weep when the righteous die ? So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear, And radiant learning beckon'd thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Who shall mourn when the good depart ? When the soul of the godly away shall fly, Who shall lay the loss to heart 1 Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wreck'd thee ! But there is a shore Where storms are hush'd where tempests He has gone into peace he has laid him down, To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day ; And he shall wake on that holy morn, never rage ; Where angry skies and blackening seas no more When sorrow and sighing shall flee away. With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. But ye who worship in sin and shame By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod Your idol gods, whate'er they be : Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is GOD. Who scoff, in your pride, at your Maker's name, By the pebbly stream and the shady tree, Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams, SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT. Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray ; Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams, " Hugest that swims the ocean stream." But the wind shall carry them all away. WKLTEU upon the waters, mighty one And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine ; Turn thy wet scales up to the wind and sun, And toss the billow from thy flashing fin ; There 's one who drank at a purer fountain, One who was wash'd in a purer flood: He shall inherit a holier mountain, He shall worship a holier GOD. Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din, But the sinner shall utterly fail and die, And bound upon its ridges in thy pride : Whehn'd in the waves of a troubled sea ; Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in And GOD, from his throne of light on high, The caverns where its unknown monsters hide, Measure thy length beneath the gulf-stream's tide Shall say, there is no peace for thee. Or rest thee on that navel of the sea Where, floating on the Maelstrom, abide EPITHALAMIUM. The krakcns sheltering under Norway's lee ; But go not to Nahant, lest men should swear You are a great deal bigger than you are. I SAW two clouds at morning, Tinged by the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one ; THE FALL OF NIAGARA. I thought that morning cloud was bless'd, It moved so sweetly to the west. "Labitur et labetur." I saw two summer currents THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, Flow smoothly to their meeting, While I look upward to thee. It would seem And join their course, with silent force, As if Gon pour'd thee from his " hollow hand," In peace each other greeting; And hung his bow upon thine awful front; Calm was their course through banks of green, And spoke in that loud voice, which secm'd to him While dimpling eddies play'd between. Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, ' The sound of many waters ;" and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. Such be your gentle motion, Till life's last pulse shall beat ; Like summer's beam, and summer's stream> Float on, in joy, to meet * Professor FISHEB, lost in the Albion, off the coast of A calmer sea, where storms shall cease Kiiisale, Ireland. A purer sky, where all is peace. 220 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. TO THE DEAD. How many now are dead to me That live to others yet ! How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look, which we Till dead can ne'er forget. Beyond the blue seas, far away, Most wretchedly alone, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope or comfort's ray In his lone dungeon shone. Dead to the world, alive to me, Though months and years have pass'd ; In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee, And then his form and face I see, As when I saw him last. And one with a bright lip, and cheek, And eye, is dead to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek ! His lip was cold it would not speak : His heart was dead, for it did not break: And his eye, for it did not see. Then for the living be the tomb, And for the dead the smile ; Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom, Dim is such glare : but bright the gloom Around the funeral pile. THE DEEP. THERE'S beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky ; And, though the lights shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow, That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid ; And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep. There 's music in the deep : It is not in the surf's rough roar, Nor in the whispering, shelly shore, They are but earthly sounds, that tell How little of the sea-nymph's shell, That sends its loud, clear note abroad, Or winds its softness through the flood, Echoes through groves, with coral gay, And dies, on spongy banks, away. There's music in the deep. There 's quiet in the deep : Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; Above, let care and fear contend With sin and sorrow, to the end : Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home ; We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There 's quiet in the deep. MR. MERRY'S LAMENT FOR TOM." 'LONG "Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fiithoin deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore." THY cruise is over now, Thou art anchor'd by the shore, And never more shall thou Hear the storm around thce roar ; Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass. Now around thce sports the whale, And the porpoise snuffs the gale, And the night-winds wake their wail, As they pass. The sea-grass round thy bier Shall bend beneath the tide, Nor tell the breakers near Where thy manly limbs abide ; But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be. Though the edges of thy grave Are the combings of the wave Yet unheeded they shall rave Over thee. At the piping of all hands, When the judgment signal 's spread W r hen the islands, and the lands, And the seas give up their dead, And the south and the north shall come ; When the sinner is dismay'd, And the just man is afraid, Then heaven be thy aid, Poor TOM. THE INDIAN SUMMER. WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves? Have they that " green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of 1 ! Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charms When the dread fever quits us when the storms Of the wild equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops he had not sighed. The moon stays longest for the hunter now : , The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride, Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, " What is there saddening in the autumn leaves 1" JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 221 STANZAS. THE dead leaves strew the forest walk, And wither'd are the pale wild flowers ; The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, And autumn, with her yellow hours, On hill and plain no longer shines. I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note, That rose and swell'd from yonder tree A gay bird, with too sweet a throat, There perch'd, and raised her song for me. The winter comes, and where is she ] Away where summer wings will rove, Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love. Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there, The northern breeze that rustles by Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. Go there, with all the birds, and seek A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, And leave me lonely with the night. I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone, See that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone. THE STORM OF WAR. ! ONCE was felt the storm of war! It had an earthquake's roar ; It flash' d upon the mountain height, And smoked along the shore. It thunder'd in a dreaming ear, And up the farmer sprang; It mutter'd in a bold, true heart, And a warrior's harness rang. It rumbled by a widow's door, All but her hope did fail ; It trembled through a leafy grove, And a maiden's cheek was pale. It steps upon the sleeping sea, And waves around it howl ; It strides from top to foaming top, Out-frowning ocean's scowl. And yonder sail'd the merchant ship, There was peace upon her deck ; Her friendly flag from the mast was torn, And the waters whelm'd the wreck. But the same blast that bore her down Fill'd a gallant daring sail, That loved the might of the blackening storm, And laugh'd in the roaring gale. The stream, that was a torrent once, Is rippled to a brook, The sword is broken, and the spear Is but a pruning-hook. The mother chides her truant boy, And keeps him well from harm; While in the grove the happy maid Hangs on her lover's arm. Another breeze is on the sea, Another wave is there, And floats abroad triumphantly A banner bright and fair. And peaceful hands, and happy hearts, And gallant spirits keep Each star that decks it pure and bright, Above the rolling deep. THE GUERILLA. THOUGH friends are false, and leaders fail, And rulers quake with fear; Though tamed the shepherd in the vale, Though slain the mountaineer; Though Spanish beauty fill their arms, And Spanish gold their purse Sterner than wealth's or war's alarms Is the wild Guerilla's curse. No trumpets range us to the fight : No signal sound of drum Tells to the foe, that, in their might, The hostile squadrons come. No sunbeam glitters on our spears, No warlike tramp of steeds Gives warning for the first that hears Shall be the first that bleeds. The night-breeze calls us from our bed, At dew-fall forms the line, And darkness gives the signal dread That makes our ranks combine : Or should some straggling moonbeam lie On copse or lurking hedge, 'T would flash but from a Spaniard's eye, Or from a dagger's edge. 'T is clear in the sweet vale below, And misty on the hill ; The skies shine mildly on the foe, But lour upon us still. This gathering storm shall quickly burst, And spread its terrors far, And at its front we '11 be the first, And with it go to war. ! the mountain peak shall safe remain 'Tis the vale shall be despoil'd, And the tame hamlets of the plain With ruin shall run wild ; But liberty shall breathe our air Upon the mountain head, And freedom's breezes wander here, Here all their fragrance shed. 222 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. Ox the deep is the mariner's danger, On the deep is the mariner's death, Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger, Sees the last bubble burst of his breath 1 'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair, The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there. Who watches their course, who so mildly Careen to the kiss of the breeze 1 Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly Are clasp'd in the arms of the seas I 'Tis the sea-bird, &c. Who hovers on high o'er the lover, And her who has clung to his neck 1 Whose wing is the wing that can cover, With its shadow, the foundering wreck ? 'T is the sea-bird, &c. My eye in the light of the billow, My wing on the wake of the wave, I shall take to my breast, for a pillow, The shroud of the fair and the brave. I 'm a sea-bird, &c. My foot on the iceberg has lighted, When hoarse the wild winds veer about , My eye, when the bark is benighted, Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there. TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND. I PRAT thee, by thy mother's face, And by her look, and by her eye, By every decent matron grace That hover'd round the resting-place Where thy young head did lie ; And by the voice that soothed thine ear, The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear, That match'd thy changeful mood ; By every prayer thy mother taught, By every blessing that she sought, I pray thee to be good. Is not the nestling, when it wakes, Its eye upon the wood around, And on its new-fledged pinions takes Its taste of leaves, and boughs, and brakes Of motion, sight, and sound, Is it not like the parent 7 Then Be like thy mother, child, and when Thy wing is bold and strong, As pure and steady be thy light, As high and heavenly be thy flight, * As holy be thy song. SALMON RIVER.* Hie viridis tenera prsetexit arundine ripas Mincius. VIRGIL. 'Tis a sweet stream and so, 'tis true, are all That, undisturb'd, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, By rock, that since the deluge fix'd has stood, Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood By night and day. But yet there 's something in its humble rank, Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank With unscared look ; There 's much in its wild history, that teems With all that's superstitious and that seems To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, In that small brook. Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropp'd there, like the drops of rain ; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain And many a quiver, Fill'd from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, Has spent itself in carnage. Now 't is still, And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill From Salmon river. Here, say old men, the Indian magi made Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade That shrouds sequester'd rock, or darkening glade, Or tangled dell. Here PHILIP came, and MIANTOXIMO, And ask'd about their fortunes long ago, As SAUL to Endor, that her witch might show Old SAMUEL. And here the black fox roved, that howl'd and shook His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook Where they pursued their game, and him mistook For earthly fox ; Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, And his soft peltry, stripp'd and dress'd, to wear, Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair Transfer him to a box. Such are the tales they toll. 'T is hard to rhyme About a little and unnoticed stream, That few have heard of but it is a theme I chance to love ; And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, And whistle to the note of many a deed Done on this river which, if there be need, I'll try to prove. * This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. [Born, 1796.] SAMUEL GIUSWOLD GOODHICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the com- mon schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over Eng- land, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education ; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of " Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circu- lated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH com- menced " The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's new How the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-oif shore, As thev were wont in the days of yore And play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the Carribee Bright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy, So they danced raid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween ; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme ; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His " Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and super- intending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled " The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, "Sketches from a Stu- dent's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in " The Token" and other periodicals. Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists ; and it is question- able whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions ; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully. But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch And, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced be it known 'twas not in the clime Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime ; Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip ! O, no ! 'twas the land of the fruit and the flower Where summer an spring both dwelt in one bower Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough, And the other with blossoms encircled its brow, Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of gold, And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd. It was there, where the seasons came only to bless, And the fashions of Eden still linger'd, in dress, That these gay little fairies were wont, as I say, To steal in their merriest gambols away. But, dropping the curtain o'er frolic and fun, Too good to be told, or too bad to be done, I give you a legend from Fancy's own sketch, Though I warn you he's given to fibbing the wretch ! But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, 'T is as true as the fairy tales told in the books. 223 224 SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. One night when the moon shone fair on the main, Choice spirits were gather'd 'twixt Derry and Spain, And lightly embarking from Erin's bold cliffs, They slid o'er the wave in their moonbeam skiffs. A ray for a rudder a thought for a sail, Swift, swift was each bark as the wing of the gale. Yet long were the tale, should I linger to say What gambol and frolic enliven'd the way ; How they flirted with bubbles that danced on the wave, Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave ; Or slid with the moonbeams down deep to the grove Of coral, " where mullet and gold-fish rove :" How there, in long vistas of silence and sleep, They waltzed, as if mocking the death of the deep: How oft, where the wreck lay scatter'd and torn, They peep'd in the skull now ghastly and lorn ; Or deep, mid wild rocks, quizzed the goggling shark, And mouth'd at the sea-wolf so solemn and stark Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea Were made but for fairies for gambol and glee ! Enough, that at last they came to the isle, Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the while. Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear. O, no ! still blissful and peaceful the land, And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand. Right happy and joyous seem'd now the bright crew, As they tripp'd mid the orange groves flashing in dew, For they were to hold a revel that night, A gay, fancy ball, and each to be dight In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues. Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flew And deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known ; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strung Where temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine ; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, A nd gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower. The hour is come, and the fairies are seen In their plunder array'd on the moonlit green. The music is breathed 't is a soft tone of pleasure, And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure. 'T was a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright, Such as never were known till that famous night; For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene, O'ermatch'd the regalia of princess and queen. No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now; But lighted with souls by the playful elves, The brilliants and blossoms seem'd dancing them- selves. VI. Of all that did chance, 'twere a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle ; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there ! Such a scampering never before was seen As the fairies' flight on that island green. They rush'd to the bay with twinkling feet, But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet Had pass'd with the dawn, and never again Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main, But mid the groves, when the sun was high, The Indian marked with a worshipping eye The humming-birds, all unknown before, Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower, And seeming as if earth's loveliest things, The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings : And fancy hath whisper'd in numbers light, That these are the fairies who danced that night, And linger yet in the garb they wore, Content in our clime, and more blest than before ! THE RIVER. O, TELL me, pretty river ! Whence do thy waters flow ? And whither art thou roaming, So pensive and so slow 1 " My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers ; My cradle was a fountain, O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers. " One morn I ran away, A madcap, hoyden rill And many a prank that day I play'd adown the hill ! " And then, mid meadowy banks, I flirted with the flowers, That stoop'd, with glowing lips, To woo me to their bowers. " But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave !" SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 225 THE LEAF. IT came with spring's soft sun and showers, Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers ; It flourish'd on the same light stem, It drank the same clear dews with them. The crimson tints of summer morn, That gilded one, did each adorn. The breeze, that whisper'd light and brief To bud or blossom, kiss'd the leaf; When o'er the leaf the tempest flew, The bud and blossom trembled too. But its companions pass'd away, And left the leaf to lone decay. The gentle gales of spring went by, The fruits and flowers of summer die. The autumn winds swept o'er the hill, And winter's breath came cold and chill. The leaf now yielded to the blast, And on the rushing stream was cast. Far, far it glided to the sea, And whirl'd and eddied wearily, Till suddenly it sank to rest, And slumber d in the ocean's breast. Thus life begins its morning hours, Bright as the birth-day of the flowers ; Thus passes like the leaves away, As wither'd and as lost as they. Beneath the parent roof we meet In joyous groups, and gayly greet The golden beams of love and light, That kindle to the youthful sight. But soon we part, and one by one, Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone. One gentle spirit seeks the tomb, His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom. Another treads the paths of fame, And barters peace to win a name. Another still tempts fortune's wave, And seeking wealth, secures a grave. The last grasps yet the brittle thread Though friends are gone and joy is dead, Still dares the dark and fretful tide, And clutches at its power and pride, Till suddenly the waters sever, And, like the leaf, he sinks forever. LAKE SUPERIOR. " FATHER OF LAKES !" thy waters bend Beyond the eagle's utmost view, When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send Back to the sky its world of blue. Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, With listening ear, in sadness broods ; Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. Nor can the light canoes, that glide Across thy breast like things of air, Chase from thy lone and level tide The spell of stillness reigning there. Yet round this waste of wood and wave, Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives, That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, To all a wild, strange aspect gives. The thunder-riven oak, that flings Its grisly arms athwart the sky, A sudden, startling image brings To the lone traveller's kindled eye. The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw Fantastic horrors through the glade. The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone : For they have told the war-whoop o'er, Till the wild chorus is their own. Wave of the wilderness, adieu ! Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods ! Roll on, thou element of blue, And fill these awful solitudes ! Thou hast no tale to tell of man God is thy theme, le sounding caves Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves ! THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They catch the ruddy beams of day, And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade, Their blushing favourite to array. They gather gems with sunbeams bright, From floating clouds and falling showers; They rob Aurora's locks of light To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well. Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear. ISAAC CLASON. [Born about 1796. Died, 1830.] ISAAC CLASOW wrote the Seventeenth and Eight- eenth Cantos of Don Juan a continuation of the poem of Lord BTRON published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his bio- graphy. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pur- suit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roue in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circum- stances that led to a belief that he committed sui- cide, about the year 1830. Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feel- ing, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BTRON. He was a man of attractive man- ners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character. NAPOLEON.* I love no land so well as that of France Land of NAPOLEON and CHARLEMAGNE, Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was, Advance ; Whilethat grand genius,who seein'd born to reign, Greater than AMMON'S son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth ; Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A VENUS arm'd, impress'd upon his seal; Who smiled at poor CALPHURNIA'S prophecy, Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh, As BRUTUS pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, BRUTE," But BRUTUS thought he only did his duty ; Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate ; Who, with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, With feelings no reverse could moderate, With talents such as few would dare engage, With hopes that no misfortune could abate, Died like his rival, both with broken hearts, Such was their fate, and such was BONAPARTE'S. NAPOLEON BONAPARTE ! thy name shall live Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; And if eternity's confines can give To space reverberation, round and round The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive NAPOLEON !" in thunders shall rebound ; The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth Jiovv meteor of the sky! What though on St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd * From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan. To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed ; Perhaps may run the course thyself didst run, And light the world, as comets light the sun. 'T is better thou art gone : 't were sad to see, Beneath an "imbecile's impotent reign," Thine own unvanquish'd legions doom'd to be Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain, That land, so glorious once in chivalry, Now sunk in slavery and shame again; To see the imperial guard, thy dauntless band, Made tools for such a wretch as PERDU* AND. Farewell, NAPOLEON ! thine hour is past ; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name ; But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast Thy deeds with those of worthless D'ANGOULEME. Ye gods ! how long shall slavery's thraldom last ! Will France alone remain forever tame 1 Say, will no WALLACE, will no WASHINGTON Scourge from thy soil the infamous BOURBON? Is Freedom dead ? Is NERO'S reign restored 1 Frenchmen ! remember Jena, Austerlitz : The first, which made thy emperor the lord Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM ; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits ; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, As HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON ! couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blamed ; But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed, Great in misfortune, as in glory high, Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony. Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry, Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store; Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, And Honour twine the wreath thy temples i 226 ISAAC CLASON. 227 Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, NAPOLEON ! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas ! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, . Echoes around thy land; 'tis past at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth. JEALOUSY. HE who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash, Bursting in peals, terrifically loud ; He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) Its giant billows on the groaning shore, While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar ; He who has seen the wild tornado sweep (Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep With the black besom of its boisterc us breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves: He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood ; But nature's warfare passes by degrees, The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt hood, The infant lightnings to their cradles creep, And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep. But there are storms, whose lightnings never glare, Tempests, whose thunders never cease to roll The storms of love, when madden'd to despair, The furious tempests of the jealous soul. That kamsin of the heart, which few can bear, Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal, Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck. EARLY LOVE. THE fond caress of beauty, 0, that glow! The first warm glow that mantles round the heart Of boyhood! when all's new the first dear vow He ever breathed the tear-drops that first start, Pure from the unpractised eye the overflow Of waken'd passions, that but now impart A hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt, That mould to madness, or in mildness melt. Ah ! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, That burn forever bright, forever new, As passion rises o'er and o'er again? That, like the phoenix, die but to renew Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brain Self-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame That sports in Etna's base. But I 'm to blame Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past ; To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was cast Like brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds ; No matter, these, the latest and the last That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds ; The ebullitions of a heart not lost, But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd. 'T is vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys Billows that swell, to burst upon the shore Playthings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge. ALL IS VANITY. I 've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass ; I 've loved without restriction, without measure I've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glass I've known what 'tis, too, to "repent at leisure" I 've sat at meeting, and I 've served at mass : And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher Vanity of vanities ! What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here ? What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow? Is 't wealth? Wealth can at last but gild his bier, Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow. Is 't love ? Alas, love 's cradled in a tear ; It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth. Is 't glory ? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow, Whose weeping branches wave above the spot; Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is 't fame? Ask her. who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoflln'd, and perchance forgot ; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair. Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep, No Frank deplore the hour he found a home A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord of Trafalgar. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [Born about 1797.] MRS. SIGOUBNEY, formerly Miss LYDIA HUNT- LET, was born in Norwich, Connecticut, about the year 1797, and in 1819 was married to Mr. CHARLES SIGOURNEY, an opulent merchant of Hartford, in which city she now resides. She be- gan to write verses at a very early age, and in 1815 gave to the press her first book, under the title of " Moral Pieces." She has since published six or seven volumes in verse, and about as many in prose. " The Aborigines," her longest poem, ap- peared anonymously, at Cambridge, and attracted but little attention. During a visit which she made to Europe in 1840-41, a selection from her poetical writings was printed in London, and soon after her return, in 1842, the most finished and sustained of her longer poems, Pocahontas," was published in a volume with some minor pieces, in New York. Among her prose works are " Connecticut Forty Years Since," Letters to Young Ladies," " Let- ters to Mothers," " Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," " Scenes in My Native Land," and " Myr- tis, and other Sketchings," the last of which ap- peared in the fall of 1 846. In a reviewal of the poems of Mrs. Sigourney, recently published by the Honourable ALEXANDER H. EVERETT, this accomplished critic remarks that " they commonly express, with great purity, and evident sincerity, the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart, and the lofty aspi- rations after a higher and better state of being, which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. Aw axe rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation toward the sky had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil. " Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd, So many days, on toward the setting sun ? Our own Connecticut, compared to that, Was but a creeping stream." " Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch'd My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our firs^ home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." principle in art, as well as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. This is saying, in other words, that the substance of her poetry is of the very highest order. If her powers of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton, or a Christian Pindar. But though she does not inherit 'The force and ample pin-on That th^ Theban eagles bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the liquid vaults of air,' she nevertheless manages the language with great ease and elegance; and often with much of the citriosa felicitas, that ' reiined felicity' of expres- sion, which is, after all, the principal charm in po- etry. In blank verse she is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have not unfrequently much of the manner of Words- worth, and may be nearly or quits as highly re- lished by his admirers." Mrs. SIGOURNEY has been the most voluminous and most popular of all our poetesses, but her suc- cess, perhaps, has resulted as much from her moral and religious as from her poetical characteristics. With all the merit that can be claimed for some of her pieces, it must be admitted that many of them, composed hastily and carelessly, are in a literary point of view of but little value. They are rhymed commonplaces, which have only a remote relation to true poetry. " What, ho ! my little girl," and with light step A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, And, setting down the basket that contain'd His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile. " See, dearest, see, That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, In far New England, such a mellow tone 1" " I had a robin that did take the crumbs Each night and morning, and his chirping voice Did make me joyful, as I went to tend My snow-drops. I was always laughing then In that first home. I should be happier now Methinks, if I could find among these dells The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wrathful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declined, sat listening long To the swoln waters of the Illinois, Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake " Wife ! did I see thee brush away a tear ? 228 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 229 'T was even so. Thy heart was with the halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, Befit thee better than these rugged walls Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." "No no. All was so still around, methought Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows, So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed Her waking infant, reassured his soul That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell, And strike a healthful root, is happiness. Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play Such pranKs when reason slumbers, tireless wrought Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart Of his own native city roof and spire, All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray. The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed, The favourite dog came frisking round his feet, With shrill and joyous bark familiar doors Flew open greeting hands with his were link'd In friendship's grasp he heard the keen debate From congregated haunts, where mind with mind Doth blend and brighten and till morning roved Mid the loved scenery of his native land. NIAGARA. FLOW on, forever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead : and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him Eternally bidding the lip of man Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise. Ah I.who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, Or love, or sorrow mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves Retire abash'd. For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a a spent labourer and recall His wearied billows from their vexing play, And lull them to a cradle-calm : but thou, With everlasting, undecaying tide, Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH'S name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, That lifts itself within thy wide domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing Amid thy mist and foam. 'T is meet for them To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapour-wreath, For they may sport unharm'd amid the cloud, Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, Without reproof. But as for us, it seems Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty, But as it presses with delirious joy To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, And tame its rapture, with the humbling view Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand In the dread presence of the Invisible, As if to answer to its GOD through thee. WINTER. I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comcst With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. Thy lengthen'd eve is full of fireside joys, And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds, And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, And from the harvest-shouting. Man should rest Thus from his fever'd passions, and exhale The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay To trim its shatter'd cordage, and restore Its riven sails so should the toil-worn mind Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance, Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impair'd By the wild wanderings of his summer way, Turns like a truant scholar to his home, And yields his nature to sweet influences That purify and save. The ruddy boy Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport, On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth, And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls, And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven To " bless the lad." The timid infant learns Better to love its sire and longer sits Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity, And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul, And when the last drop of its cup is drain'd Arising with a song of praise go up To the eternal banquet U 230 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH. " The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of NAPOLEON'S sepulchre, characterless, unin- scribed." And who shall write thine epitaph ! thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their father's broken swords 1 Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenced brain 1 Shall countless Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame [ghosts With shadowy finger trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd, And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer, Given at the cannon's mouth ! Thou, who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe, And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes, As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass, Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner Descries mid ocean's foam ? Thou, who didst hew A pathway for thy host above the cloud, Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown Of the throned Alps why dost thou sleep unmark'd, Even by such slight memento as the hind Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone 1 Bid the throng Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian JOVE, And breathed thy thunders on the battle-field, Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread, From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise, As in the vision that the prophet saw, And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find, Piling their pillar'd dust as erst they gave Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem A second time the puny pride of man Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs, To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art, Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair, With neither living man, nor spirit condemn'd, To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes, Who served as playthings in thy desperate game Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd Till meagre famine on their vitals prey'd, To pay the reckoning. France ! who gave so free Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth, Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead CESAR'S tomb, And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts Of sculpture and of classic eloquence, To grace his obsequies, at whose dark frown Thine ancient spirit quail'd, and to the list Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat 'Neath AGAG'S table, add the name of Rome. Turn, Austria ! iron-brow'd and stern of heart, And on his monument, to whom thou gavest In anger, battle, and in craft a bride, Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. As the rein'd war-horse snufis the trumpet-blast, Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name, And bid her witness to that fame which soars O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades Of letter'd ease, O, Germany ! come forth With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll Such as thou spread's! at Leipsic, gather tints Of deeper character than bold romance Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, Or history trusted to her sibyl-leaves. Hail, lotus crown'd ! in thy green childhood fed By stiff-neck'd PHARAOH, and the shepherd-kings, Hast thou no tale of him who drench'd thy sands At Jaffa and Aboukir ! when the flight Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong To the accusing Spirit ] Qlorious Isle ! Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean-like, Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. Ho ! fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance, Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph. But there was silence ; for no sceptred hand Received the challenge. From the misty deep Rise, island-spirits ! like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, Rise on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms, And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb, Come, twine some trait of household tenderness, Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd His cradle, at Ajacio, turn'd away, And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear, And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray 'Neath the Pacific's smiling, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze To an unhonour'd tomb. Then Earth arose, That blind, old empress, on her crumbling throne, And to the echoed question " Who shall write Napoleon's epitaph ?" as one who broods O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, " None." THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole In her soft ministry around thy bed, Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemm'd, And pearl'd with dews. She bade bright Summer bring Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come To do thee homage mother of our chief! Fit homage such as honoureth him who pays. Methinks we see thee as in olden time * On laying the corner-stone of her monument at Fredericksburg, Virginia. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 231 Simple in garb majestic and serene, Unmoved by pomp or circumstance in truth Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal Repressing vice and making folly grave. Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste Life in inglorious sloth to sport awhile Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave, Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, Building no temple in her children's hearts, Save to the vanity and pride of life [clothed Which she had worshipp'd. For the might that The " Pater Patrise," for the glorious deeds That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due, Who, mid his elements of being, wrought, We know not Heaven can tell. Rise, sculptured And show a race unborn who rest below, [pile ! And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. Warn them to wake at early dawn and sow Good seed before the world hath sown her tares ; Nor in their toil decline that angel bands May put the sickle in, and reap for God, And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand, With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, Who nobly rear'd Virginia's godlike chief Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, What though no high ambition prompts to rear A second WASHINGTON ; or leave your name Wrought out in marble with 'a nation's tears Of deathless gratitude yet may you raise A monument above the stars a soul Led by your teachings and your prayers to GOD. FELICIA HEMANS. NATURE doth mourn for thee. There is no need For man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail, As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise. The little plant that never sang before, Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell, Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee, As for a florist fallen. The ivy, wreath'd Round the gay turrets of a buried race, And the tali palm that like a prince doth rear Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky, With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name. Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate'er it touch'd most holy. The pure shell, Laying its pearly lip on ocean's floor, The cloister'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep, And the unfathom'd melancholy main, Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. Hark! from the snow-breasted Himmaleh to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, From the scathed pine tree, near the red man's hut, To where the everlasting banian builds Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height An altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt Of Poesy. Yea, thou didst find the link That joins mute nature to ethereal mind, And make that link a melody. The couch Of thy last sleep, was in the native clime Of song and eloquence and ardent soul, Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle So loved of favouring skies, yet bann'd by fate, Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot. For at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn Did gird itself, until the life-stream oozed In gushes of such deep and thrilling song, That angels poising on some silver cloud Might linger mid the errands of the skies, And listen, all unblamed. How tenderly Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest ! And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, Watch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard. Waits she thy waking, as the mother waits For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen, And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven ? We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. For every mountain stream and shadowy dell Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alike The simple language of the freckled flower, And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee. And from thy living intercourse with man Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame. Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir, Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learn'd so well From this sublunar terrace, and so long Interpreted. Therefore, we will not say Farewell to thee ; for every unborn age Shall mix thee with its household charities, The sage shall greet thee with his benison, And woman shrine thee as a vestal flame In all the temples of her sanctity, And the young child shall take thee by the hand And travel with a surer step to Heaven. THE ALPINE FLOWERS. MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs ! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye 7 Did some white-winged mes- senger On mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows 1 Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye 1 Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front ; yet there ye stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness Fearless, yet frail and, clasping his chill hands, 232 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Blesses your pencill'd beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, And freer dreams of heaven. CONTENTMENT. THINK'ST thou the steed that restless roves O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves, With wild, unbridled bound, Finds fresher pasture than tb?e bee, On thymy bank or vernal tree, Intent to store her industry Within her waxen round 1 Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn Through marble vase or sculptured urn, Affords a sweeter draught Than that which, in its native sphere, Perennial, undisturb'd and clear, Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer, And wake his grateful thought 1 Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who, in his cot at rest, Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest, And bears the promise in his breast Of treasure in the skies 1 THE WIDOW'S CHARGE AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. gently, thou, whose hand has won The young bird from the nest away, Where, careless 'neath a vernal sun, She gayly caroll'd day by day : The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, From whence her timid wing doth soar, They pensive list, at hush of e, ve, Yet hear her gushing song no more. Deal gently with her : thou art dear Beyond what vestal lips have told, And like a lamb, from fountain clear, She turns confiding to the fold ; She round thy sweet, domestic bower The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, Watch for thy step at vesper hour, And blend her holiest prayer with thine. Deal gently, thou, when far away, Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender cares decay, The soul of woman lives in love ; And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear Unconscious from her eyelid break, Be pitiful, and sooth the fear That man's strong heart can ne'er partake. A mother yields her gem to thee, On thy true breast to sparkle rare ; She places 'neath thy household tree The idol of her fondest care ; And by thy trust to be forgiven, When judgment wakes in terror wild, By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, Deal gently with the widow's child. BERNARDINE DU BORN. KING HENRY sat upon his throne, And full of wrath and scorn, His eye a recreant knight survey'd Sir BERNARDINE DC BORN. And he that haughty glance return'd Like lion in his lair, And loftily his unchanged brow Gleam'd through his crisped hair. " Thou art a traitor to the realm, Lord of a lawless band, The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, The troubler of our land ; Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers, Are forfeit to the crown, And thou beneath the Norman axe Shalt end thy base renown. " Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom, Thou with strange madness fired 1 Hath reason quite forsook thy breast '!" PLANTAGENET inquired. Sir BERNARD turn'd him toward the king, He blench'd not in his pride ; "My reason fail'd, my gracious liege, The year Prince HENRY died." Quick at that name a cloud of wo Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow, Touch'd was that bleeding chord of love, To which the mightiest bow. Again swept back the tide of years, Again his first-born moved, The fair, the graceful, the sublime, The erring, yet beloved. And ever, cherish'd by his side, One chosen friend was near, To share in boyhood's ardent sport Or youth's untam'd career ; With him the merry chase he sought Beneath the dewy morn, With him in knightly tourney rode, This BERN AHDINE DU BORN. Then in the mourning father's soul Each trace of ire grew dim. And what his buried idol loved Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him And faintly through his tears he spake, " GOD send his grace to thee, And for the dear sake of the dead, Go forth unscathed and free." LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 233 THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. REST with the noble dead In Dryburgh's solemn pile, Where sleep the peer and warrior bold, And mitred abbots stern and old, Along the statued isle ; Where, stain'd with dust of buried years, The rude sarcophagus appears In mould imbedded deep ; And Scotia's skies of sparkling blue Stream with the oriel windows through Where ivied masses creep ; And, touch'd with symmetry sublime, The moss-clad towers that mock at time Their mouldering legends keep. And yet, methinks, thou shouldst have chose Thy latest couch at fair Melrose, Whence burst thy first, most ardent song, And swept with wildering force along Where Tweed in silver flows. There the young moonbeams, quivering faint O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint, Reveal a lordly race ; And knots of roses richly wrought, And tracery light as poet's thought, The cluster'd columns grace. There good King DAVID'S rugged mien Fast by his faithful spouse is seen, And 'neath the stony floor Lie chiefs of DOCGLAS' haughty breast, Contented now to take their rest, And rule their kings no more. It was a painful thing to see Trim Abbotsford so gay, The rose-trees climbing there so bold, The ripening fruits in rind of gold, And thou, their lord, away. I saw the lamp, with oil unspent, O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent, When erst, with magic skill, Unearthly beings heard thy call, And flitting spectres throng'd the hall, Obedient to thy will. Yon fair domain was all thine own, From stately roof to threshold stone, Yet didst thou lavish pay The coin that caused life's wheels to stop 1 The heart's blood oozing drop by drop Through the tired brain away ? I said the lamp unspent was there, The books arranged in order fair ; But none of all thy kindred race Found in those lordly halls a place : Thine only son, in foreign lands, Led boldly on his martial bands, And stranger-lips, unmoved and cold, The legends of thy mansion told ; They lauded glittering brand and spear, And costly gifts of prince and peer, 30 And broad claymore, with silver dight, And hunting-horn of border knight What were such gauds to me 1 More dear had been one single word From those whose veins thy blood had stirr'd To Scotia's accents free. Yet one there was, in humble cell, A poor retainer, lone and old, Who of thy youth remember'd well, And many a treasured story told ; And pride, upon her wrinkled face, Blent strangely with the trickling tear, As Memory, from its choicest place, Brought forth, in deep recorded trace, Thy boyhood's gambols dear ; Or pointed out, with wither'd hand, Where erst thy garden-seat did stand, When thou, return'd from travel vain, Wrapp'd in thy plaid, and pale with pain, Didst gaze with vacant eye, For stern disease had drank the fount Of mental vision dry. Ah ! what avails, with giant power, To wrest the trophies of an hour ; One moment write, with sparkling eye, Our name on castled turrets high, And yield the next, a broken trust, To earth, to ashes, and to dust. And now, farewell, whose hand did sweep Away the damps of ages deep, And fire with proud baronial strain The harp of chivalry again, And make its wild, forgotten thrill To modern ears delightful still. Thou, who didst make, from shore to shore, Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar, Her blue lakes bosom'd in their shade, Her sheepfolds scatter'd o'er the glade, Her rills, with music, leaping down, The perfume of her heather brown, Familiar as their native glen To differing tribes of distant men, Patriot and bard ! old Scotia's care Shall keep thine image fresh and fair, Embalming to remotest time The SHAKSPEAKE of her tuneful clime. A BUTTERFLY AT A CHILD'S GRAVE. A BUTTERFLY bask'd on an infant's grave, Where a lily had chanced to grow ; Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye ? Where she of the bright and the sparkling eye Must sleep in the churchyard low. Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, And spoke from its shining track : I was a worm till I won my wings, And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph Wouldst thou call the blest one back 1 r 2 234 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. A VOICE upon the prairies, A cry of woman's wo, That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low ; It is a mother's wailing : Hath earth another tone Like that with which a mother mourns Her lost, her only one ! Pale faces gather round her, They mark'd the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, But their cold, blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her, As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother, So she wept her tears alone. Long o'er that wasted idol She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd, Though every dreary dawn reveal'd Some ravage death had made, Till the fleshless sinews started, And hope no opiate gave, And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, An echo from the grave. She was a gentle creature, Of raven eye and tress; And dove-like were the tones that breathed Her bosom's tenderness, Save when some quick emotion The warm blood strongly sent, To revel in her olive cheek, So richly eloquent. I said consumption smote her, And the healer's art was vain, But she was an Indian maiden, So none deplored her pain ; None, save that widow'd mother, Who now, by her open tomb, Is writhing, like the smitten wretch Whom judgment marks for doom. Alas ! that lowly cabin, That bed beside the wall, That seat beneath the mantling vine, They 're lone and empty all. What hand shall pluck the tall green corn, That ripeneth on the plain 7 Since she for whom the board was spread Must ne'er return again. Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, Nor let thy murmuring shade Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn Thy burial rite survey'd ; There 's many a king whose funeral A black-robed realm shall see, For whom no tear of grief is shed Like that which falls for thee. Yea, rest thee, forest maiden, Beneath thy native tree ! The proud may boast their little day, Then sink to dust like thee : But there 's many a one funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom nature nor affection mourn, As here they mourn for thee. BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. " Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother." 2 Sam. xix. 37. Sox of JESSE ! let me go, Why should princely honours stay me ? Where the streams of Gilead flow, Where the light first met mine eye, Thither would I turn and die ; Where my parent's ashes lie, King of Israel ! bid them lay me. Bury me near my sire revered, Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod, Who early taught my soul with awe To heed the prophets and the law, And to my infant heart appear'd Majestic as a GOD : O ! when his sacred dust The cerements of the tomb shall burst, Might I be worthy at his feet to rise To yonder blissful skies, Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, JEHOVAH ! Lord of hosts, the glory shall be thine. Cold age upon my breast Hath shed a frost-like death ; The wine-cup hath no zest, The rose no fragrant breath ; Music from my ear hath fled, Yet still the sweet tone lingereth there. The blessing that my mother shed Upon my evening prayer. Dim is my wasted eye To all that beauty brings, The brow of grace 'the form of symmetry Are half-forgotten things ; Yet one bright hue is vivid still, A mother's holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. Memory, with traitor-tread Methinks, doth steal away Treasures that the mind hath laid Up for a wintry day. Images of sacred power, Cherish'd deep in passion's hour, Faintly now my bosom stir: Good and evil like a dream Half obscured and shadowy scrm, Yet with a changeless love my soul rememberethher, Yea it remembereth her : Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 235 DEATH OF AN INFANT. * DEATH found strange beauty on that polish'd brow, And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set The seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile, So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal The signet-ring of heaven. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom ; then, from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels Half-wreck'd through gulfs profound. Moons wax and wane, But still that patient traveller treads the deep. I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone, And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds. They land ! they land ! not like the Genoese, With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come From their long prison, hardy forms that brave The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair, Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round, Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, And savage men, who through the thickets peer With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps To this drear desert 1 Ask of him who left His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds, Distrusting not the guide who call'd him forth, Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark Hath spread her parting sail. They crowd the strand, Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link, Binding to man, and habitable earth, Is sever'd 1 Can ye tell what pangs were there, With keen regrets ; what sickness of the heart, What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, Their distant, dear ones 1 Long, with straining eye, They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness Sank down into their bosoms 7 No ! they turn Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray ! * Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life Fade into air. Up in each girded breast There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, A loftiness, to face a world in arms, To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood Of slain affections, should they rise between The soul and GOD. O ye, who proudly boast, In your free veins, the blood of sires like these, Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose Their likeness in your sons. Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart, or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core From manly virtue, or the tempting world Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to GOD. INDIAN NAMES. "How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are in- delibly stamped by names of their giving 1" YE say they all have pass'd away, That noble race and brave ; That their light canoes have vanish'd From off the crested wave ; That, mid the forests where they roam'd, There rings no hunter's shout ; But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out. 'T is where Ontario's billow Like ocean's surge is curl'd, Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world, Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast. Ye say their conelike cabins, That cluster'd o'er the vale, Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves Before the autumn's gale ; But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown. Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within its rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart. Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, Doth seal the sacred trust, Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust. GEORGE W. DOANE. [Born, 1799.] THE Right Reverend GEOHGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years old, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBAHT, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officiated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles Lettres and Oratory in Wash- ington College, Connecticut He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was conse- ON A VERY OLD WEDDING-RING. THE DEVICE Two hearts united. THE MOTTO" Dear love of mine, my heart is thine." I LIKE that ring that ancient ring, Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy, As were the sterling hearts of old. I like it for it wafts me back, Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days, The men and days of deeds sublime. But most I like it, as it tells The tale of well-requited love ; How youthful fondness persevered, And youthful faith disdain'd to rove How warmly he his suit preferr'd, Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued, at last, He won his fair and blooming bride." How, till the appointed day arrived, They blamed the lazy-footed hours How, then, the white-robed maiden train Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers And how, before the holy man, They stood, in all their youthful pride, And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows, Which bind the husband to his bride : All this it tells ; the plighted troth The gift of every earthly thing The hand in hand the heart in heart For this I like that ancient ring. I like its old and quaint device ; Two blended hearts" though time may wear them, No mortal change, no mortal chance, Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them. crated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. The church has few more active, efficient, or popular pre- lates. Bishop DOANE'S " Songs by the Way," a col- lection of poems, chiefly devotional, were pub- lished in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college-life. He has since, from time to time, written poetry for festival-days and other occasions; but he has published no second volume. His contributions to the religious literature of the country are more numerous and valuable. Year after year, 'neath sun and storm, Their hopes in heaven, their trust in GOD, In changeless, heartfelt, holy love, These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires, Their strength might fail, mid life's bleak weather, Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on Kind souls ! they slumber now together. I like its simple poesy too : " Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" Thine, when the dark storm howls along, As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. " This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" Thine, and thine only, and forever ; Thine, till the springs of life shall fail, Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long, Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness, Of heartfelt, holy love the token : What varied feelings round it cling ! For these I like that ancient ring. THE VOICE OF RAMA. " RACHEL weeping for her children, and would not be comforted." HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls, That voice of bitter weeping ! Is it the moan of fetter'd slave, His watch of sorrow keeping ? Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains, That cry of lamentation ! Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S sons, For Salem's devastation 1 Ah, no a sorer ill than chains That bitter wail is waking, 230 GEORGE W. DOANE. 237 And deeper wo than Salem's fall That tortured heart is breaking : 'Tis RACHEL, of her sons bereft, Who lifts that voice of weeping ; And childless are the eyes that there Their watch of grief are keeping. ! who shall tell what fearful pangs That mother's heart are rending, As o'er her infant's little grave Her wasted form is bending ; From many an eye that weeps to-day Delight may beam to-morrow; But she her precious babe is not ! And what remains but sorrow 1 Bereaved one ! I may not chide Thy tears and bitter sobbing Weep on ! 'twill cool that burning brow, And still that bosom's throbbing : But be not thine such grief as theirs To whom no hope is given Snatch'd from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven. THAT SILENT MOON. THAT silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, ! who shall tell what varied scenes Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth ! How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, And superstition's senseless rite, And loud, licentious revelry Profaned her pure and holy light : Small sympathy is hers, I ween, With sights like these, that virgin queen ! But dear to her, in summer eve, By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile in quiet loneliness, And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless. Dispersed along the world's wide way, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought, And start the tear for those we love, Who watch with us at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon. How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn, The magic of that moonlight sky, To bring again the vanish'd scenes The happy eves of days gone by ; Again to bring, mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon, On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep : ! softly beams her gentle eye On those who mourn, and those who die ! But, beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendours may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray : What power is hers to soothe the heart What power, the trembling tear to start ! The dewy morn let others love, Or bask them in the noontide ray ; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day : But, ! be mine a fairer boon That silent moon, that silent moon ! THERMOPYLAE. 'TWAS an hour of fearful issues, When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom, By that old Thessalian flood ; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves ! And, O ! that oath was nobly kept : From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight Which valour had begun ; Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood Ran down and mingled with the flood, And all, from mountain-clifT to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, Which nobly had been sworn, And proudly did each gallant heart The foeman's fetters spurn ; And firmly was the fight maintain'd, And amply was the triumph gain'd ; They fought, fair Liberty, for thee : They fell TO DIE is TO BE FREE. THE WATERS OF MARAH. " And MOSES cried unto the LORD, and the LORD showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet." B r Marah's stream of bitterness When MOSES stood and cried, JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer, And instant help supplied : The prophet sought the precious tree With prompt, obedient feet ; 'T was cast into the fount, and made The bitter waters sweet. Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds Its influence malign, Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer And prompt obedience, thine : 'Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd Thy faith in GOD to prove, And prayer and resignation shall Its bitterness remove. 238 GEORGE W. DOANE. "WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?" WHAT is that, Mother? The lark, my child ! The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, Mother 1 The dove, my son! And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, As the wave is pour'd from some crystal um, For her distant dear one's quick return: Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother? The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy ; Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward, and upward, and true to the line. What is that, Mother? The swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down, by himself to die ; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. A CHERUB. " Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made as very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656. BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light, And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright, Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne Of Him who dwelleth in light alone Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing, With the burning seraph choir to sing ? Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness, Our darkling path to cheer and bless? Beautiful thing ! thou art come in love, With gentle gales from the world above, Breathing of purencss, breathing of bliss, Bearing our spirits away from this, To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies ; Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile, With that Infant look and angel smile. Beautiful thing ! thou art come in joy, With the look and the voice of our darling boy Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts He had twined about with his infant arts, To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, In the golden orb of his little star: There he rejoiceth in light, while we Long to be happy and safe as he. Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace, Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease ; Wiping the tears which unbidden start From that bitter fount in the broken heart, Cheering us still on our lonely way, Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with CIIUIST, we come to be, Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE. THIS placid lake, my gentle girl, Be emblem of thy life, As full of peace and purity, As free from care and strife ; No ripple on its tranquil breast That dies not with the day, No pebble in its darkest depths, But quivers in its ray. And see, how every glorious form And pageant of the skies, Reflected from its glassy face, A mirror'd image lies ; So be thy spirit ever pure, To GOD and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear The imagery of heaven. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. LIFT not thou the wailing voice, Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth, Up, where blessed saints rejoice, Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth ; High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, Full the song of triumph swelleth; Freed from earth, and earthly failing, Lift for her ho voice of wailing! Pour not thou the bitter tear; Heaven its book of comfort opeth; Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, But, as one who alway hopeth, Humbly here in faith relying, Peacefully in JESUS dying, Heavenly joy her eye is flushing, W r hy should thine with tears be gushing? They who die in CHRIST are bless'd, Ours be, then, no thought of grieving! Sweetly with their Gon they rest, All their toils and troubles leaving: So be ours the faith that saveth, Hope that every trial braveth, Love that to the end endureth, And, through CHHIST, the crown secureth! W. B. 0. PEABODY. (Born, 1799.] THE Reverend WILLIAK B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820, he was established as a minister in the village of Springfield, Massachusetts, and has resided there since that time, discharging his professional duties, and occasionally writing for the North American Review and other periodicals. HYMN OF NATURE. GOD of the earth's extended plains ! The dark, green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune with the sky ; The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow. GOD of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summon'd up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. GOD of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. GOD of the light and viewless air ! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power. GOD of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. GOP of the rolling orbs above ! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne. GOD of the world ! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return ; Her crumbling altars must decay ; Her incense fires shall cease to burn ; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. TO WILLIAM. WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER. IT seems but yesterday, my love, Thy little heart beat high ; And I had almost scorn'd the voice That told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, With spirits wild and free ; And infant grace and beauty gave Their glorious charm to thee. Far on the sunny plains, I saw Thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird That cleaves the morning sky ; And often, as the playful breeze Waved back thy shining hah*, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint That health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice To hear, upon the morning wind, The music of thy voice, Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh, Now sad, almost to tears, 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years. Thanks for that memory to thee, My little, lovely boy, That memory of my youthful bliss, Which time would fain destroy. 939 240 W. B. O. PEABODY. I listen'd, as the mariner Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness ! Alas ! how could it be, That death would not forbear to lay His icy hand on thee ; Nor spare thee yet a little while, In childhood's opening bloom, While many a sad and weary soul Was longing for the tomb ! Was mine a happiness too pure For erring man to know 1 Or why did Heaven so soon destroy My paradise below? Enchanting as the vision was, It sunk away as soon As when, in quick and cold eclipse, The sun grows dark at noon. I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd ; But, ere the day was spent, I saw thy light and graceful form In drooping illness bent, And shudder'd as I cast a look Upon thy fainting head ; The mournful cloud was gathering there, And life was almost fled. Days pass'd ; and soon the seal of death Made known that hope was vain ; I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp Would never burn again ; The cheek was pale ; the snowy lips Were gently thrown apart ; And life, in every passing breath, Seem'd gushing from the heart. I knew those marble lips to mine Should never more be press'd, And floods of feeling, undefined, Roll'd wildly o'er my breast; Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms Seem'd moving in the gloom, As if death's dark array were come, To bear thee to the tomb. And when I could not keep the tear From gathering in my eye, Thy little hand press'd gently mine, In token of reply ; To ask one more exchange of love, Thy look was upward cast, And in that long and burning kiss Thy happy spirit pass'd. I never trusted to have lived To bid farewell to thee, And almost said, in agony, It ought not so to be ; I hoped that thou within the grave My weary head shouldst lay, And live, beloved, when I was gone, For many a happy day. With trembling hand, I vainly tried Thy dying eyes to close ; And almost envied, in that hour, Thy calm and deep repose ; For I was left in loneliness, With pain and grief oppress'd, And thou wast with the sainted, Where the weary are at rest. Yes, I am sad and weary now ; But let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, Is earlier bless'd than mine ; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life Can never reach thee more. MONADNOCK. UPOJT the far-off mountain's brow The angry storm has ceased to beat ; And broken clouds are gathering now In sullen reverence round his feet ; I saw their dark and crowded bands In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands, And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I 've seen him when the morning sun Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height ; I 've seen him when the day was done, Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I 've seen him at the midnight hour, When all the world were calmly sleeping, Lake some stern sentry in his tower, His weary watch in silence keeping. And there, forever firm and clear, His lofty turret upward springs ; He owns no rival summit near, No sovereign but the King of kings. Thousands of nations have pass'd by, Thousands of years unknown to story, And still his aged walls on high He rears, in melancholy glory. The proudest works of human hands Live but an age before they fall ; While that severe and hoary tower Outlasts the mightiest of them all. And man himself, more frail, by far, Than even the works his hand is raising, Sinks downward, like the falling star That flashes, and expires in blazing. And all the treasures of the heart, Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him; And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him. W. B. 0. PEABODY. 241 So should it be for no heart beats Within his cold and silent breast ; To him no gentle voice repeats The soothing words that make us blest And more than this his deep repose Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow ; He hath no weary eyes to close, No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. Farewell ! I go my distant way ; Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day, May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form Inspire in me the firm endeavour Like thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever. THE WINTER NIGHT. 'Tis the high festival of night ! The earth is radiant with delight ; And, fast as weary day retires, The heaven unfolds its secret fires, Bright, as when first the firmament Around the new-made world was bent, And infant seraphs pierced the blue, Till rays of heaven came shining through. And mark the heaven's reflected glow On many an icy plain below; And where the streams, with tinkling clash, Against their frozen barriers dash, Like fairy lances fleetly cast, The glittering ripples hurry past ; And floating sparkles glance afar, Like rivals of some upper star. And see, beyond, how sweetly still The snowy moonlight wraps th hill, And many an aged pine receives The steady brightness on its leaves, Contrasting with those giant forms, Which, rifled by the winter storms, With naked branches, broad and high, Are darkly painted on the sky. From every mountain's towering head A white and glistening robe is spread, As if a melted silver tide Were gushing down its lofty side ; The clear, cold lustre of the moon Is purer t'uan the burning noon ; And day hath never known the charm That dwells amid this evening calm. The idler, on his silken bed, May talk of nature, cold and dead ; But we will gaze upon this scene, Where some transcendent power hath been, And made these streams of beauty flow In gladness on the world below, Till nature breathes from every part The rapture of her mighty heart. 31 DEATH. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold. And let the evening sunlight in ; I would not that my heart grew cold Before its better years begin. 'T is well ; at such an early hour, So. calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power To drive its darker thoughts away. The bright, young thoughts of early days Shall gather in my memory now, And not the later cares, whose trace Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow. What though those days return no more ? The sweet remembrance is not vain, For Heaven is waiting to restore The childhood of my soul again. Let no impatient mourner stand In hollow sadness near my bed, But let me rest upon the hand, And let me hear that gentle tread Of her, whose kindness long ago, And still, unworn away by years, Has made my weary eyelids flow With grateful and admiring tears. I go, but let no plaintive tone The moment's grief of friendship tell ; And let no proud and graven stone Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven ! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this 1 AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light ! It melts in deepening gloom ; So calmly Christians sink away, Descending to the tomb. The wind breathes low ; the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree ; So gently flows the parting breath, When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed ! 'T is like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed. How mildly on the wandering cloud The sunset beam is cast ! 'T is like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last. And now, above the dews of night, The yellow star appears ; So faith springs in the heart of those Whose eyes are bathed in tears. But soon the morning's happier light Its glory shall restore; And eyelids that are seal'd in death Shall wake, to close no more. X ROBERT C. SANDS. [Born, 1799. Died, 1332.] THE history of American literature, for the period which has already passed, will contain the names of few men of greater genius, or more general learning, than ROBERT O. SANDS. His life has been written so well by his intimate friend, Gu- LiAiy C. VERPLANCK, LL. D., that I shall attempt only to present an abstract of the narrative of that accomplished scholar and critic. SANDS was born in the city of New York, (where his father, who had been distinguished for his pa- triotism during the revolutionary struggle, was an eminent merchant,) on the eleventh of May, 1799. At a very early age he was remarkable for great quickness of apprehension, and facility of acquir- ing knowledge. When seven years old, he began to study the Latin language, and at thirteen he was admitted to the sophomore class of Columbia College. He had already, under Mr. FINDLAY, of Newark, and the Reverend Mr. WHELPLEY, of New York, made great progress in classical know- ledge ; and while in the college, which had long been distinguished for sound and accurate instruc- tion in the dead languages, he excelled all his classmates in ancient learning, and was equally successful in the mathematics and other branches of study. In his second collegiate year, in con- junction with his friend EASTBDRN, and some other students, he established a periodical entitled "The Moralist," and afterward another, called " Academic Recreations," of both of which he wrote the principal contents. He was graduated in 1815, and soon after became a student in the law-office of DAVID B. OGIIEX, one of the most distinguished advocates of the time. He pursued his legal studies with great ardour ; his course of reading was very extensive ; and he became not only familiar with the more practical part of pro- fessional knowledge, but acquired a relish for the abstruse doctrines and subtle reasonings of the ancient common law. Still he found time for the study of the classics; and, in company with two or three friends, read several of the most difficult of the Greek authors, exactly and critically. His love of composition continued to grow upon him. He wrote on all subjects, and for all purposes ; and, in addition to essays and verses, on topics of his own choice, volunteered to write orations for the commence- ment displays of young graduates, verses for young lovers, and even sermons for young divines. Seve- ral of the latter, written in an animated style, were much admired, when delivered in the pulpit with good emphasis and discretion, to congregations who little suspected to whom they were indebted for their edification. One of them, at least, has been printed under the name of the clergyman by whom it was delivered. In 1817 he published a poem, which he had begun and in great part writ- ten four years before. It was called " The Bridal of Vaumond," and was a metrical romance, founded on the same legend of the transformation of a de- crepit and miserable wretch into a youthful hero, by compact with the infernal powers, which forms the groundwork of BYRON'S "Deformed Trans- formed." It was during the period of these studies, that he and three of his friends, of as many different professions, formed an association, of a somewhat remarkable character, under the name of the Lite- rary Confederacy. The number was limited to four ; and they bound themselves to preserve a friendly communication in all the vicissitudes of life, and to endeavour, by all proper means, to ad- vance their mutual and individual interest, to advise each other on every subject, and to receive with good temper the rebuke or admonition which might thus be given. They proposed to unite, from time to time, in literary publications, covenanting so- lemnly that no matter hostile to the great principles of religion or morals should be published by any member. This compact was most faithfully kept to the time of SANDS'S death, though the primary objects of it were gradually given np, as other duties engrossed the attention of its members. In the first year of its existence, the confederacy contri- buted largely to several literary and critical ga- zettes, besides publishing in one of the daily papers of the city a series of essays, under the title of the " Amphilogist," and a second under that of the " Neologist," which attracted much attention, and were very widely circulated and repnblished in the newspapers of the day. SANDS wrote a large portion of these, both in prose and verse. His friend EASTBURJT had now removed to Bristol, Rhode Island, where, after rtudying divi- nity for some time under the direction of Bishop GRISWOID, he took orders, and soon after settled in Virginia. A regular correspondence was kept up between the friends ; and the letters that have been preserved are fdled with the evidence of their literary industry. EASTIICRN had undertaken a new metrical version of the Psalms, which the pressure of his clerical duties and his untimely death prevented him from ever completing. SANDS was led by curiosity, as well as by his intimacy with EASTIJURN, to acquire some knowledge of the Hebrew. It was not very profound, but it enabled him to try his skill at the same transla- tion ; and he from time to time sent his friend a Psalm paraphrased in verse. But amid their severer studies and their literary amusements, they were engaged in a bolder poeti- cal enterprise. This was a romantic poem, founded on the history of PHILIP, the celebrated sachem 242 ROBERT C. SANDS. 243 of the Pequods, and leader of the great Indian wars against the New England colonists in 1665 and 1676. It was planned by EASTBURX. during his residence in the vicinity of Mount Hope, in Rhode Island, the ancient capital of the Pequod race, where the scene is laid. In the year following, when he visited New York, the plan of the story was drawn up in conjunction with his friend. "We had then," said SANDS, "read nothing on the sub- ject; and our plot was formed from a hasty glance into a few pages of Hun HARP'S Narrative. After EAST ii TUN'S return to Bristol, the poem was writ- ten, according to the parts severally assigned, and transmitted, reciprocally, in the course of corre- spondence. It was commenced in November, 1817, and finished before the summer of 1818, except the concluding stanzas of the sixth canto, which were added after Mr. EASTBCRX left Bristol. As the fable was defective, from our ignorance of the sub- ject, the execution was also, from the same cause, and the hasty mode of composition, in every re- spect imperfect Mr. EASTBURX was then pre- paring to take orders ; and his studies, with that view, engrossed his attention. He was ordained in October, 1818. Between that time and the period of his going to Accomack county, Virginia, whence he had received an invitation to take charge of a congregation, he transcribed the first two can- tos of this poem, with but few material variations, from the first collating copy. The labours of his ministry left him no time even for his most de- lightful amusement. He had made no further progress in the correction of the work when he returned to New York, in July, 1819. His health was then so much impaired, that writing of any kind was too great a labour. He had packed up the manuscripts, intending to finish his second copy in Santa Cruz, wither it was recommended to him to go, as the last resource to recruit his ex- hausted constitution." He died on the fourth day of his passage, on the second of December, 1819. The work, thus left imperfect, was revised, ar- ranged, and completed, with many additions, by SANDS. It was introduced by a proem, in which the surviving poet mourned, in noble and touch- ing strains, the accomplished friend of his youth. The work was published under the title of " Ya- moyden," at New York, in 1820. It unquestion- ably shows some marks of the youth of its Authors, besides other imperfections arising from the mode of its composition, which could not fail to prove a serious impediment to a clear connection of the plot, and a vivid and congruous conception of all the characters. Yet it has high merit in various ways. Its descriptions of natural scenery are alike accurate anc' beautiful. Its style is flexible, flow- ing, and poetical. It is rich throughout with histo- rical and antiquarian knowledge of Indian history and tradition; and every thing in the customs, man- ners, superstitions, and story of the aborigines of New England, that could be applied to poetical purposes, is used with skill, judgment, and taste. In 1820, SAXDS was admitted to the bar, and opened an office in the city of New York. He entered upon his professional career with high hopes and an ardent love of the learning of the law. His first attempt as an advocate was, how- ever, unsuccessful, and he was disheartened by the result. Though he continued the business of an attorney, he made no second attempt of conse- quence before a jury, and after a few years he gradually withdrew himself from the profession. During this period he persevered in his law read- ing, and renewed and extended his acquaintance with the Latin poets, and the "grave, lofty trage- dians" of Greece ; acquiring an intimacy such as professors might have envied, with the ancient languages and learning. He had early learned French, and was familiar with its copious and ele- gant literature ; but he never much admired it, and in his multifarious literary conversation and au- thorship, rarely quoted or alluded to a French author, except for facts. He now acquired the Italian, and read carefully and with great admira- tion all its great writers, from DAXTE to ALFIF.RI. His versions and imitations of POLITIAX, MONTI, and METASTASIO, attest how fully he entered into their spirit. Some time after he acquired the Spa- nish language very critically, and, after study ing its more celebrated writers, read very largely all the Spanish historians and documents he could find touching American history. In order to complete his acquaintance with the cognate modern lan- guages of Latin origin, he some years later ac- quired the Portuguese, and read such of its authors as he could procure. In 1822 and 1823 he wrote many articles for "The Literary Review," a monthly periodical then published in New York, which received great in- crease of reputation from his contributions. In the winter of 1823-4, he and some friends pub- lished seven numbers of a sort of mock-magazine, entitled The St. Tammany Magazine." Here he gave the reins to his most extravagant and happi- est humour, indulging in parody, burlesque, and grotesque satire, thrown off in the gayest mood and with the greatest rapidity, but as good-natured as satire and parody could well be. In May, 1824, "The Atlantic Magazine" was established in New York, and placed under his charge. At the end of six months he gave up this work ; but when it changed its name, and in part its character, and became the New York Review, he was ree'ngaged as an editor, and assisted in conducting it until 1827. During this same period he assisted in preparing and publishing a digest of equity cases, and also in editing some other legal compilations, enriching them with notes of the American deci- sions. These publications were, it is true, not of a high class of legal authorship ; but they show professional reading and knowledge, as well as the ready versatility of his mind. He had now become an author by profession, and looked to his pen for support, as heretofore for fame or for amusement. When, therefore, an offer of a liberal salary was made him as an assistant editor of the "New York j Commercial Advertiser," a long-established and i well-known daily evening pnper. he accepted it, and continued his connection with that journal until his death. 244 ROBERT C. SANDS. His daily task of political or literary discussion was far from giving him sufficient literary employ- ment. His mind overflowed in all directions into other journals, even some of different political opinions from those which he supported. He had a propensity for innocent and playful literary mis- chief. It was his sport to excite public curiosity by giving extracts, highly spiced with fashionable allusions and satire, "from the forthcoming novel,-" which novel, in truth, was, and is yet to be writ- ten ; or else to entice some unhappy wight into a literary or historical newspaper discussion, then to combat him anonymously, or, under the mask of a brother editor, to overwhelm him with history, facts, quotations, and authorities, all, if necessary, manufactured for the occasion ; in short, like SHAKSPEARE'S "merry wanderer of the night," to lead his unsuspecting victim around "through bog, through bush, through brier." One instance of this sportive propensity occurred in relation to a controversy about the material of the Grecian crown of victory, which arose during the excitement in favour of Grecian liberty some years ago. Several ingenious young men, fresh from their college studies, had exhausted all the learning they could procure on this grave question, either from their own acquaintance with antiquity, or at second hand from the writers upon Grecian antiquities, LEWPRIERE, POTTER, BARTHELEM:I, or the more erudite Paschalis de Corona,- till SANDS grew tired of seeing so much scholarship wasted, and ended the controversy by an essay filled with ex- cellent learning, chiefly fabricated by himself for the occasion, and resting mainly on a passage of PAUSANIUS, quoted in the original Greek, for which it is in vain to look in any edition of that author, ancient or modern. He had also other and graver employments. In 1828, some enterprising print- ers proposed to supply South America with Spa- nish books suited to that market, and printed in New York. Among the works selected for this purpose were the original letters of CORTES, the conqueror of Mexico. No good life of CORTES then existing in the English or Spanish language, SANDS was employed by the publishers to prepare one, which was to be translated into Spanish, and prefixed to the edition. He was fortunately re- lieved from any difficulty arising from the want of materials, by finding in the library of the New York Historical Society a choice collection of ori- ginal Spanish authorities, which afforded him all that he desired. His manuscript was translated into Spanish, and prefixed to the letters of the Con- quistador, of which a large edition was printed, while the original remained in manuscript until SANDS'S writings were collected, after his death, by Mr. VEHPLANCK. Thus his work had the sin- gular fortune of being read throughout Spanish America, in another language, while it was totally unknown in its own country and native tongue. Soon after completing this piece of literary labour, he became accidentally engaged in another under- taking which afforded him much amusement and gratification. The fashion of decorated literary annuals, which the English and French had bor- rowed some years before from the literary alma- nacs, so long the favourites of Germany, had reached the United States, and the booksellers in the principal cities were ambitiously vieing with each other in the " Souvenirs," Tokens," and other annual volumes. Mr. BLISS, a bookseller of New York, desirous to try his fortune in the same way, pressed Mr. SANDS to undertake the editorship of a work of this sort. This he at first declined ; but it happened that, in conversation with his two friends, Mr. VKTIPI.AXCK and Mr. BUT A XT, a regret was expressed that the old fashion of Queen ANNE'S time, of publishing vo- lumes of miscellanies by two or three authors together, had gone out of date. They had the advantage, it was said, over our ordinary maga- zines, of being more select and distinctive in the characters and subjects, and yet did not impose upon the authors the toil or responsibility of a regular and separate work. In this way POPE and SWIFT had published their minor pieces, as had other writers of that day, of no small merit and fame. One of the part) 1 proposed to publish a little volume of their own miscellanies, in humble imitation of the English wits of the last century. It occurred to SANDS to combine this idea with the form and decorations of the annual. The ma- terials of a volume were hastily prepared, nmid other occupations of the several authors, without any view to profit, and more for amusement than reputation ; the kindness of several artists, with whom SANDS was in habits of intimacy, furnished some respectable embellishments ; and thus a mis- cellany which, with the exception of two short poeti- cal contributions, was who'ly written by Mr. SANDS and his two friends above named, was published with the title of " The Talisman," and under the name and character of a^ima Binary author, FRAN- CIS HERBERT, Esq. It was favourably received, and, on the solicitation of the publisher, a second volume was as hastily prepared in the following year, by the same persons. Of this publication about one-fourth was entirely from SAXDS'S pen, and about as much more was his joint work with one or another of his friends. This, as the reader must have remarked, was a favourite mode of au- thorship with him. He composed with ease and rapidity, and, delighting in the work of composi- tion, it gave him additional pleasure to make it a social enjoyment. He had this peculiarity, that the presence of others, in which most authors find a restraint upon the free course of their thoughts and fancies, was to him a source of inspiration and excitement. This was peculiarly visible in gay or humorous writing. In social compositions of this nature, his talent for ludicrous description and character and incident rioted and revelled, so that it generally became more the business of his coadjutor to chasten and sober his thick-coming fancies, than to furnish any thing like an equal contingent of thought or invention. For the pur- pose of such joint-stock authorship it is necessary that one of the associates should possess SANDS'S unhesitating and rapid fluency of written style, and his singular power of seizing the ideas and ROBERT C. SANDS. 245 images of his friends, and assimilating them per- fectly to his own. His "Dream of PAPA^TZIN,"* a poem, one of the fruits of his researches into Mexican history, * " PAPAKTZIN, a Mexican princess, sister of MOTEUC- 7<)MA, and widow of the governor of Tlatelolco, died, as was supposed, in the palace of the latter, in 1509. Her funeral rites were celebrated with the usual pomp; her brother and all the nobility attending. She was buried in a cave, or subterranean grotto, in the gardens of the same palace, near a reservoir in which she usually bathed. The entrance of the cave was closed with a stone of no great size. Off the day after the funeral, a little girl, five or six years old, who lived in the palace, was going from her mother's house to the residence of the princess's m tjor-domo, in a farther part of the garden ; and passing by, she heard the princess calling to \\ereoeoton, a phrase used to call and coax children, &c. &c. The princess sent the little girl to call her mother, anM much alarm was of course excited. At length the King of Tezcuco was noti- fied of her resurrection ; and, jn his representation, Mo- TEUCZOMA himself, full of terror, visited her with his chief nobility. He asked her if she was his sister. 'I am, 'said slip, 'the same whom you buried yesterday. I am alive, and desire to tell you what I have seen, as it imports to know it.' Then the kings sat down, and the others re- nnined standing, marvelling at what they heard. "Then the princess, resuming her discourse, said: ' After my life, or, if that is possible, after sense and the power of motion departed, incontinently I found myself in a vast plain, to which there was no bound in any direc- tion. In the midst I discerned a road, which divided into various paths, and on one side was a great river, whose waters made a frightful rushing noise. Being minded to leap into it to cross to the opposite side, a fair youth stood before my eyes, of noble presence, clad in long robes, white as snow, and resplendent as the sun. He had two wings of beautiful plum.tge, and bore this sign on his fore- head, (so saying, the princess made with her fingers the sign of the cross;) and taking me by the hand, said, 'Stay, it is not yet time to pass this river. God lo'ves thee, al- though thou dost not know it.' Thence he led me along the shores of the river, wh^re I saw many skulls and human bones, and heard such doleful groans, that they moved me to compassion. Then, turning my eyes to the river, I saw in it divers great burks, and in them many men, different from those of these regions in dress and complexion. They were white and bearded, having standards in their hands, and helmets on their heads. Then the young man said to me, 'GoD wills that you should live, that you may bear testimony of the revolu- tions which are to occur in these countries. The cla- mours thou hast heard on these banks are those of the souls of thine ancestors, which are and ever will be tor- mented in punishment of their sins. The men whom thon seest parsing in the barks, are those who with arms will make themselves masters of this country; and with them will come also an annunciation of the true GOD, Creator of heaven and earth. When the war is finished, and thy ablution promulgated which washes away sin, thou slmlt be Arst to receive it, and guide by thine exam- ple all the inhabitants of this land." Thus having said, the young man disappeared ; and I found myself restored to life rose from the place on which I lay lifted the stone from the sepulchre, and issued forth from the gar- den, where the servants found me.' " MOTEUCZOMA went to his house of mourning, full of heavy thoughts, saying nothing to his sister, (whom he would never see again,) nor to the King of Tezcuco, nor to his courtiers, who tried to persuade him that it was a feverish fantasy of the princess. She lived many years afterward, and in 1524 was baptized." This incident, says CLAVIGERO, was universally known, and made a great noise at the time. It is described in several Mexican pictures, and affidavits of its truth were sent to the court of Spain. The Talisman. is remarkable for the religious solemnity of the thoughts, the magnificence of the imagery, and the flow of the versification. It was first published in "The Talisman," for the year 1839. His next literary employment was the publi- cation of a new "Life of PAUL JOXES," from ori- ginal letters and printed and manuscript materials furnished him by a niece of the commodore. He at first meditated an entirely original work, as attractive and discursive as he could make it ; but various circumstances limited him in great part to compilation and correction of the materials fur- nished him, or, as he termed it in one of his letters, in his accustomed quaintness of phrase, "upsetting some English duodecimos, together with all the manuscripts, into an American octavo, without worrying his brains much about the matter." This biography was printed in 1831, in a closely-printed octavo, and is doubtless the best and most authen- tic narrative of the life of this gallant, chivalrous, and erratic father of the American navy. In the close of the year 1832, a work, entitled " Tales of the Glauber Spa," was published in New York. This was a series of original tales by dif- ferent authors BRTANT, PAULDING, LEGGZTT, and Miss SEDGWICK. To this collection SASJJS contributed the introduction, which is tinged with his peculiar humour, and two of the tales, both of which are written in his happiest vein. The last finished composition of SAXDS was a little poem entitled "The Dead of 1832," which appeared anonymously in "The Commercial Ad- vertiser," about a week before his own death. He was destined to join those whom he mourned within the few remaining days of the same year. CHARLES F. HOFFMAN had then just established "The Knickerbocker Magazine," and SANDS, on the seventeenth of December, about four o'clock in the afternoon, sat down to finish an article on " Esquimaux Literature," which he had engaged to furnish for that periodical. After writing with a pencil the following line, suggested, probably, by some topic in the Greenland mythology, "O, think not my spirit among you abides," he was suddenly struck with the disease which removed his own spirit from its material dwelling. Below this line, on the original manuscript, were observed, after his death, several irregular pencil- marks, extending nearly across the page, as if traced by a hand that moved in darkness, or no longer obeyed the impulse of the will. He rose, opened the door, and attempted to pass out of the room, but fell on the threshold. On being assisted to his chamber, and placed on the bed, he was observed to raise his powerless right arm with the other, and looking at it, to shed tears. He shortly after relapsed into a lethargy, from which he never awoke, and in less than four hours from the attack, expired without a struggle. He died in his thirty- fourth year, when his talents, enriched by study and the experience of life, and invigorated by con- stant exercise, were fully matured for greater and bolder literary enterprise than any he had yet essayed. His death was deeply mourned by many friends, and most deeply b v those who knew him best. 246 ROBERT C. SANDS. PROEM TO YAMOYDEN. Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that cither bard shall e'er essay ! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them, in a happier day : Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave ; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallow'd honours crave ; His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave ! Friend of my youth, with thee began the love Of sacred song ; the wont, in golden dreams, Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams ; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom, gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, Forever lit by memory's twilight beams ; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear, O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll ; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole ; There would we mark, uncurb'd by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight ; Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, mid pagan night, In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. Homeward we turn'd, to that fair land, but late Redeem'd from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate And kept the key, till three millenniums pass'd ; When, as creation's noblest work was last ; Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. And here, forerunners strange and meet were found, Of that bless'd freedom, only dream'd before ; Dark were the morning mists, that linger'd round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. "Earth was their mother;" or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told ; For they were grave and silent; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old. Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard ; And him whom strength and wisdom crown'd they knew, But with no servile reverence, as their Iprd. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons pour'd To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works, their Father, King, and GOD. And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft-falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good ; But when the tempest roar'd, with voices rude, Or fierce red lightning fired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely sear'd the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign ; These they besought to spare, those bless'd for aid divine. As the fresh sense of life, through t^ery vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame ; Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name ; These simple truths went down from sire to son, To reverence age, the sluggish hunter's shame And craven ^warrior's infamy to shun, [done. And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred From forest shades, they peer'd, with awful dread, When, uttering flame arid thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride From shores and hills has vanish'd, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, seques- ter'd place. And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, To people scenes where still their names remain ; And so began our young, delighted strain, That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, And bid their martial hosts arise again, Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave. Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die ; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long, Though not to me the muse adverse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. But, no ! the freshness of the past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved and gather'd chaplets wild with thee ; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray; And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees ; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; ROBERT C. SANDS. 247 Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, They part for distant ports : the gales benign Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, To its own harbour sure, where each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. Muses of Helicon ! melodious race Of JOVE and golden-hair' d MNEMOSYXE ; Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, And drives each scowling form of grief away ! Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay Once trod, and round the altar of great JOVE ; Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and fill'd his courts above. Bright choir ! with lips untempted, and with zone Sparkling, and unapproach'd by touch profane ; Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ; Rightly invoked, if right the elected swain, On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honour'd hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore, Farewell ! a long farewell ! I worship you no more. DREAM OF THE PRINCESS PAPANTZIN. MEXITLIS' power was at its topmost pride ; The name was terrible from sea to sea ; From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite Maintain'd his savage freedom, to the shores Of wild Higueras. Through the nations pass'd, As stalks the angel of the pestilence, [young, The great king's messengers. They marked the The brave and beautiful, and bore them on For their foul sacrifices. Terror went Before the tyrant's heralds. Grief and wrath Remain'd behind their steps ; but they were dumb. He was as GOD. Yet in his capital Sat MOTEUCZOMA, second of that name, Trembling with fear of dangers long foretold In ancient prophecies, and now announced By signs in heaven and portents upon earth ; By the reluctant voices of pale priests ; By the grave looks of solemn counsellors ; But chief, by sickening heaviness of heart That told of evil, dimly understood, But evil which must come. With face obscured, And robed in night, the giant phantom rose, Of his great empire's ruin, and his own. Happier, though guiltier, he, before whose glance Of reckless triumph, moved the spectral hand That traced fhe unearthly characters of fate. 'T was then, one eve, when o'er the imperial lake And all its cities, glittering in thrir pomp, The lord of glory threw his parting smiles, In TLATELOT.CO'S palace, in her bower, PAPAXTZIX lay reclined ; sister of him At whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there To musings various, o'er her senses crept Or sleep, or kindred death. It seem'd she stood In an illimitable plain, that stretch'd Its desert continuity around, Upon the o'erwearied sight ; in contrast strange With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt, Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it, As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth ; Their summits freezing, where the eagle tired, But found no resting-place. PAPANTZIX look'd On endless barrenness, and walk'd perplex'd Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath, Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom Debarred from light and glory. Wandering thus, She came where a great sullen river pour'd Its turbid waters with a rushing sound Of painful moans ; as if the inky waves Were hastening still on their complaining course To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond What seem'd a highway ran, with branching paths Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew To shun with agile limbs the current's force, Nor fear'd the noise of waters. She had play'd From infancy in her fair native lake, Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round, Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues As fearless and as innocent as they. A vision stay'd her purpose. By her side Stood a bright youth; and startling, as she gazed On his effulgence, every sense was bound In pleasing awe and in fond reverence. For not TEZCATLIPOCA, as he shone Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven By filmy thread sustain'd he came to earth, In his resplendent mail reflecting all Its images, with dazzling portraiture, Was, in his radiance and immortal youth, A peer to this new god. His stature was Like that of men ; but match'd with his, the port Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien Of suppliants at their feet. Serene the light That floated round him, as the lineaments It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet The impression of his features, which to scan Their lofty loveliness forbade: His eyes She felt, but saw not : only, on his brow From over which, encircled by what seem'd A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light Revolving ever, backward flow'd his locks In buoyant, waving clusters on his brow She mark'd a cross described ; and lowly bent, She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign. From either shoulder mantled o'er his front Wings dropping feathery silver; and his robe, Snow-white, in the still air was motionless, As that of chisell'd god, or the pale shroud Of some fear-conjured ghost. Her hand he took And led her passive o'er the naked banks Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily. But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more ; His voice seem'd sweeter than the hymnings raised By brave and gentle souls in Paradise, To celebrate the outgoing of the sun, On his majestic progress over heaven. [yet " Stay, princess," thus he spoke, thou mayst not O'erpass these waters. Though thou know'st it not, Nor him, GOD loves thee." So he led her on, 248 ROBERT C. SANDS. Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds : For now, o'er scatter'd skulls and grisly bones They walk'd ; while underneath, before, behind, Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long, Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony, And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell Of hopeless and intolerable pain. Shuddering, as, in the gloomy whirlwind's pause, Through the malign, distemper'd atmosphere, The second circle's purple blackness, pass'd The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades Of poor FRANCESCA and her paramour, The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepp'd, Listening the frightful clamour ; till a gleam, Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seem'd Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up The sable river. Then a pageant came Over its obscure tides, of stately barks, Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device, Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high, Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air. Grim, bearded men, with stern and angry looks, Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore A broad sheet-pendant, where, inwrought with gold, She mark'd the symbol that adorned the brow Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose The roar of voices from the accursed strand, Until in tones, solemn and sweet, again Her angel-leader spoke. " Princess, GOD wills That thou shouldst live, to testify on earth What changes are to come : and in the world Where change comes never, live, when earth and all Its changes shall have pass'd like earth away. The cries that pierced thy soul and chill'd thy veins Are those of thy tormented ancestors. Nor shall their torment cease ; for GOD is just. Foredoom'd, since first from Aztlan led to rove, Following, in quest of change, their kindred tribes Where'er they rested, with foul sacrifice They stain'd the shuddering earth. Their monu- Ey blood cemented, after ages pass'd, [ments, With idle wonder of fantastic guess The traveller shall behold. For, broken, then, Like their own ugly idols, buried, burn'd, Their fragments spurn'd for every servile use, Trampled and scatter'd to the reckless winds, The records of their origin shall be. Still in their cruelty and untamed pride, They lived and died condemn'd; whether they Outcasts, upon a soil that was not theirs, [dwelt All sterile as it was, and won by stealth Food from the slimy margent of the lake, And digg'd the earth for roots and unclean worms ; Or served in bondage to another race, Who loved them not. Driven forth, they wander'd In miserable want, until they came [then Where from the thriftless rock the nopal grew, On which the hungry eagle perch'd and screarn'd, And founded Tenochtitlan ; rearing first, With impious care, a cabin for their god HUITZIIOPOCHTLI, and with murderous rites Devoting to his guardianship themselves And all their issue. Quick the nopal climb'd, Its harsh and bristly growth towering o'er all The vale of Anahuac. Far for his prey, And farther still the ravenous eagle flew ; And still with dripping beak, but thirst unslaked, With savage cries wheel'd home. Nine kings have reign'd, Their records blotted and besmear'd with blood So thick that none may read them. Down the stairs And o'er the courts and winding corridors Of their abominable piles, uprear'd In the face of heaven, and naked to the sun, More blood has flow'd than would have fill'd the lakes O'er which, enthroned midst carnage, they have sat, Heaping their treasures for the stranger's spoil. Prodigious cruelty and waste of life, Unnatural riot and blaspheming pride, All that GOD hates, and all that tumbles down Great kingdoms and luxurious commonwealths, After long centuries waxing all corrupt, In their brief annals aggregated, forced, And monstrous, are compress'd. And now the cup Of wrath is full ; and now the hour has come. Nor yet unwarn'd shall judgment overtake The tribes of Aztlan, and in chief their lords, MEXITLIS' blind adorers. As to one Who feels his inward malady remain, Howe'er health's seeming mocks his destiny, In gay or serious mood the thought of death Still comes obtrusive ; so old prophecy, From age to age preserved, has told thy race How strangers, from beyond the rising sun, Should come with thunder arm'd, to overturn Their idols, to possess their lands, and hold Them and their children in long servitude. Thou shalt bear record that the hour is nigh. The white and bearded men whose grim array Swept o'er thy sight, are those who are to come, And with strong arms, and wisdom stronger far, Strange beasts, obedient to their masters' touch, And engines hurling death, with Fate to aid, Shall wrest the sceptre from the Azteques' line, And lay their temples flat. Horrible war, Rapine, and murder, and destruction wild Shall hurry like the whirlwind o'er the land. Yet with the avengers come the word of peace ; With the destroyers comes the bread of life ; And, as the wind-god, in thine idle creed, Opens a passage with his boisterous breath Through which the genial waters over earth Shed their reviving showers ; so, when the storm Of war has pass'd, rich dews of heavenly grace Shall fall on flinty hearts. And thou, the flower, Which, when huge cedars and most ancient pines, Coeval with the mountains, are uptorn, The hurricane shall leave unharm'd, thou, then, Shalt be the first to lift thy drooping head Renew'd, and cleansed from every former stain. " The fables of thy people teach, that when The deluge drown'd mankind, and one sole pair In fragile bark preserved, escaped and climb'd The steeps of Colhuacan, daughters and sons Were born to them, who knew not how to frame Their simplest thoughts in speech ; till from the A dove pour'd forth, in regulated sounds, [grove ROBEKT C. SANDS. 249 Bach varied form of language. Then they spake, Though neither by another understood. But thou shalt then hear of that holiest Dove, Which is the Spirit of the eternal GOD. When all was void and dark, he moved above Infinity; and from beneath his wings Earth and the waters and the islands rose ; The air was quicken'd, and the world had life. Then all the lamps of heaven began to shine, And man was made to gaze upon their fires. "Among thy fathers' visionary tales, Thou'st heard, how once near ancient Tula dwelt A woman, holy and devout, who kept The temple pure, and to its platform saw A globe of emerald plumes descend from heaven. Placing it in her bosom to adorn Her idol's sanctuary, (so the tale Runs,) she conceived, and bore MEXITII. He, When other children had assail'd her life, Sprang into being, all equipp'd for war ; His green plumes dancing in their circlet bright, Like sheaf of sun-lit spray cresting the bed Of angry torrents. Round, as Tonatiuh Flames in mid-heaven, his golden buckler shone ; Like nimble lightning flash'd his dreadful lance ; And unrelenting vengeance in his eyes Blazed with its swarthy lustre. He, they tell, Led on their ancestors ; and him the god Of wrath and terror, with the quivering hearts And mangled limbs of myriads, and the stench Of blood-wash'd shrines and altars they appease. But then shall be reveal'd to thee the name And vision of a virgin undefiled, Embalm'd in holy beauty, in whose eyes, Downcast and chaste, such sacred influence lived, That none might gaze in their pure spheres and feel One earth-born longing. Over her the Dove Hung, and the Almighty power came down. She In lowliness, and as a helpless babe, [bore Heir to man's sorrows and calamities, His great Deliverer, Conqueror of Death ; And thou shalt learn, how when in years he grew Perfect, and fairer than the sons of men, And in that purifying rite partook Which thou shalt share, as from his sacred locks The glittering waters dropp'd, high over head The azure vault was open'd, and that Dove Swiftly, serenely floating downwards, stretch'd His silvery pinions o'er the anointed Lonn, Sprinkling celestial dews. And thou shalt hear How, when the sacrifice for man had gone In glory home, as his chief messengers Were met in council, on a mighty wind The Dove was borne among them ; on each brow A forked tongue of fire unquenchable lit; And, as the lambent points shot up and waved, Strange speech came to them ; thence to every land, In every tongue, they, with untiring steps. Bore the glad tidings of a world redeem'd." Much more, which now it suits not to rehearse, The princess heard. The historic prophet told Past, present, future, things that since have been, And things that are to come. And, as he ceased, O'er the black river, and the desert plain, As o'er the close of counterfeited scenes, 32 Shown by the buskin'd muse, a veil came down, Impervious ; and his figure faded swift In the dense gloom. But then, in starlike light, That awful symbol which adorn'd his brow In size dilating show'd : and up, still up, In its clear splendour still the same, though still Lessening, it mounted ; and PAPANTZIX woke. She woke in darkness and in solitude. Slow pass'd her lethargy away, and long To her half-dreaming eye that brilliant sign Distinct appear'd. Then damp and close she felt The air around, and knew the poignant smell Of spicy herbs collected and confined. As those awakening from a troubled trance Are wont, she would have learn'd by touch if yet The spirit to the body was allied. Strange hindrances prevented. O'er her face A mask thick-plated lay : and round her swathed Was many a costly and encumbering robe, Such as she wore on some high festival, O'erspread with precious gems, rayless and cold, That now press'd hard and sharp against her touch. The cumbrous collar round her slender neck, Of gold, thick studded with each valued stone Earth and the sea-depths yield for human pride The bracelets and the many twisted rings That girt her taper limbs, coil upon coil What were they in this dungeon's solitude 1 The plumy coronal that would have sprung Light from her fillet in the purer air, Waving in mockery of the rainbow tints, Now drooping low, and steep'd in clogging dews, Oppressive hung. Groping in dubious search, She found the household goods, the spindle, broom, GICALLI quaintly sculptured, and the jar That held the useless beverage for the dead. By these, and by the jewel to her lip Attach'd, the emerald symbol of the soul, In its green life immortal, soon she knew Her dwelling was a sepulchre. She loosed The mask, and from her feathery bier uprose, Casting away the robe, which like long alb Wrapp'd her ; and with it many an aloe leaf, Inscribed with Azteck characters and signs, To guide the spirit where the serpent hiss'd, Hills tower'd, and deserts spread, and keen winds blew, And many a " Flower of Death ;" though their frail leaves Were yet unwither'd. For the living warmth Which in her dwelt, their freshness had preserved ; Else, if corruption had begun its work, The emblems of quick change would have survived Her beauty's semblance. What is beauty worth, If the cropp'd flower retains its tender bloom When foul decay has stolen the latest lines Of loveliness in death 1 Yet even now PAPAXTZIN knew that her exuberant locks Which, unconfinccl, had round her flow'd to earth, Like a stream rushing uown some rocky steep, Threading ten thousand channels had been shorn Of half their waving length, and liked it not. But through a crevice soon she mark'd a gleam Of rays uncertain ; and, with staggering steps, But strong in reckless dreaminess, while still 250 ROBERT C. SANDS. Presided o'er the chaos of her thoughts The revelation that upon her soul Dwelt with its power, she gain'd the cavern's throat, And push'd the quarried stone aside, and stood In the free air, and in her own domain. But now, obscurely o'er her vision swam The beauteous landscape, with its thousand tints And changeful views ; long alleys of bright trees Bending beneath their fruits ; espaliers gay With tropic flowers and shrubs that fill'd the breeze With odorous incense, basins vast, where birds With shining plumage sported, smooth canals Leading the glassy wave, or towering grove Of forest veterans. On a rising bank, Her seat accustom'd, near a well hewn out From ancient rocks, into which waters gush'd From living springs, where she was wont to bathe, She threw herself to muse. Dim on her sight The imperial city and its causeways rose, With the broad lake and all its floating isles And glancing shallops, and the gilded pomp Of princely barges, canopied with plumes Spread fanlike, or with tufted pageantry Waving magnificent. Uninark'd around The frequent huitzilin, with murmuring hum Of ever-restless wing, and shrill, sweet note, Shot twinkling, with the ruby star that glow'd Over his tiny bosom, and all hues That loveliest seem in heaven, with ceaseless change, Flashing from his fine films. And all in vain Untiring, from the rustling branches near, Pour'd the centzontli all his hundred strains Of imitative melody. Not now She heeded them. Yet pleasant was the shade Of palms and cedars ; and through twining boughs And fluttering leaves, the subtle god of air, The serpent arm'd with plumes, most welcome crept, And fann'd her cheek with kindest ministry. A dull and dismal sound came booming on ; A solemn, wild, and melancholy noise, Shaking the tranquil air ; and afterward A clash and jangling, barbarously prolonged, Torturing the unwilling ear, rang dissonant Again the unnatural thunder roll'd along, Again the crash and clamour follow'd it. Shuddering she heard, who knew that every peal From the dread gong announced a victim's heart Torn from his breast, and each triumphant clang, A mangled corse, down the great temple's stairs Hurl'd headlong ; and she knew, as lately taught, How vengeance was ordain'd for cruelty ; How pride would end ; and uncouth soldiers tread Through bloody furrows o'er her pleasant groves And gardens ; and would make themselves a road Over the dead, choking the silver lake, And cast the batter'd idols down the steps That climb'd their execrable towers, and raze Sheer from the ground AHUITZOL'S mighty pile. There had been wail for her in Mexico, And with due rites and royal obsequies, Not without blood at devilish altars shed, She had been number'd with her ancestry. Here when beheld, revisiting the light, Great marvel rose, and greater terror grew, Until the kings came trembling, to receive The foreshown tidings. To his house of wo Silent and mournful, MOTETJCZOMA went. Few years had pass'd, when by the rabble hands Of his own subjects, in ignoble bonds He fell ; and on a hasty gibbet rear d By the road-side, with scorn and obloquy The brave and gracious GUATF.MOTZIX hung; While to Honduras, thirsting for revenge, And gloomier after all his victories, Stern CORTES stalked. Such was the will of GOD. And then, with holier rites and sacred pomp, Again committed to the peaceful grave, PAPANTZIN slept in consecrated earth. MONODY ON SAMUEL PATCH.* By water shall he die, and take his end. SHAKSPEARE. TOLL for SAM PATCH ! SAM PATCH, who jumps no more, This or the world to come. SAM PATCH is dead ! The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore Of dark futurity, he would not tread. No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed ; Nor with decorous wo, sedately stepp'd Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed ; The mighty river, as it onward swept, In one great, wholesale sob, his body drown'd and kept. Toll for SAM PATCH ! he scorn'd the common way That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent, And having heard POPE and LOXGINUS say, That some great men had risen to falls, he went And jump'd, where wild Passaic's waves had rent The antique rocks ; the air free passage gave, And graciously the liquid element Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave ; And all the people said that SAM was very brave. Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise, Led SAM to dive into what BTKOS calls The hell of waters. For the sake of praise, He woo'd the bathos down great waterfalls ; The dizzy precipice, which the eye appals Of travellers for pleasure, SAMUEL found Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls, Cramm'd full of fools and fiddles ; to the sound Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound. SAM was a fool. But the large world of such Has thousands better taught, alike absurd, And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much, Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard. * SAMUEL "PATCH was a boatman on the Erie Canal, in New York. He made himself notorious by leaping from the masts of ships, from the Falls of Niagara, and from the Falls in the Genesee River, at Rochester. His last feat was in the summer of 1831, when, in the presence of many thousands, he jumped from above the highest rock over which the water falls in the Genesee, and was lost. He had become intoxicated, before going upon the scaffold, and lost his balance in descending. The above verses were written a few days after this event. ROBERT C. SANDS. 251 Alas for SAM ! Had he aright preferr'd The kindly element, to which he gave Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard That it was now his winding-sheet and grave, Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave. He soon got drunk, with rum and with renown, As many others in high places do ; Whose fall is like SAM'S last for down and down, By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through The gulf that keeps the future from our view, And then are found not. May they rest in peace ! We heave the sigh to human frailty due And shall not SAM have his 7 The muse shall cease To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece With demigods, who went to the Black Sea For wool, (and, if the best accounts be straight, Came back, in negro phraseology, With the same wool each upon his pate,) In which she chronicled the deathless fate Of him who jump'd into the perilous ditch Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which He made himself renown'd, and the contractors rich I say, the muse shall quite forget to sound The chord whose music is undying, if She do not strike it when SAM PATCH is drown'd. LEAXDER dived for love. Leucadia's cliff The Lesbian SAPPHO leap'd from in a miff, To punish PHAOX ; ICARUS went dead, Because the wax did not continue stiff; And, had he minded what his father said, He had not given a name unto his watery bed. And HELLE'S case was all an accident, As everybody knows. Why sing of these 7 Nor would I rank with SAM that man who went Down into ^Etna's womb EMPEDOCLES, I think he call'd himself. Themselves to please, Or else unwillingly, they made their springs ; For glory in the abstract, SAM made his, To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings, That " some things may be done, as well as other things." I will not be fatigued, by citing more Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design, Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore, VULCAX, APOLLO, PHAETON in fine, All TOOKE'S Pantheon. Yet they grew divine By their long tumbles ; and if we can match Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine One wreath 1 Who ever came " up to the scratch," And, for so little, jump'd so bravely as SAM PATCH I To long conclusions many men have jump'd In logic, and the safer course they took ; By any other, they would have been stump'd, Unable to argue, or to quote a book, [brook ; And quite dumb-founded, which they cannot They break no bones, and suffer no contusion, Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook, In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion ; But that was not the way SAM came to his conclusion. He jump'd in person. Death or Victory Was his device, " and there was no mistake," Except his last ; and then he did but die, A blunder which the wisest men will make. Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break, To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes, And down into the coil and water-quake To leap, like MAIA'S offspring, from the skies For this, all vulgar flights he ventured to despise. And while Niagara prolongs its thunder, Though still the rocl^ primeval disappears, And nations change their bounds the theme of wonder Shall SAM go down the cataract of long years; And if there be sublimity in tears, Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears Lest by the ungenerous crowd it might be said, That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled. Who would compare the maudlin ALEXANDER, Blubbering, because he had no job hi hand, Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander, With SAM, whose grief we all can understand 1 His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd For exhibition ; but his heart o'erswell'd With its own agony, when he the grand Natural arrangements for a jump beheld, And, measuring the cascade, found not his courage quell'd. His last great failure set the final seal Unto the record Time shall never tear, While bravery has its honour, while men feel The holy, natural sympathies which are First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where The tortured tides of Genessee descend, He came his only intimate a bear, (We know not that he had another friend,) The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end. The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him : With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul, He stood upon the salient current's brim ; His head was giddy, and his sight was dim ; And then he knew this leap would be his last, Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim, With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast, That stared in mockery ; none a look of kindness cast. Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre " I see before me the gladiator lie," And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there The bow of grace, without one pitying eye He was a slave a captive hired to die ; SAM was born free as CJESAR ; and he might The hopeless issue have refused to try ; No ! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight, " Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night." But, ere he leap'd, he begg'd of those who made Money by his dread venture, that if he Should perish, such collection should be paid As might be pick'd up from the " company 252 ROBERT C. SANDS. To his mother. This, his last request, shall be, Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should An iris, glittering o'er his memory, [know When all the streams have worn their barriers low, And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow. On him who chooses to jump down cataracts, Why should the sternest moralist be severe 1 Judge not the dead by prejudice but facts, Such as in strictest evidence appear ; Else were the laurels of all ages sere. Give to the brave, who have pass'd the final goal, The gates that ope not back, the generous tear ; And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll, [roll. In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment- T/ierefore it is considered, that SAM PATCH Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme ; His name shall be a portion in the batch Of the heroic dough, which baking Time Kneads for consuming ages and the chime Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring, Shall tell of him ; he dived for the sublime, And found it Thou, who with the eagle's wing, Being a goose, wouldst fly, dream not of such a thing ! EVENING.* HAIL ! sober evening ! thee the harass'd brain And aching heart with fond orisons greet ; The respite thou of toil ; the balm of pain ; To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet : 'Tis then the sage, from forth his lone retreat, The rolling universe around espies ; 'T is then the bard may hold communion sweet With lovely shapes, unkenn'd by grosser eyes, And quick perception comes of finer mysteries. The silent hour of bliss ! when in the west Her argent cresset lights the star of love : The spiritual hour ! when creatures bless'd Unseen return o'er former haunts to rove ; While sleep his shadowy mantle spreads above, Sleep, brother of forgetfulness and death, Round well-known couch, with noiseless tread they rove, In tones of heavenly music comfort breathe, And tell what weal or bale shall chance the moon beneath. Hour of devotion ! like a distant sea, The world's loud voices faintly murmuring die ; Responsive to the spheral harmony, While grateful hymns are bornefrom earth on high. O ! who can gaze on yon unsullied sky, And not grow purer from the heavenward view 7 As those, the Virgin Mother's meek, full eye, Who met, if uninspired lore be true, Felt a new birth within, and sin no longer knew. Let others hail the oriflamme of morn, O'er kindling hills unfurl'd with gorgeous dyes ! O, mild, blue Evening ! still to thee I turn, With holier thought, and with undazzled eyes; * From " Yamoyden." Where wealth and power with glare and splen- dour rise, Let fools and slaves disgustful incense burn ! Stilt Memory's moonlight lustre let me prize ; The great, the good, whose course is o'er, discern, And, from their glories past, time's mighty lessons learn ! WEEHAWKEN. EVE o'er our path is stealing fast; Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore ; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light. The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast-extending shades ; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That leaves its rock-encumber'd feet. River and mountain ! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong ; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording muse What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate. Yet, should the stranger ask, what lore Of by-gone days, this winding shore, Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, If vocal made by Fancy's spell, The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse. O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod ; Or pcer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, Have lurk'd in yon obstructed caves. When the great strife for Freedom rose, Here scouted oft her friends and foes, Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flash'd bright and far; And here, when Freedom's strife was won, Fell, in sad feud, her favour'd son ; Her son, the second of the band, The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon capes the banks ascend, Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend ; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye. There last he stood. Before his sight Flow'd the fair river, free and bright; The rising mart, and isles, and bay, Before him in their glory lay, Scenes of his love and of his fame, The instant ere the death-shot came. ROBERT C. SANDS. 253 THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS. THF.T say that, afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread ; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of Lovers. There verdure fades never ; immortal in bloom, Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume ; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage de- press'd, All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east ; There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers : 'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green Isle of Lovers ! Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover Onhighwith their shade the green Isle of the Lover. But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowingwith ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile ; From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green Isle of Lovers. And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, In mazes perplcx'd, has beheld it no more ; It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue ; O ! who in this vain world of wo shall discover The home undisturb'd, the green Isle of the Lover ! THE DEAD OF 1832. O, TIME and Death ! with certain pace, Though still unequal, hurrying on, O'erturning, in your awful race, The cot, the palace, and the throne ! Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps : In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast, dim chambers hie : Where, mingled with the high and low, Dead CAESARS and dead SHAKSPF.AHES lie ! Dread ministers of Gon ! sometimes Ye smite at once to do his will, In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes, Those whose renown ye cannot kill ! When all the brightest stars that burn At once are banish'd from their spheres, Men sadly ask, when shall return Such lustre to the coming years ! For where is he* who lived so long Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And show'd his fate in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost 7 Where he who backward to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth Found out the handiwork of GOD ?| Where he who in the mortal head,^ Ordain'd to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness 1 Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre, Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's lire, The diapason of the soul ? Where he who read the mystic lorej Buried where buried PHAHAOHS sleep ; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep ? Where he who, with a poet's eye^ Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in his numbers glazed ? Where that old sage so hale and staid,** The greatest good" who sought to find ; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule for all mankind 1 And thou whom millions far removed-j-f- Revered the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy WESLEY'S coffin lies. He, too the heir of glory whereat Hath great NAPOLEON'S scion fled 1 Ah ! glory goes not to an heir ! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead ! But hark ! a nation sighs ! for he, Last of the brave who perill'd all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call ! They go and with them is a crowd, For human rights who thought and did : We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid. All earth is now their sepulchre, The mind, their monument sublime Young in eternal fame they are Such are your triumphs, Death and Time. * Goethe and his Faust. f Cnvier. t Spurzheim. J Scntt. || Champollion. ^ Crahbe. ** Jeremy Bentham. ft Adam Clarke. It The Duke of Reichstadt. &} Charles Carroll. 254 ROBERT C. SANDS. PARTING. SAT, when afar from mine thy home shall be, Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me 1 When other scenes in beauty round thee lie, Will these be present to thy mental eye 1 Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise, Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays 1 Ah me ! what is there, in earth's various range, That time and absence may not sadly change ! And can the heart, that still demands new ties, New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies The waxen heart, where every seal may set, In turn, its stamp remain unalter'd yet, While nature changes with each fleeting day, And seasons dance their varying course away? Ah ! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must part, That yet can feed with life this wither'd heart ! Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be, 'T were, even in madness, faithful still to thee ; And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain, The golden bowl no other links sustain ; Crush'd in the dust, its fragments then must sink, And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink. Blame not, if oft, in melancholy mood, This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued ; And if the soul, which high with hope should beat, Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat. Majestic nature ! since thy course began, Thy features wear no sympathy for man ; The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours ; O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers, And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound, Heeds not the melancholy ruin round. The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees. One only heart, still true in joy or wo, Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow. If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give, O, who would ask the ungracious boon to live 1 Then better 'twere, if longer doom'd to prove The listless load of life, unbless'd with love, To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair, And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there ; Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar, Hath echoed ever ; in whose central woods, With the quick spirit of its solitudes, In converse deep, strange sympathies untried, The soul might find, which this vain world denied. But I will trust that heart, where truth alone, In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne ; And thus believing, fear not all the power Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour. If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame, And write on memory's scroll a deathless name, 'Tis but thy loved, approving smile to meet, And lay the budding laurels at thy feet. If e'er for worldly wealth I heave a sigh, And glittering visions float on fancy's eye, 'T is but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread, And place the diadem on beauty's head. Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway, Thy ruling presence lives but to obey ; And shouldst thou e'er their bless'd allegiance slight, The mind must wander, lost in endless night. Farewell ! forget me not, when others gaze Enamour'd on thee, with the looks of praise ; When weary leagues before my view are cast, And each dull hour seems heavier than the last, Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend, And mayst thou find in every form a friend ; With care unsullied be thy every thought ; And in thy dreams of home, forget me not ! CONCLUSION TO YAMOYDEN. SAD was the theme, which yet to try we chose, In pleasant moments of communion sweet ; When least we thought of earth's unvarnish'd woes, And least we dream'd, in fancy's fond deceit, That either the cold grasp of death should meet, Till after many years, in ripe old age ; Three little summers flew on pinions fleet, And thou art living but in memory's page, And earth seems all to me a worthless pilgrimage. Sad was our theme ; but well the wise man sung, Better than festal halls, the house of wo ;" 'Tis good to stand destruction's spoils among, And muse on that sad bourne to which we go. The heart grows better when tears freely flow ; And, in the many-colour'd dream of earth, One stolen hour, wherein ourselves we know, Our weakness and our vanity, is worth Years of unmeaning smiles, and lewd, obstrepe- rous mirth. 'Tis good to muse on nations pass'd away, Forever, from the land we call our own ; Nations, as proud and mighty in their day, Who deem'd that everlasting was their throne. An age went by, and they no more were known Sublimer sadness will the mind control, Listening time's deep and melancholy moan ; And meaner griefs will less disturb the soul ; And human pride falls low, at human grandeur's goal. PHILIP ! farewell ! thee King, in idle jest, Thy persecutors named ; and if indeed] The jewell'd diadem thy front had press'd, It had become thee better, than the breed Of palaces, to sceptres that succeed, To be of courtier or of priest the tool, Satiate dull sense, or count the frequent bead, Or pamper gormand hunger ; thou wouldst rule Better than the worn rake, the glutton, or the fool ! I would not wrong thy warrior shade, could I Aught in my verse or make or mar thy fame ; As the light carol of a bird flown by [name : Will pass the youthful strain that breathed thy But in that land whence thy destroyers came, A sacred bard thy champion shall be found ; He of the laureate wreath for thee shall claim The hero's honours, to earth's farthest bound, Where Albion's tongue is heard, or Albion's songs resound. ROBERT C. SAIVDS. 255 INVOCATION. OH quick for me the goblet fill, From bright Castalia's sparkling rill ; Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough, And let its foliage wreathe my brow ; And bring the lyre with sounding shell, The four-string'd lyre I loved so well ! Lo ! as I gaze, the picture flies Of weary life's realities ; Behold the shade, the wild wood shade, The mountain steeps, the checker 1 d glade; And hoary rocks and bubbling rills, And painted waves and distant hills. Oh ! for an hour, let me forget How much of life is left me yet ; Recall the visions of the past, Fair as these tints that cannot last, That all the heavens and waters o'er Their gorgeous, transient glories pour. Ye pastoral scenes, by fancy wrought ! Ye pageants of the loftier thought ! Creations proud ! majestic things ! Heroes, and demigods, and kings ! Return, with all of shepherds' lore, Or old romance that pleased before ! Ye forms that are not of the earth, Of grace, of valour, and of worth ! Ye bright abstractions, by the thought Like the great master's pictures, wrought To the ideal's shadowy mien, From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen ! Ye speaking sounds, that poet's ear Alone in nature's voice can hear! Thou full conception, vast and wide, flour of the lonely minstrel's pride, As when projection gave of old Alchymy's visionary gold ! Return ! return ! oblivion bring Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting! The hour of gloom is o'er my soul ; Disperse the shades, the fiends control, As David's harp had power to do, If sacred chronicles be true. Oh come ! by every classic spell, By old Pieria's haunted well ; By revels on the Olmeian height Held in the moon's religious light; By virgin forms that wont to lave, Permessus ! in thy lucid wave ! In vain ! in vain ! the strain has pass'd ; The laurel leaves upon the blast Float, wither'd, ne'er again to bloom, The cup is drain'd the song is dumb And spell and rhyme alike in vain Would woo the genial muse again. GOOD-NIGHT. GOOD night to all the world ! there's none, Beneath the over-going" sun, To whom I feel or hate or spite, And so to all a fair good-night. Would I could say good night to pain, Good night to conscience and her train, To cheerless poverty, and shame That I am yet unknown to fame ! Would I could say good night to dreams That haunt me with delusive gleams, That through the sable future's veil Like meteors glimmer, but to fail. Would I could say a long good-night To halting between wrong and right, And, like a giant with new force, Awake prepared to run my course ! But time o'er good and ill sweeps on, And when few years have come and gone, The past will be to me as naught, Whether remember'd or forgot. Yet let me hope one faithful friend, O'er my last couch shall tearful bend ; And, though no day for me was bright, Shall bid me then a long good-night. FROM A MONODY ON J. W. EASTBURN. BUT now, that cherish'd voice was near ; And all around yet breathes of him ; We look, and we can only hear The parting wings of cherubim ! Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught To share the bard's communion high ; To scan the ideal world of thought, That floats before the poet's eye ; Ye, who with ears o'ersated long, From native bards disgusted fly, Expecting only, in their song, The ribald strains of calumny ; Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet, Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire, But chose immortal themes as meet Alone for an immortal lyre. O silent shell ! thy chords are riven ! That heart lies cold before its prime ! Mute are those lips, that might have given One deathless descant to our clime ! . No laurel chaplet twines he now ; He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone, And plucks the amaranth for his brow That springs beside the eternal throne. Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain Link'd with his soul in bonds refined ; That earth had striven to burst in vain, The sacred sympathy of mind. Still long that sympathy shall last : Still shall each object, like a spell, Recall from fate the buried past, Present the mind beloved so well. That pure intelligence Oh where Now is its onward progress won 1 Through what new regions does it dare Push the bold quest on earth begun 1 In realms with boundless glory fraught, Where fancy can no trophies raise In blissful vision, where the thought Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise! 256 ROBERT C. SANDS. Till life's last pulse, O triply dear, A loftier strain is due to thee ; But constant memory's votive tear Thy sacred epitaph must be. TO THE MANITTO OF DREAMS. SPIRIT ! THOU SPIRIT of subtlest air, Whose power is upon the brain, When wondrous shapes, and dread and fair, As the film from the eyes At thy bidding flies, To sight and sense are plain ! Thy whisper creeps where leaves are stirr'd ; Thou sighest in woodland gale; Where waters are gushing thy voice is heard ; And when stars are bright, At still midnight, Thy symphonies prevail ! Where the forest ocean, in quick commotion, Is waving to and fro, Thy form is seen, in the masses green, Dimly to come and go. From thy covert peeping, where thou layest sleeping Beside the brawling brook, Thou art seen to wake, and thy flight to take Fleet from thy lonely nook. Where the moonbeam has kiss'd The sparkling tide, In thy mantle of mist Thou art seen to glide. Far o'er the blue waters Melting away, On the distant billow, As on a pillow, Thy form to lay. Where the small clouds of even Are wreathing in heaven Their garland of roses, O'er the purple and gold, Whose hangings enfold The hall that encloses The couch of the sun, Whose empire is done, i There thou art smiling, For thy away is begun ; Thy shadowy sway, The senses beguiling, When the light fades away, And thy vapour of mystery o'er nature ascending, The heaven and the earth, The things that have birth, And the embryos that float in the future are blending. From the land, on whose shores the billows break The sounding waves of the mighty lake ; From the land where boundless meadows be, Where the bullalo ranges wild and free ; With silvery coat in his liltle isle, Where the beaver plies his ceaseless toil ; The land where pigmy forms abide, Thou leadest thy train at the eventide ; And the wings of the wind are left behind, So swiil through the pathless air they glide. Then to the chief who has fasted long, When the chains of his slumber are heavy and strong SPIRIT ! thou coinest; he lies as dead, His weary lids are with heaviness weigh 'd ; But his soul is abroad on the hurricane's pinion, Where foes are met in the rush of fight, In the shadowy world of thy dominion Conquering and slaying, till morning light ! Then shall the hunter who waits for thee, The land of the game rejoicing see ; Through the leafless wood, O'er the frozen flood, And the trackless snows his spirit goes, Along the sheeted plain, Where the hermit bear, in his sullen lair, Keeps his long fast, till the winter hath pass'd And the boughs have budded again. SPIRIT OF DHEAMS ! all thy visions are true, Who the shadow hath seen, he the substance shall view ! Thine the riddle, strange and dark, Woven in the dreamy brain : Thine to yield the power to mark Wandering by, the dusky train ; W'arrior ghosts for vengeance crying, Scalped on the lost battle's plain, Or who died their foes defying, Slow by lingering tortures slain. Thou, the war-chief hovering near, Breathest language on his ear ; When his winged words depart, Swift as arrows to the heart ; When his eye the lightning leaves; When each valiant bosom heaves; Through the veins when hot and glowing Rage like liquid fire is flowing ; Round and round the war pole whirling, Furious when the dancers grow ; When the maces swift are hurling Promised vengeance on the foe Thine assurance, SPIRIT true ! Glorious victory gives to view ! When of thought and strength despoil'd, Lies the brave man like a child ; When discolour'd visions fly, Painful o'er his glazing eye, And wishes wild through his darkness rove, Like flitting wings through the tangled grove, Thine is the wish ; the vision thine, And thy visits, SPIRIT ! are all divine ! When the dizzy senses spin, And the brain is madly reeling, Like the P6w-wah, when first within The present spirit feeling ; When rays are flashing athwart the gloom, Like the dancing lights of the northern heaven, When voices strange of tumult come On the ear, like the roar of battle driven, The Initiate then shall thy wonders see, And thy priest, O SPIRIT ! is full of thee ! GRENVILLE MELLEN. [Born, 1799. Died, 1841.] GRENVILLE MELLEV was the third son of the Lite Chief Justice PREXTISS MELLEX, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after 1 iving that seminary became a law-student in the (I'ice of his father, who had before that time~re- moved to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the prac- tice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a plea- sant village near his native town. Within three y'.>nrs in October, 1828 his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child fol- lowed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. Tiie remainder of his life was clouded with melan- choly. I believe Mr. MELLEV did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire en- titled " Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, " Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," ap- peared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the " Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages ; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem enti- tled "The Rest of Empires." in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immor- talize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic of his best manner : " We have been taught, in oracles of old, Of the enskied divinity of song; That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, Came in the light of inspiration forth, And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. And were those peerless hards, whose strains have come In an undying echo to the world, Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, And made melodious all the hills of Rome, Were they inspired 1 Alas, for Poetry! That her great ministers, in early time, Sung for the brave alone and hade the soul Battle for heaven in the ranks of war! It was the treason of the godlike art That pointed glory to the sword and spear, And left the heart to moulder in its mail! 33 It was the menial service of the bard It was the basest bondage of his powers, In later times to consecrate a feast, And sing of gallantry in hall and bower, -, _ To courtly knights and ladies "But other times have strung new lyres again, And other music greets us. Poetry Comes robed in smiles, and, in low breathing sounds, Takes counsel, like a friend, in our still hours, And points us to the stars the waneless stars That whisper an hereafter to our souls. It breathes upon our spirits a rich balm, And, with its tender tones and melody, Draws mercy from the warrior and proclaims A morn of bright and universal love To those who journey with us through the vale; It points to moral greatness deeds of mind, And the high struggles, worthy of a man. Have we no minstrels in our echoing halls, No wild CADWALLON, with his wilder strain, Pouring his war-songs upon helmed ears? We have sounds stealing from the far retreats Of the bright company of gifted men," Who pour their mellow music round our age, And point us to our duties and our hearts; The poet's constellation beams around A pensive COWPER lives in all his lines, And MILTON hymns us on to hope and heaven !" After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEX removed to New York, where he resided nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote much for the literary magazines, and edited seve- ral works for his friend, Mr. COLMAX, the pub- lisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Mis- cellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years ; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed ; and learn- ing of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841. Mr. MELLEX was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which pre- ceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will pre- serve. They are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and un- intelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius ; no original, clear, and manly thought ; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature ; no humour, no pathos, no passion ; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled " The Bu- gle," although " it whispers whence it stole its spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and un- meaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his works. T2 257 258 GRENVILLE MELLEN. ENGLISH SCENERY. THE woods and vales of England ! is there not A magic and a marvel in their names 1 Is there not music in the memory Of their old glory ? is there not a sound, As of some watchword, that recalls at night All that gave light and wonder to the day 1 In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness, And summon to the spirit scenes that rose Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye Hung like a tranced thing above the page That genius had made golden with its glow The page of noble story of high towers, And castled halls, envista'd like the line Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries Had led before their hearths in dim array Of lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree, That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves, Rustling in gather'd music to the winds, Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas ! The woods and vales of England ! O, the founts, The living founts of memory ! how they break And gush upon my stirr'd heart as I gaze ! I hear the shout of reapers, the far low Of herds upon the banks, the distant bark Of the tired dog, stretch'd at some cottage door, The echo of the axe, mid forest swung, And the loud laugh, drowning the faint halloo. Land of our fathers ! though 'tis ours to roam A land upon whose bosom thou mightst lie, Like infant on its mother's though 'tis ours To gaze upon a nobler heritage Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons, Though ours to linger upon fount and sky, Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who Walk with a deeper majesty than thine, Yet, as our father-land, O, who shall tell The lone, mysterious energy which calls Upon our sinking spirits to walk forth Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale And song of centuries, the cloudless years When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod When all the landscape murmur'd to its rills, And joy with hope slept in its leafy bowers ! MOUNT WASHINGTON. MOTTNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there ! Thine is the rock of other regions, where The world of life, which blooms so far below, Sweeps a wide waste : no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far-ofl'mountain, distant, calm, andslow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne; When Tempest mounts his rushingcar, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! And when the tumult of the air is fled, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name: The stars look down upon them ; and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave ! Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee The hoary mantle of the dying year, [throws Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear ! 'T is then we view thee with a chilling fear, Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue ; When, lo ! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view! THE BUGLE. O ! WILD, enchanting horn ! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born Wake, wake again, the night Is bending from her throne of beauty down, With still stars burning on her azure crown, Intense and eloquently bright Night, at its pulseless noon ! When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon. Hark ! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky, As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay ! Swell, swell in glory out ! Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start As boyhood's old remember'd shout. O ! have ye heard that peal, From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, Like some near breath around you steal 1 Or have ye in the roar Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies, Where wings and tempests never soar 7 Go, go no other sound, No music that of air or earth is born, Can match the mighty music of that horn, On midnight's fathomless profound ! GRENVILLE MELLEN. 259 ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. SATI on, them lone, imperial bird, Of quenchless eye and tireless wing ; How is thy distant coming heard, As the night's breezes round thee ring! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun In his extremest glory. How ! Is thy unequall'd daring done, Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now 1 Or hast thou left thy rocking dome, Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine, To find some secret, meaner home, Less stormy and unsafe than thine ? Else why thy dusky pinions bend So closely to this shadowy world, And round thy searching glances send, As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd ? Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest, Thy eyry desolate, though high ; And lonely thou, alike at rest, Or soaring in the upper sky. The golden light that bathes thy plumes On thine interminable flight, Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs, And makes the north's ice-mountains bright. So come the eagle-hearted down, So come the high and proud to earth, When life's night-gathering tempests frown Over their glory and their mirth r So quails the mind's undying eye, That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun ; So man seeks solitude, to die, His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of power, A cold and joyless lustre shines, And on life's pinnacles will lower Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, O, the mellow light that pours From GOD'S pure throne the light that saves! It warms the spirit as it soars, And sheds deep radiance round our graves. THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. ITAIIA'S vales and fountains, Though beautiful ye be, I love my soaring mountains And forests more than ye ; And though a dreamy greatness rise From out your cloudy years, Like hills on distant stormy skies, Seem dim through Nature's tears, Still, tell me not of years of old, Of ancient heart and clime ; Ours is the land and age of gold, And ours the hallow'd tune ! The jewell'd crown and sceptre Of Greece have pass'd away ; And none, of all who wept her, Could bid her splendour stay. The world has shaken with the tread Of iron-sandall'd crime And, lo ! o'ershadowing all the dead, The conqueror stalks sublime ! Then ask I not for crown and plume To nod above my land; The victor's footsteps point to doom, Graves open round his hand ! Rome ! with thy pillar'd palaces, And sculptured heroes all, Snatch'd, in their wann, triumphal days, To Art's high festival ; Rome ! with thy giant sons of power, Whose pathway was on thrones, Who built their kingdoms of an hour On yet unburied bones, I would not have my land like thee, So lofty yet so cold ! Be hers a lowlier majesty, In yet a nobler mould. Thy marbles works of wonder ! In thy victorious days, Whose lips did seem to sunder Before the astonish'd gaze ; When statue glared on statue there, The living on the dead, And men as silent pilgrims were Before some sainted head ! O, not for faultless marbles yet Would I the light forego That beams when other lights have set, And Art herself lies low ! 0, ours a holier hope shall be Than consecrated bust, Some loftier mean of memory To snatch us from the dust. And ours a sterner art than this, Shall fix our image here, The spirit's mould of loveliness A nobler BELVIDERE ! Then let them bind with bloomless flowers The busts and urns of old, A fairer heritage be ours, A sacrifice less cold ! Give honour to the great and good, And wreathe the living brow, Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood, And pay the tribute now ! So, when the good and great go down, Their statues shall arise, To crowd those temples of our own, Our fadeless memories ! And when the sculptured marble falls, And Art goes in to die, Our forms shall live in holier halls, The Pantheon of the sky ! GEORGE HILL. [Bom, 1800.] GEOHGE HILL is a native of Guilford, on Long Island Sound, near New Haven. He was ad- mitted to Yale College in his fifteenth year, and, when he graduated, took the Berkeleian prize, as the best classic. He was subsequently attached to the navy, as Professor of Mathematics ; and visited in this capacity the Mediterranean, its storied islands, and classic shores. After his return, he was appointed librarian to the State Department, at Washington: a situation which he at length resigned on account of ill health, and was ap- pointed Consul of the United States for the south- western portion of Asia Minor. The climate disa- greeing with him, he returned to Washington; and he is now attached again to one of the bureaus in the Department of State. The style of Mr. Hill's poetry is severe, and some- times so elliptical as to embarrass his meaning ; this is especially true of his more elaborate production, " The Ruins of Athens," written in the S|>enserian stanza. He is most successful in his lyrics, where he has more freedom, without a loss of energy. His Titania," a dramatic piece, is perhaps the most original of his productions. It is wild and fanciful, and graced with images of much beauty and freshness. FROM " THE RUINS OF ATHENS." THE daylight fades o'er old Cyllene's hill, And broad and dun the mountain shadows fall ; The stars are up and sparkling, as if still Smiling upon their altars ; but the tall, Dark cypress, gently, as a mourner, bends Wet with the drops of evening as with tears Alike o'er shrine and worshipper, and blends, All dim and lonely, with the wrecks of years, As of a world gone by no coming morning cheers. There sits the queen of temples gray and lone. She, like the last of an imperial line, Has seen her sister structures, one by one, To Time their gods and worshippers resign ; And the stars twinkle through the weeds that twine Their roofless capitals ; and, through the night, Heard the hoarse drum and the exploding mine, The clash of arms and hymns of uncouth rite, From their dismantled shrines the guardian powers affright. Go ! thou from whose forsaken heart are reft The ties of home ; and, where a dwelling-place Not JOVE himself the elements have left, The grass-grown, undefined arena pace ! [hear Look on its rent, though tower-like shafts, and The loud winds thunder in their aged face ; Then slowly turn thine eye, where moulders near A CJESAR'S arch, and the blue depth of space Vaults like a sepulchre the wrecks of a past race. Is it not better with the Eremite, Where the weeds rustle o'er his airy cave, Perch'd on their summit, through the long, still night To sit and watch their shadows slowly wave While oft some fragment, sapp'd by dull decay, In thunder breaks the silence, and the fowl Of Ruin hoots and turn in scorn away Of all man builds, time levels, and the cowl Awards her moping sage in common with the owl ? Or, where the palm, at twilight's holy hour, By THESEUS' fane her lonely vigil keeps: Gone are her sisters of the leaf and flower, With them the living crop earth sows and reaps, But these revive not : the weed with them sleeps, But clothes herself in beauty from their clay, And leaves them to their slumber ; o'er them weeps Vainly the Spring her quickening dews awaj, And Love as vainly mourns, and mourns, alas ! for aye. Or, more remote, on Nature's haunts intrude, Where, since creation, she has slept on flowers, Wet with the noonday forest-dew, and woo'd By untamed choristers in unpruned bowers : By pathless thickeWock that time-worn towers O'er dells untrodderray the hunter, piled Ere by its shadow measured were the hours To human eye, the rampart of the wild, Whose banner is the cloud, by carnage undefined. The weary spirit that forsaken plods The world's wide wilderness, a home may find Here, mid the dwellings of long-banish'd gods, And thoughts they bring, the mourners of the mind; The spectres that no spell has power to bind, The loved, but lost, whose soul's life is in ours, As incense in sepulchral urns, enshrined, The sense of blighted or of wasted powers, The hopes whose promised fruits have perish'd with their flowers. 260 GEORGE HILL. 261 There is a small, low cape there, where the moon Breaks o'er the shatter'd and now shapeless stone ; The waters, as a rude but fitting boon, Weeds and small shells have, like a garland, thrown Upon it, and the wind's and wave's low moan, And sighing grass, and cricket's plaint, are heard To steal upon the stillness, like a tone Remember'd. Here, by human foot unstirr'd, Its seed the thistle sheds, and builds the ocean-bird. Lurks the foul toad, the lizard basks secure Within the sepulchre of him whose name Had scatter'd navies like the whirlwind. Sure, If aught ambition's fiery wing may tame, 'Tis here ; the web the spider weaves where Fame Planted her proud but sunken shaft, should be To it a fetter, still it springs the same, Glory's fool-worshipper ! here bend thy knee ! The tomb thine altar-stone, thine idol Mockery: A small, gray elf, all sprinkled o'er with dust Of crumbling catacomb, and mouldering shred Of banner and embroider'd pall, and rust Of arms, time-worn monuments, that shed A canker'd gleam on dim escutcheons, where The groping antiquary pores to spy A what 1 a name perchance ne'er graven there ; At whom the urchin, with his mimic eye, Sits peering through a skull, and laughs continually. THE MOUNTAIN-GIRL. THE clouds, that upward curling from Nevada's summit fly, Melt into air : gone are the showers, And, deck'd, as 'twere with bridal flowers, Earth seems to wed the sky. All hearts are by the spirit that Breathes in the sunshine stirr'd ; And there 's a girl that, up and dtfwn, A merry vagrant, through the town, Goes singing like a bird. A thing all lightness, life, and glee ; One of the shapes we seem To meet in visions of the night ; And, should they greet our waking sight, Imagine that we dream. With glossy ringlet, brow that is As falling snow-flake white, Half-hidden by its jetty braid, And eye like dewdrop in the shade, At once both dark and bright ; And cheek whereon the sunny clime Its brown tint gently throws, Gently, as it reluctant were To leave its print on thing so fair A shadow on a rose. She stops, looks up what does she see 1 A flower of crimson dye, Whose vase, the work of Moorish hands, A lady sprinkles, as it stands Upon a balcony : High, leaning from a window forth, From curtains that half-shroud Her maiden form with tress of gold, And brow that mocks their snow-white fold, Like DIAN from a cloud. Nor flower, nor lady fair she sees That mountain-girl but dumb And motionless she stands, with eye That seems communing with the sky : Her visions are of home. That flower to her is as a tone Of some forgotten song, One of a slumbering thousand, struck From an old harp-string ; but, once woke, It brings the rest along. She sees beside the mountain-brook, Beneath the old cork tree And toppling crag, a vine-thatch'd shed, Perch'd, like the eagle, high o'erhead, The home of liberty ; The rivulet, the olive shade, The grassy plot, the flock ; Nor does her simple thought forget, Haply, the little violet, That springs beneath the rock. Sister and mate, they may not from Her dreaming eye depart ; And one, the source of gentler fears, More dear than all, for whom she wears The token at her heart And hence her eye is dim, her cheek Has lost its livelier glow ; Her song has ceased, and motionless She stands, an image of distress : Strange, what a flower can do ! THE MIGHT OF GREECE.* THE might of Greece ! whose story has gone forth, Like the eternal echo of a lyre Struck by an angel, to the bounds of earth, A marvel and a melody ; a fire Unquench'd, unquenchable. Castalia's choir Mourn o'er their altars worshipless or gone ; But the free mountain-air they did respire Has borne their music onward, with a tone Shaking earth's tyrant race through every distant zone ! A never-dying music, borne along [fraught The stream of years, that else were mute, and A boundless echo, thunder peal'd in song With the unconquerable might of thought : The Titan that shall rive the fetters wrought By the world's god, Opinion, and set free The powers of mind, giants from darkness brought; The trophies of whose triumph-march shall be Thrones, dungeons swept away, as rampires by the sea. * From " The Ruins of Athens." 262 GEORGE HILL. THE FALL OF THE OAK. A GLoniors tree is the old gray oak : He has stood for a thousand years, Has stood and frown'd On the trees around, Like a king among his peers ; As round their king they stand, so now, When the flowers their pale leaves fold, The tall trees round him stand, array'd In their robes of purple and gold. He has stood like a tower Through sun and shower, And dared the winds to battle ; He has heard the hail, As from plates of mail, From his own limbs shaken, rattle ; He has toss'd them about, and shorn the tops (When the storm had roused his might) Of the forest trees, as a strong man doth The heads of his foes in fight. The autumn sun looks kindly down, But the frost is on the lea, And sprinkles the horn Of the owl at morn, As she hies to the old oak tree. Not a leaf is stirr'd ; Not a sound is heard But the thump of the thresher's flail, The low wind's sigh, Or the distant cry Of the hound on the fox's trail. The forester he has whistling plunged With his axe, in the deep wood's gloom, That shrouds the hill, Where few and chill The sunbeams struggling come : His brawny arm he has bared, and laid His axe at the root of the tree, The gray old oak, And, with lusty stroke, He wields it merrily : With lusty stroke, And the old gray oak, Through the folds of his gorgeous vest You may see him shake, And the night-owl break From her perch in his leafy crest. She will come but to find him gone from where He stood at the break of day ; Like a cloud that peals as it melts to air, He has pass'd, with a crash, away. Though the spring in the bloom and the frost in gold No more his limbs attire, On the stormy wave He shall float, and brave The blast and the battle-fire ! Shall spread his white wings to the wind, And thunder on the deep, As he thunder'd when His bough was green, On the high and stormy steep. LIBERTY. THERE is a spirit working in the world, Like to a silent subterranean fire ; Yet, ever and anon, some monarch hurl'd Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire. The dungeon'd nations now once more respire The keen and stirring air of Liberty. The straggling giant wakes, and feels he 's free. By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir Resume their song; the Greek astonish'd hears, And the old altar of his worship rears. Sound on, fair sisters ! sound your boldest lyre, Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres. Unto strange gods too long we 've bent the knee, The trembling mind, too long and patiently. TO A YOUNG MOTHER. WHAT things of thee may yield a semblance meet, And him, thy fairy portraiture 1 a flower And bud, moon and attending star, a sweet Voice and its sweeter echo. Time has small power O'er features the mind moulds ; and such are thine, Imperishably lovely. Roses, where They once have bloom'd, a fragrance leave behind ; And harmony will linger on the wind ; And suns continue to light up the air, When set ; and music -from the broken shrine Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to twine : Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Beams from the soul whose brightness mocks decline. SPRING. Now Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye, And Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside, And with a blush awakes as does a bride ; And Nature speaks, like thee, in melody. The forest, sunward, glistens, green and high ; The ground each moment, as some blossom springs, Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye, And each new morning some new songster brings. And, hark ! the brooks their rocky prisons break, And echo calls on echo to awake, Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings, Rustling through wood or dripping over lake. Herb, bud, and bird return but not to me With song or beauty, since they bring not thee. NOBILITY. Go, then, to heroes, sages if allied, Go ! trace the scroll, but not with eye of pride, Where Truth depicts their glories as they shone, And leaves a blank where should have been your own. Mark the pure beam on yon dark wave impress'd ; So shines the star on that degenerate breast Each twinkling orb.that burns with borrow'd fires, So ye reflect the glory of your sires. JAMES G. BROOKS. CBorn, 1801. Died, 1841.] THE late JAMES Gonnow BROOKS was born at Red Hook, near the city of New York, on the third day of September, 1801. His father was an officer in the revolutionary army, and, after the achievement of our independence, a member of the national House of Representatives. Our author was educated at Union College, in Sche- nectady, and was graduated in 1819. In the fol- lowing year he commenced studying the law with Mr. Justice EMOTT, of Poughkeepsie ; but, though he devoted six or seven years to the acquisition of legal knowledge, he never sought admission to the bar. In 1823, he removed to New York, where he was for several years an editor of the Morning Courier, one of the most able and influ- ential journals in this country. Mr. BROOKS began to write for the press in 1817. Two years afterward he adopted the sig- nature of "Florio," by which his contributions to the periodicals were from that time known. In 1828, he was married. His wife, under the signa- ture of "Norna," had been for several years a writer for the literary journals, and, in 1829, a collection of the poetry of both was published, entitled "The Rivals of E.ste, and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E. Brooks." The poem which gave its title to the volume was by Mrs. BROOKS. The longest of the pieces by her hus- band was one entitled " Genius," which he had delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, in 1827. He wrote but little po- etry after the appearance of this work. In 1830 or 1831, he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, where, for four or five years, he edited a political and literary gazette. He returned to the state of New York, in 1838, and established him- self in Albany, where he remained until the 20th day of February, 1841, when he died. The poems of Mr. BROOKS are spirited and smoothly versified, but diffuse and carelessly writ- ten. He was imaginative, and composed with remarkable ease and rapidity ; but was too indif- ferent in regard to his reputation ever to rewrite or revise his productions. GREECE 1832. LAWD of the brave ! where lie inurn'd The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burn'd, And blazed upon the battle's fray : Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylm of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore ! Land of the Muse ! within thy bowers Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flow'd along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes ! living slaves ! Shall glory gild thy clime no more ] Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before 1 Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again 1 No ! coward souls, the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beam'd on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shatter'd spear in rust Thy honour but a dream and thou Despised degraded in the dust ! Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom ? The bold three hundred where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast ! Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where death hath hush'd them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled ; And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead ! But 'tis the dim, sepulchral light, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moonbeams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way. Greece ! yet awake thee from thy trance, Behold, thy banner waves afar ; Behold, the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprizc, I'i urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee to arise In might in majesty reveal'd. 263 264 JAMES G. BROOKS. In vain, in vain the hero calls In vain he sounds the trumpet loud ! His banner totters see ! it falls In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud : Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires ; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land ! where Genius made his reign, And rear'd his golden arch on high ; Where Science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky ; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song. Thy sun hath set the evening storm Hath pass'd in giant fury by, To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon the sky ! Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! TO THE DYING YEAR. THOU desolate and dying year ! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career, Like thine, is bounded to a span ; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration ! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Where ruin makes his empire known, In autumn's yellow vesture dress'd ; The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet Broke on the breath of early day, The summer flowers she loved to greet ; The bird, the flowers, O ! where are they ? Thou desolate and dying year ! Yet lovely in thy lifelessness As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, In death's clay-cold and dark caress ; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill. Yet, yet the radiance is not gone, Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene ; ! still a melancholy smile Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there ! Thou desolate and dying year ! Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death ; How many hearts, that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh, And, pillow'd low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn ; The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gather'd unto the mouldering urn ; While freshly flow'd the frequent tear For love bereft, affection fled ; For all that were our blessings here, The loved, the lost, the sainted dead ! Thou desolate and dying year ! The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality ; Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, Withers, like thee, in dark decay. Promise of youth ' fair as the form Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, And sheds a light on every wo ; Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue A tone of melody is given, As if her magic voice were strung With the empyreal fire of heaven. And love which never can expire, Whose origin is from on high, Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire, From the pure fountains of the sky ; That ray which glows and brightens still, Unchanged, eternal and divine ; Where seraphs own its holy thrill, And bow before its gleaming shrine. Thou desolate and dying year ! Prophetic of our final fall ; Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear ; Thy beauties shrouded in the pall ; And all the garniture that shed A brilliancy upon thy prime, Hath like a morning vision fled Unto the expanded grave of time. Time ! Time ! in thy triumphal flight, How all life's phantoms fleet away ; Thy smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray: They fade ; and on the heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, Are borne the wreck of human pride, The broken wreck of Fortune's war. There, in disorder, dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high ; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity ! JAMES G. BROOKS. 265 And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms Frown'd in their majesty sublime, Would stand unshaken by the storms That gather'd round the brow of Time. Thou desolate and dying year ! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine ; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. The stream of life, that used to pour Its fresh and sparkling waters on, While Fate stood watching on the shore, And number'd all the moments gone Where hath the morning splendour flown, Which danced upon the crystal stream 1 Where are the joys to childhood known, When life was an enchanted dream 1 Enveloped in the starless night Which destiny hath overspread ; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight Where the death-wing of time hath sped ! O ! thus hath life its even-tide Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; And thus, divested of its pride, It withers like the yellow leaf: ! such is life's autumnal bower, When plunder'd of its summer bloom ; And such is life's autumnal hour, Which heralds man unto the tomb ! TO THE AUTUMN LEAF. THOU faded leaf! it seems to be But as of yesterday, When thou didst flourish on the tree In all the pride of May : Then t 'was the merry hour of spring, Of nature's fairest blossoming, On field, on flower, and spray ; It promised fair ; how changed the scene To what is now, from what hath been ! So fares it with life's early spring ; Hope gilds each coming day. And sweetly doth the syren sing Her fond, delusive lay : Then the young, fervent, heart beats high, While passion kindles in the eye, With bright, unceasing play ; Fair are thy tints, thou genial hour, Yet transient as the autumn flower. Thou faded leaf ! how like to thee Is beauty in her morning pride, When life is but a summer sea, And hope illumes its placid tide : Alas ! for beauty's autumn hour, Alas ! for beauty's blighted flower, When hope and bliss have died ! Her pallid brow, her cheek of grief, Have thy sad hue, thou faded leaf! Autumnal leaf! thus honour's plume, And valour's laurel wreath must fade ; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom On which the beam of glory play'd ; 34 The banner waving o'er the crowd, Far streaming like a silver cloud, Must sink within the shade, Where dark oblivion's waters flow O'er human weal and human wo. Autumnal leaf! there is a stern And warning tone in thy decay ; Like thce must man to death return With his frail tenement of clay : Thy warning is of death and doom, Of genius blighted in its bloom, Of joy's beclouded ray ; Life, rapture, hope, ye are as brief And fleeting as the autumn leaf ! THE LAST SONG. STRIKE the wild harp yet once again ! Again its lonely numbers pour ; Then let the melancholy strain Be hush'd in death for evermore. For evermore, for evermore, Creative fancy, be thou still ; And let oblivious Lethe pour Upon my lyre its waters chill. Strike the wild harp yet once again ! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain, And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue ; Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song; Forgotten, too, be this farewell, Which plays its pensive strings along ! Strike the wild harp yet once again ! The saddest and the latest lay ; Then break at once its strings in twain, And they shall sound no more for aye : And hang it on the cypress tree : The hours of youth and song have pass'd, Have gone, with all their witchery ; Lost lyre ! these numbers are thy last. JOY AND SORROW. JOT kneels, at morning's rosy prime, In worship to the rising sun ; But Sorrow loves the calmer time, When the day-god his course hath run: When Night is on her shadowy car, Pale sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep ; \nd, guided by the evening star, She wanders forth to muse and weep. Joy loves to cull the summer-flower, And wreathe it round his happy brow ; But when the dark autumnal hour Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low ; When the frail bud hath lost its worth, And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest, Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her wither'd breast. Z GEORGE P. MORRIS. [Born, 1801.] THIS popular song-writer is a native of Phila- delphia. In common with many prominent au- thors of the present time, he commenced his lite- rary career by contributions to the journals. When about fifteen years of age he wrote verses for the " New York Gazette," and he subsequently filled occasionally " the poet's corner" in the "American," at that time under the direction of Mr. JOHN sow VERPLANCK. In 1823, with the late Mr. WOOD- WORTH, he established the " New York Mirror," a weekly miscellany which for nearly nineteen years was conducted with much taste and ability. In 1827 his play, in five acts, entitled "Brier Cliff, a tale of the American Revolution," was brought out at the Chatham Theatre by Mr. WALLACK, and acted forty nights successively. I have been informed that its popularity was so great that it was played at four theatres in New York, to full houses, on the same evening, and that it yielded the author a profit of three thousand five hundred dollars, a larger sum, probably, than was ever paid for any other dramatic composition in the United States. In 1836 General MORRIS published a volume of amusing prose writings under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water Lots;" in 1838 "The Deserted Bride and other Poems," of which an enlarged edition, illustrated by WIER and CHAPMAN, appeared in 1843; and in 1844 a complete collection of his Songs and Ballads." The composition which is understood to rank highest in his own estimation is the poetry of " The Maid of Saxony," an opera with music by Mr. CHARLES HORN, produced at the Park Thea- tre in 1842. In 1843, in conjunction with Mr. WILLIS, he reestablished " The Mirror," and he is now associated with that popular author in con- dMcting " The Home Journal." If there is any literary work which calls for a special gift of nature, perhaps it is the song. In terms of a sounder theory, I may say, that its suc- cessful accomplishment, beyond almost any other composition, demands an intelligent insight into the principles upon which its effect depends, and a capacity, if not to combine with imposing strength, yet to select with the nicest judgment Other productions often gratify long and highly, in spite of considerable defects, while the song, to suc- ceed at all, must be nearly perfect. It implies a taste delicately skilled in the fine influences of lan- guage. It has often shunned the diligence of men who have done greater things. Starting from some common perception, by almost a crystalline pro- cess of accretion, it should grow up into a poem. Its first note should find the hearer in sympathy with it, and its last should leave him moved and wondering. Throughout, it must have an affi- nity to some one fixed idea. Its propriety is, not so much to give expression to a feeling existing in the bosom of the author, as to reproduce that feeling in the heart of the listener. The tone of the composition ought therefore to be, as much as is possible, below the force of the feeling which it would inspire. It should be simple, entire, and glowing. The distinction and difficulty of the song are illustrated by the genius of Jossox, MARLOWE, and DRYDEN; by the fame of MOORE, and the failure of BYRON. Several of the songs of MORRIS, whether judged of by their success, or by the application of any rules of criticism, are nearly faultless. They are in a very chaste style of art. They have the simplicity which is the characteristic of the classic models, and the purity which was once deemed an indispensable quality in the lyric poet. They are marked by neatness of language, free from every thing affected or finical ; a natural elegance of sentiment, and a correct moral purpose. His best effusions have few marks of imitation; they are like each other, but no English song can be named from which, in cha- racter and tone, they are not different. "The Chieftain's Daughter" is an example of the narra- tive song, in which the whole story is told, in a few lines, without omission and without redundancy; " When other friends are round thee," is a beauti- ful expression of affection ; " Land, Ho !" is an exceedingly spirited and joyous nautical piece ; and in Near the Lake," the very delicate effect which the author has contemplated is attained with remarkable precision. In sentiment, as in sound, there are certain natural melodies, which seem to be discovered rather than contrived, and which, as they are evolved from time to time by the felicity or skill of successive artists, are sure to be received with unbounded popularity. The higher and more elaborate productions of genius are best appreciated by the thoughtful analysis of a single critic; but the appropriate test of the merit of these simple, apparently almost sponta- neous effusions, is the response which they meet with from the common heart of man. The me- lodies of MOZART and APBER, doubtless, en- chanted their ears who first heard them played by the composers, but we know them to be founded in the enduring truth of art, only because they have made themselves a home in the streets of every city of Europe and America, and after long experience have taen found to be among the na- tural formulas by which gaiety and melancholy express themselves in every rank and in every land. The song of " Woodman, spare that Tree," has touched one of those cords of pervading nature which fraternize multitudes of different nations. 266 GEORGE P. MORRIS. 267 THE WEST. Ho ! brothers come hither and list to my story Merry and brief will the narrative be : Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory Master am I, boys, of all that I see. Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling The meadow and moorland are marshes no more; And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling The children who cluster like grapes at the door, Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; The land of the heart is the land of the west Oho, boys ! oho, boys ! oho ! Talk not of the town, boys, give me the broad prairie, Where man like the wind roams impulsive and Behold how its beautiful colours all vary, [free; Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing ; With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging, Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Fhen enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west. Oho, boys ! oho, boys ! oho ! Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, And care not a fig for the king on his throne; We never know want, for we live by our labour, And in it contentment and happiness find ; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour, And die, boys, in peace and good- will to mankind. Fhen enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; if ou know how we live, boys, and die in the west ! Oho, boys ! oho, boys ! oho ! LAND-HO !" Up, up, with the signal ! The land is in sight ! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! Fhe cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd, And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last, tn the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, Fo soothe us in absence of those left behind. Land ! land-ho ! All hearts glow with joy at the sight ! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! The signal is waving ! Till morn we'll remain, Fhen part in the hope to meet one day again Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth, Fhe holiest spot on the face of the earth ! Dear country ! our thoughts are as constant to thee, As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea. Ho ! land-ho ! We near it we bound at the sight ! Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! The signal is answer' d ! The foam-sparkles rise Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes ! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair ! One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells, To woman God bless her ! wherever she dwells ! THE PILOT'S ON BOARD ! and, thank Heaven, all's right ! So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER. UPON the barren sand A single captive stood, Around him came, with bow and brand, The red men of the wood. Like him of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on ocean's rim : The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him. Above his head in air, The savage war-club swung, The frantic girl, in wild despair, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid Who breathed a prayer for him. Unbind him !" gasp'd the chief, " Obey your king's decree !" He kiss'd away her tears of grief, And set the captive free. 'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm, Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him. NEAR THE LAKE. NEAH the lake where droop'd the willow, Long time ago ! Where the rock threw back the billow, Brighter than snow ; Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherish'd, By high and low ; But with autumn's leaf she perished, Long time ago ! Rock and tree and flowing water, Long time ago ! Bee and bird and blossom taught her Love's spell to know ! While to my fond words she listened, Murmuring low, Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened Long time ago ! Mingled were our hearts for ever ! Long time ago ! Can I now forget her ? Never ! No, lost one, no ! To her grave these tears are given, Ever to flow; She's the star I miss'd from heaven, Long time ago ! 268 GEORGE P. MORRIS. WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE." When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine, When other bays have crown'd thee, More fresh and green than mine, Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee ! Yet do not think I doubt thee, I know thy truth remains ; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life's changing sea ; And whate'er fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.* WOODMAN, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it shelter'd me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down ? Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; Oh spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies ! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here ; My father press'd my hand Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe-shall harm it not. *After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr. Henry Russell, the vo- calist, an old gentleman, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, " I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, but was the tree really spared V " It was," said I. " I am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room. WHERE HUDSON'S WAVE." WHERE Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crown'd with a single star ! And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribb'd, cloud-capp'd earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells, A nymph of mountain birth. The snow-flake that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers, Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define ; But Ida's dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine. My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night 'are on my brow : 5fe pleasant haunts and quiet glades, My soul is with you now ! I bless the star-crown'd highlands where My Ida's footsteps roam Oh ! for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home. THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, Ax ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village pastor's child, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty : Yet none of all the swains who sought her, Was worthy of the pastor's daughter. The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain, To seek the groves of her retreat, And many follow'd in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart, they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter. One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest ; He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which cannot falter, Her hand was given at the altar, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. How seldom learn the worldly gay, With all their sophistry and art, The sweet and gentle primrose-way To woman's fond, devoted heart : They seek, but never find the treasure, Although reveal'd in jet and azure. To them, like truth in wells of water, A fable is the pastor's daughter. ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR. GREECE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profes- sion until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical composi- tions was the familiar piece entitled " Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sun Had thrown its latest ray, Where in his last strong agony A dying warrior lay, The stern, old Baron RUDIGER, Whose fame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil Its iron strength had spent. " They come around me here, and say My days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed And lead my band no more ; They come, and to iny beard they dare To tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born, That I ha! ha! must die. " And what is death 1 I 've dared him oft Before the Paynim spear, Think ye he's entered at my gate, Has come to seek me here 7 I 've met him, faced him, scorn'd him, When the fight was raging hot, I '11 try his might I '11 brave his power ; Defy, and fear him not. " Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, And fire the culverin, Bid each retainer arm with speed, Call every vassal in ; Up with my banner on the wall, The banquet board prepare, Throw wide the portal of my hall, And bring my armour there !" A hundred hands were busy then, The banquet forth was spread, And rung the heavy oaken floor With many a martial tread, While from the rich, dark tracery Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, The mail'd retainers pour'd, On through the portal's frowning arch, And throng'd around the board. While at its head, within his dark, Carved oaken chair of state, Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern RUDIGER, With girded falchion, sate. " Fill every beaker up, my men, Pour forth the cheering wine ; There 's life and strength in every drop, Thanksgiving to the vine ! Are ye all there, my vassals true 1 ? Mine eyes are waxing dim ; Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, Each goblet to the brim. Ye 're there, but yet I see ye not Draw forth each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board : I hear it faintly : Louder yet ! What clogs my heavy breath 1 Up all, and shout for RUDIGER, ' Defiance unto Death !' " Bowl rang to bowl, steel clang'd to steel, And rose a deafening cry That made the torches flare around, And shook the flags on high : " Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him 1 Slaves, traitors ! have ye flown 1 Ho ! cowards, have ye left me To meet him here alone ! But I defy him : let him come !" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade Came flashing halfway up ; And, with the black and heavy plumes Scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, Old RUDIGER sat, dead. z2 269 270 ALBERT G. GREENE. TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, Another day begun ; And there thy poised and gilded spear Is flashing in the sun, Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. Tor years, upon thee, there has pour'd The summer's noon-day heat, And through the long, dark, starless night, The winter storms have beat ; B ut yet thy duty has been done, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, Whichever way it came. No chilling blast in wrath has swept Along the distant heaven, But thou hast watch'd its onward course, And distant warning given ; And when mid-summer's sultry beams Oppress all living things, Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes With health upon its wings. How oft I 've seen, at early dawn, , Or twilight's quiet hour, The swallows, in their joyous glee, Come darting round thy tower, As if, with thee, to hail the sun And catch his earliest light, And offer ye the morn's salute, Or bid ye both, good-night And when, around thee or above, No breath of air has stirr'd, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Of each free, happy bird, Till, after twittering round thy head In many a mazy track, The whole delighted company Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, A gentle breeze has sprung, And, prompt to mark its first approach, Thy eager form hath swung, I 've thought I almost heard thee say, As far aloft they flew, Now all away ! here ends our play, For I have work to do '' Men slander thee, my honest friend, And call thee, in their pride, An emblem of their fickleness, Thou ever-faithful guide. Each weak, unstable human mind A " weathercock" they call ; And thus, unthinkingly, mankind Abuse thee, one and all. They have no right to make thy name A by-word for their deeds : They change their friends, their principles, Their fashions, and their creeds ; Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known Thus causelessly to range ; But when thou changest sides, canst give Good reason for the change. Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course The thoughtless oft condemn, Art touch'd by many airs from heaven Which never breathe on them, And moved by many impulses Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod The dusty paths below. Through one more dark and cheerless night Thou well hast kept thy trust, And now in glory o'er thy head The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, When his dark hours have pass'd, Will come "the day-spring from on high," To cheer his path at last. Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee : And may the lesson thou dost teach Be never lost on me ; But still, in sunshine or in storm, Whatever task is mine, May I be faithful to my trust, As thou hast been to thine. STANZAS. O, THIXK not that the bosom's light Must dimly shine, its fire be low, Because it doth not all invite To feel its warmth and share its glow. The altar's strong and steady blaze On all around may coldly shine, But only genial warmth conveys To those who gather near the shrine. Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal The hidden power which they enfold ? But take those cold, unyielding things, And beat their edges till you tire, And every atom forth that springs, Is a bright spark of living fire : Each particle, so dull and cold Until the blow that woke it came, Did still within it slumbering hold A power to wrap the world in flame. While thus, in things of sense alone, Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd, How can the living heart be known Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd ? GEORGE W. BETHUNE. [Born about 18C2.] THE Rev. GEOUGE W. BETHUNE, D. D., is a native of New York, and is widely known as one of the finest scholars and most eloquent preachers in the American church. He is author of several volumes of literary and religious discourses, which are as much distinguished as his poems by a genial, loving spirit, and a classical elegance of diction. Dr. BETHUNE has been for several years a minis- ter of the Reformed Dutch Church in Philadel- phia, where he now resides. TO MY MOTHER. MY mother ! Manhood's anxious brow And sterner cares have long been mine ; Yet turn I to thee fondly now, As when upon thy bosom's shrine My infant griefs were gently hush'd to rest, And thy low-whispcr'd prayers my slumber bless'd. I never call that gentle name, My mother ! but I am again E'en as a child; the very same That prattled at thy knee ; and fain Would I forget, in momentary joy, That I no more can be thy happy boy ; The artless boy, to whom thy smile Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night, (Though rare that frown, and brief the while It veil'd from me thy loving light ;) For well-conn'd task, ambition's highest bliss, To win from thine approving lips a kiss. I've loved through foreign lands to roam, And gazed o'er many a classic scene ; Yet would the thought of that dear home, Which once was ours, oft intervene, And bid me close again my weary eye To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by. That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, Where, by the Hudson's verdant side My sisters wove then- jasmine bowers, And he, we loved, at eventide Would hastening come from distant toil to bless Thine, and his children's radiant happiness. Alas, the change ! the rattling car On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, Where o'er the sod, we sow'd the Star Of Bethlehem, and Forget-me-not Oh, wo to Mammon's desolating reign ! We ne'er shall find on earth a home again ! I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won, Perchance, a scholar's name but sage Or bard have never taught thy son Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, My GOD will own my life and love, Methinks, when singing at His feet, Amid the ransom'd throng above, Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee. For thee and heaven ; for thou didst tread The way that leads me heavenward, and My often wayward footsteps led In the same path with patient hand ; And when I wander'd far, thy earnest call Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall. I have been bless'd with other ties, Fond ties and true, yet never deem That I the less thy fondness prize ; No, mother ! in my warmest dream Of answer'd passion, through this heart of mine One chord will vibrate to no name but thine. Mother ! thy name is widow well I know no love of mine can fill The waste place of thy heart, or dwell Within one sacred recess : still Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son, My parent, thou art mine, my only one ! NIGHT STUDY. I AM alone ; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings ; I hear a gush Of utter'd harmonies heaven meeting earth, Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, Beckoning me to arise, And go forth from my very self, and fly With you far in the unknown, unseen immense Of worlds beyond our sphere What are ye? Whence 1 ? Ye eloquent voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, Now strong as when rejoices, The trumpet in the victory and pursuit; Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. I know you now I see With more than natural light ye are the good The wise departed ye 271 272 GEORGE W. BETHUNE. Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood With mortal brother, struggling in the strife And chains, which once were yours in this sad life. Ye hover o'er the page Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought For many a distant age ; Ye love to watch the inspiration caught, ' From your sublime examples, and so cheer The fainting student to your high career. Ye come to nerve the soul Like him who near the ATONEH stood, when HE, Trembling, saw round him roll The wrathful potents of Gethsemane, With courage strong : the promise ye have known And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne. Still keep ! O, keep me near you, Compass me round with your immortal wings : Still let my glad soul hear you Striking your triumphs from your golden strings, Until with you I mount, and join the song, An angel, like you, 'mid the white-robed throng. LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING THOBWALDSEN'S BAS-RELIEF REPRESENTING NIGHT. YES ! bear them to their rest ; The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, The prattler fallen asleep e'en in his play, Clasp them to thy soft breast, O Night, Bless them in dreams with a deep hush'd delight. Yet must they wake again, Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife, Aye, to the conscience-pain Night, Canst thou not take with them a longer flight 1 Canst thou not bear them far E'en now all innocent before they know The taint of sin, its consequence of wo, The world's distracting jar, O Night, To some ethereal, holier, happier height 1 Canst thou not bear them up Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him Who drank for us the cup, O Night, The cup of wrath for hearts in faith contrite 1 To Him, for them who slept A babe all lowly on His mother's knee, And from that hour to cross-crown'd Calvary, In all our sorrows wept, O Night, [light. That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering So, lay their little heads Close to that human breast, with love divine Deep heating, while his arms immortal twine Around them as he sheds, O Nirht, [might. On them a brother's" grace of GOD'S own boundless Let them immortal wake Among the breathless flowers of Paradise, Where angel-songs of welcome with surprise This their last sleep may break, O Night, And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. There can come no sorrow, The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, For ever young through heaven's eternal years, In one unfading morrow, Night, Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight Would we could sleep as they, So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee, And only wake in immortality ! Bear us with them away, O Night, To that ethereal, holier, happier height TO MY WIFE. AFAR from thee ! the morning breaks, But morning brings no joy to me ; Alas ! my spirit only wakes To know I am afar from thee. In dreams I saw thy blessed face, And thou wert nestled on my breast ; In dreams I felt thy fond embrace, And to mine own thy heart was press'd. Afar from thee ! 'tis solitude ! Though smiling crowds around me be, The kind, the beautiful, the good, For I can only think of thee ; Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best, My earliest and my only one ! Without thee I am all unblcss'd, And wholly bless'd with thee alone. Afar from thee ! the words of praise My listless ear unheeded greet; What sweetest seem'd, in better days, Without thee seems no longer sweet The dearest joy fame can bestow Is in thy moisten'd eye to see, And in thy cheek's unusual glow, Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee. Afar from thee ! the night is come, But slumbers from my pillow flee ; Oh, who can rest so far from home 7 And my heart's home is, love, with thee. I kneel me down in silent prayer, And then I know that thou art nigh : For Go n, who seeth everywhere, Bends on us both his watchful eye. Together, in his loved embrace, No distance can our hearts divide ; Forgotten quite the mediate space, I kneel thy kneeling form beside. My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep, But soars the spirit far and free ; Oh, welcome be night's slumbers deep, For then, sweet love, I am with thee. WILLIAM LEGGETT. (Born, 1802. Died, 1840.] THIS distinguished political and miscellaneous writer was born in the city of New York, in the summer of 1802, and was educated at the George- town College, in the District of Columbia. In 1822 he entered the navy of the United States as a midshipman ; but in consequence of the arbitrary conduct of his commander, Captain JOHN ORDE CREIGHTON, he retired from the service in 1826, after which time he devoted himself mainly to litera- ry pursuits. His first publication was entitled " Lei- sure Hours at Sea," and was composed of various short poems written while he was in the navy. In 1828 he established, in New York, "The Critic," a weekly literary gazette, which he conducted with much ability for seven or eight months, at the end of which time it was united with the " Mirror," to which he became a regular contributor. In " The Critic" and " The Mirror," he first published " The Rifle," " The Main Truck, or the Leap for Life," " White Hands, or Not Quite in Character," and other stories, afterward embraced in the volumes entitled " Tales by a Country Schoolmaster," and " Sketches of the Sea." These tales and sketches are probably the most spirited and ingenious pro- ductions of their kind ever written in this country. In 1829 Mr. LEGGETT became associated with Mr. BUY ANT, in the editorship of the "Evening Post," and on the departure of that gentleman for Europe, in 1834, the entire direction of that able journal was devolved to him. A severe illness, which commenced near the close of the succeed- ing year, induced him to relinquish his connexion witli the "Post;" and on his recovery, in 1836, he commenced " The Plaindealer," a weekly periodi- cal devoted to politics and literature, for which he obtained great reputation by his independent and fearless assertion of doctrines, and the vigorous eloquence and powerful reasoning by which he maintained them. It was discontinued, in conse- quence of the failure of his publisher, before the close of the year ; and his health, after that period, prevented his connexion with any other journal. In 1828 he had been married to Miss EIMIRA WARING, daughter of Mr. JONA.WAKINO, of New Rochelle ; and to that pleasant village he now re- tired, with his family. He occasionally visited his friends in the city, and a large portion of the democratic party there proposed to nominate him for a seat in Congress ; but as he had acted inde- pendently of a majority of the party in regard to certain important political questions, his formal Domination was prevented. In April, 1840, he was appointed by Mr. VAN BUREN, then President of the United States, a diplomatic agent* from our * Soon after the death of Mr. I.EGOETT, Mr. JOHN L. STEPHENS, whose "Travels in Central America" have been since published, was appointed his successor as diplomatic agent to that country. 35 government to the Republic of Guatemala. He was preparing to depart for that country, when he suddenly expired, on the twenty-ninth day of fol- lowing month, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. A few months after his death, a collection of his political writings, in two large duodecimo volumes, was published, under the direction of his friend, Mr. THEODORE SEDGWICK. Besides the works already mentioned, he wrote much in various peri- odicals, and was one of the authors of " The Tales of Glauber Spa," published in 1832. In the ma- turity of his powers, his time and energies were devoted to political writing. His poems are the poorest of his productions, and were written while he was in the naval service, or during his editor- ship of " The Critic." In addition to his Melodies which are generally ingenious and well versified he wrote one or two prize addresses for the thea- tres, and some other pieces, which have considera- ble merit. His death was deeply and generally deplored, especially by the members of the democratic party, who regarded him as one of the ablest champions of their principles. Mr. BHYAXT, with whom he was for several years intimately associated, pub- lished in the " Democratic Review" the following tribute to his character : " The earth may ring from shore to shore, With echoes of a glorious name ; But he whose loss our hearts deplore Has left behind him more than fame. "For when the death-frost came to lie Upon that warm and mighty heart, And quench that bold and friendly eye, His spirit did not all depart. " The words of fire that from his pen Were flung upon Ihe lucid page, Still move, still shake the hearts of men, Amid a cold and coward age. " His love of Truth, too warm too strong For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, His hate of Tyranny and Wrong, Burn in the breasts he kindled still." Mr. SEDGWICK, in the preface to his political writings, remarks that " every year was softening his prejudices, and calming his passions; enlarging his charities, and widening the bounds of his libe- rality. Had a more genial clime invigorated his constitution, and enabled him to return to his labours, a brilliant and honourable future might have been predicted of him. It is not the sugges- tion of a too fond affection, but the voice of a calm judgment, which declares that, whatever public career he had pursued, he must have raised to his memory an imperishable monument, and that as no name is now dearer to his friends, so few could have been more honourably associated witn tne history of his country, than that of LEGGETT." 273 274 WILLIAM LEGGETT. A SACRED MELODY. IF yon bright stars which gem the night Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits reunite, Whom death has torn asunder here ; How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar Mixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky, And soar away from star te star. But, ! how dark, how drear, how lone Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We fail'd to find the loved of this ! If there no more the ties should twine, Which death's cold hand alone can sever, Ah ! then these stars hi mockery shine, More hateful, as they shine forever. It cannot be ! each hope and fear That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now ! There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, Dry thy tears : The pure in heart shall meet again !" LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. THE birds, when winter shades the sky, Fly o'er the seas away, Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, And summer breezes play ; And thus the friends that nutter near While fortune's sun is warm, Are startled if a cloud appear, And fly before the storm. But when from winter's howling plains Each other warbler 's past, The little snow-bird still remains, And chirrups midst the blast. Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng With fortune's sun depart, Still lingers with its cheerful song, And nestles on the heart. SONG. I TRUST the frown thy features wear Ere long into a smile will turn ; I would not that a face so fair As thine, beloved, should look so stern. The chain of ice that winter twines. Holds not for aye the sparkling rill, It melts away when summer shines, And leave the waters sparkling still. Thus let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before ; And though I left thee for a while, I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more. As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam, Or wander on a foreign strand, Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home, And better love his native land ; So I, though lured a time away, Like bees by varied sweets, to rove, Return, like bees, by close of day, And leave them all for thee, my love. Then let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before, And though I left thee for a while, I swear to leave thee, love, no more. LIFE'S GUIDING STAR. THE youth whose bark is guided o'er A summer stream by zephyr's breath, With idle gaze delights to pore On imaged skies that glow beneath. But should a fleeting storm arise To shade a while the watery way, Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes, And speeds to reach some sheltering bay, 'Tis thus, down time's eventful tide, While prosperous breezes gently blow, In life's frail bark we gayly glide, - Our hopes, our thoughts all fix'd below. But let one cloud the prospect dim, The wind its quiet stillness mar, At once we raise our prayer to Him Whose light is life's best guiding star. TO ELMIRA. WRITTEN WITH FRENCH CHALK* OX A PANE OF GLASS IN THE HOUSE OF A FRIEND. Oif this frail glass, to others' view, No written words appear ; They see the prospect smiling through, Nor deem what secret 's here. But shouldst thou on the tablet bright A single breath bestow, At once the record starts to sight Which only thou must know. Thus, like this glass, to strangers' gaze My heart seemed unimpress'd ; In vain did beauty round me blaze, It could not warm my breast. But as one breath of thine can make These letters plain to see, So in my heart did love awake When breathed upon by thee. * The substance usually called French chalk has this singular property, that what is written on glass, thoneh easily rubbed out again, so that no trace remains visible, by being breathed on becomes immediately distinctly legible. EDWARD C. PINKNEY. [Born 1802. Died 182$.] EDWARD COATK PI>KXEY was born in London, in October, 1802, while his father, the Honourable WILLIAM PINKXEY, was the American Minister at the court of St. James'. Soon after the return of his family to Baltimore, in 1811, he entered St. Mary's College, in that city, and remained there until he was fourteen years old, when he was ap- pointed a midshipman in the navy. He con- tinued in the service nine years, and in that period visited the Mediterranean and several other foreign stations, and acquired much general knowledge and acquaintance with mankind. The death of his father, and other circumstances, induced him, in 1824, to resign his place in the navy ; and in the same year he was married, and admitted to the Maryland bar. His career as a lawyer was brief and unfortunate. He opened an office in Baltimore, and applied himself earnestly to his profession ; but though his legal acquire- ments and forensic abilities were respectable, his rooms were seldom visited by a client ; and after two years had passed, disheartened by neglect,'and with a prospect of poverty before him, he suddenly determined to enter the naval service of Mexico, in which a number of our officers had already won distinction and fortune. When, however, he pre- sented himself before Commodore POHTEH, then commanding the sea-forces of that country, the situation he solicited was refused,* and he was compelled reluctantly to retuni to the United States. He reappeared in Baltimore, poor and dejected. He turned his attention again to the law, but in his vigorous days he had been unable to support himself by his profession ; and now, when he was suffering from disease and a settled melancholy, it was not reasonable to anticipate success. The erroneous idea that a man of a poetical mind cannot transact business requiring patience and habits of carefnl investigation, was undoubtedly one of the principal causes of his failure as a K-wvyer ; for that he was respected, and that his fellow-citizens were willing to confer upon him honours, is evident from the fact that, in 1826, he was appointed one of the professors in the Uni- versity of Maryland. This office, however, was one of honour only : it yielded no profit. PTXKXEY now became sensible that his consti- tution was broken, and that he could not long * It has been said that Commodore PDRTEH refused to give PINKXEY a commission, because he was known to be a warm adherent of an administration to which ho was himself opposed ; but it is more reasonable to be- lieve, as was alleged at the time, that tho navy of Mexico was full, and that the citizens of that republic had begun to regard with jealousy the too frequent admission of foreigners into the service. survive ; but he had no wish to live. His feelings at this period are described in one of his poems : "A sense it was, that I could see The angel leave my side That thenceforth my prosperity Must be a falling tide ; A strange and ominous belief, That in spring-time the yellow leaf Had fallen on my hours ; And that all hope must be most vain, Of finding on my path again Its former vanish'd flowers." Near the close of the year 1827, a political gazette, entitled " The Marylander," was esta- blished in Baltimore, and, in compliance with the general wish of the proprietors, Mr. PIXKXEY undertook to conduct it. He displayed much sagacity and candour, and in a few weeks won a high reputation in his new vocation ; but his increasing illness compelled him to leave it, and he died on the eleventh of April, 1828, at the early age of twenty-five years and six months. He was a man of genius, and had all the qualities of mind and heart that win regard and usually lead to greatness, except HOPE and ESEHBT. A small volume containing "Rodolph," and other poems, was published by PIXKXET in 1825. " Rodolph" is his longest work. It was first pub- lished, anonymously, soon after he left the navy, and was probably written while he was in the Mediterranean. It is in two cantos. The first begins, "The summer's heir on land and sea Had thrown his parting glance. And winter taken angrily His waste inheritance. The winds in stormy revelry Sporteil beneath a frowning sky; The chafing waves, with hollow roar, Tumbled upon the shaken shore, And sent their spray in upward showers To Rodolph's proud ancestral towers, Whose bastion, from its mural crown, A regal look cast sternly down." There is no novelty in the story, and not much can be said for its morality. The hero, in the season described in the above lines, arrives at his own domain, after many years of wandering in fo- reign lands, during which he had " grown old in heart, and infirm of frame." In his youth he had loved the wife of another and his passion had been returned. "At an untimely tide," he had met the husband, and, in encounter, slain him. The wife goes into a convent, and her paramour seeks refuge from remorse in distant, countries. In the beginning of the second canto, he is once more in his own castle ; but, feeling some dark presenti- ment, he wanders to a cemetery, where, in the morning, he is found by his vassals, " senseless 276 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. beside his lady's um." In the delirium which follows, he raves of many crimes, but most . . . "Of one too dearly loved, And one untimely slain, Of an affection hardly proved By murder done in vain." He dies in madness, and the story ends abruptly and coldly. It has more faults than PINKXEI'S other works ; in many passages it is obscure ; its beauty is marred by the use of obsolete words ; and the author seems to delight in drawing his com- parisons from the least known portions of ancient literature. Some of his lighter pieces are very beautiful. "A Health," "The Picture-Song," and A Se- renade," have not often been equalled ; and "Italy," an imitation of GOETHE'S Kcnnst du das Land has some noble lines. Where is there a finer passage than this: "The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curl'd And solemn smokes, like altars of the world !" PINKXEY'S is the first instance in this country in which we have to lament the prostitution of true poetical genius to unworthy purposes. Per- vading much that he wrote there is a selfish me- lancholy and sullen pride; dissatisfaction with the present, and doubts in regard to the future life. The great distinguishing characteristic of Ameri- can poetry is its pure and high morality. May it ever be so ! ITALY. KXOW'ST thou the land whichlovers ought tochoose? Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews ; In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run, The purple vintage clusters in the sun ; Odours of flowers haunt the balmy breeze, Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees ; And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves, Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves. Beloved ! speed we from this sullen strand, Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand. Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky; [eye And, flying fast and free before the gale, The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail ; And waters glittering in the glare of noon, Or touch'd with silver by the stars and moon, Or fleck'd with broken lines of crimson light, When the far fisher's fire affronts the night. Lovely as loved ! toward that smiling shore Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more. It looks a dimple on the face of earth, The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth ; Nature is delicate and graceful there, The place's genius, feminine and fair; The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curl'd And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. Thrice beautiful ! to that delightful spot Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls, Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls ; And there are forms in which they both conspire To whisper themes that know not how to tire ; The spi-aking ruins in that gentle clime Have but been hallow'd by the hand of Time, And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame: The meanest stone is not without a name. Then come, beloved ! hasten o'er the sea, To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy. THE INDIAN'S BRIDE. Why is that graceful female here With yon red hunter of the deer ] Of gentle mien and shape, she seems For civil halls design'd, Yet with the stately savage walks, As she were of his kind. Look on her leafy diadem, Enrich'd with many a floral gem : Those simple ornaments about Her candid brow, disclose The loitering spring's last violet, And summer's earliest rose ; But not a flower lies breathing there Sweet as herself, or half so fair. Exchanging lustre with the sun, A part of day she strays A glancing, living, human smile On Nature's face she plays. Can none instruct me what are these Companions of the lofty trees ? Intent to blend her with his lot, Fate form'd her all that he was not ; And, as by mere unlikeness, thoughts Associate we see, Their hearts, from very difference, caught A perfect sympathy. The household goddess here to be Of that one dusky votary, She left her pallid countrymen, An earthling most divine, And sought in this sequester d wood A solitary shrine. Behold them roaming hand in hand, Like night and sleep, along the land ; Observe their movements: he for her Restrains his active stride, WTiile she assumes a bolder gait To ramble at his side ; Thus, even as the steps they frame, Then- souls fast alter to the same. EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 277 The one forsakes ferocity, And momently grows mild ; The other tempers more and more The artful with the wild. She humanizes him, and he Educates him to liberty. 0, say not they must soon be old, Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold ! Yet envy I that sylvan pair More than my words express, The singular beauty of their lot, And seeming happiness. They have not been reduced to share The painful pleasures of despair; Their sun declines not in the sky, Nor are their wishes cast, Like shadows of the afternoon, Repining towards the past : With nought to dread or to repent, The present yields them full content. In solitude there is no crime ; Their actions all are free, And passion lends their way of life The only dignity ; And how can they have any cares 1 Whose interest contends with theirs 1 The world, for all they know of it, Is theirs : for them the stars are lit ; For them the earth beneath is green, The heavens above are bright ; For them the moon doth wax and wane, And decorate the night ; For them the branches of those trees Wave music in the vernal breeze ; For them, upon that dancing spray, The free bird sits and sings, And glittering insects flit about Upon delighted wings ; For them that brook, the brakes among, Murmurs its small and drowsy song; For them the many-colour'd clouds Their shapes diversify, And change at once, like smiles and frowns, The expression of the sky. For them, and by them, all is gay, And fresh and beautiful as they : The images their minds receive, Their minds assimilate To outward forms, imparting thus The glory of their state. Could aught be painted otherwise Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes'? He, too, because she fills his sight, Each object falsely sees ; The pleasure that he has in her Makes all things seem to please. And this is love ; and it is life They lead,-^-that Indian nd his wife. SONG. WE break the glass, whose sacred wine, To some beloved health we drain. Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane ; And thus I broke a heart that pour'd Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory. But still the old, impassion'd ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays. Thine image chamber'd in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers, And airy gems thy words. A HEALTH. I FIIL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon Her health ! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. 2 A 278 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. THE VOYAGER'S SONG.* Sotrx D trumpets,ho! weigh anchor loosen sail The seaward flying banners chide delay ; As if 'twere heaven that breathes this kindly gale, Our life-like bark beneath it speeds away. Flit we, a gliding dream, with troublous motion, Across the slumbers of uneasy ocean ; And furl our canvass by a happier land, So fraught with emanations from the sun, That potable gold streams through the sand Where element should run. Onward, my friends, to that bright, florid isle, The jewel of a smoothe and silver sea, With springs on which perennial summers smile A power of causing immortality. For Bimini ; in its enchanted ground, The hallow'd fountains we would seek, are found ; Bathed in the waters of those mystic wells, The frame starts up in renovated truth, And, freed from Time's deforming spells, Resumes its proper youth. Hail, bitter birth ! once more my feelings all A graven image to themselves shall make, And, placed upon my heart for pedestal, That glorious idol long will keep awake Their natural religion, nor be cast To earth by Age, the great Iconoclast. As from Gadara's founts they once could come, Charm-call'd, from these Love's genii shall arise, And build their perdurable home, MIRANDA, in thine eyes. By Nature wisely gifted, not destroy'd With golden presents, like the Roman maid, A sublunary paradise enjoy'd, Shall teach thee bliss incapable of shade ; An Eden ours, nor angry gods, nor men, Nor star-clad Fates, can take from us again. Superior to animal decay, Sun of that perfect heaven, thou'lt calmly see Stag, raven, phenix, drop away With human transiency. Thus rich in being, beautiful, adored, Fear not exhausting pleasure's precious mine ; The wondrous waters we approach, when pour'd On passion's lees, supply the wasted wine : Then be thy bosom's tenant prodigal, And confident of termless carnival. Like idle yellow leaves afloat on time, Let others lapse to death's pacific sea, We '11 fade nor fall, but sport sublime In green eternity. * " A tradition prevailed among the natives of Puerto Rico, that in the Isle of Bimini, one of the Lucnyos, there was a fountain of such wonderful virtue, as to re- new the youth and recall the vigour of every person who bathed in its salutary waters. In hopes of finding this grand restorative, Ponce de Leon and his followers, ranged through the islands, searching with fruitless soli- citude for the fountain, which was the chief object of the expedition." ROBERTSON'S America. The envious years, which steal our pleasures, thou Mayst call at once, like magic memory, back, And, as they pass o'er thine unwithering brow, Efface their footsteps ere they form a track. Thy bloom with wilful weeping never stain, Perpetual life must not belong to pain. For me, this world has not yet been a place Conscious of joys so great as will be mine, Because the light has kiss'd no face Forever fair as thine. A PICTURE-SONG. How may this little tablet feign The features of a face, Which o'er informs with loveliness, Its proper share of space ; Or human hands on ivory, Enable us to see The charms, that all must wonder at, Thou work of gods in thee ! But yet, methinks, that sunny smile Familiar stories tells, And I should know those placid eyes, Two shaded crystal wells ; Nor can my soul, the limner's art Attesting with a sigh, Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek, As rosy clouds the sky. They could not semble what thou art, More excellent than fair, As soft as sleep or pity is, And pure as mountain-air ; But here are common, earthly hues, To such an aspect wrought, That none, save thine, can seem so like The beautiful of thought. The song I sing, thy likeness like, Is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now A memory to me, Who have upon life's frozen sea Arrived the icy spot, Where man's magnetic feelings show Their guiding task forgot. The sportive hopes, that used to chase Their shifting shadows on, Like children playing in the sun, Are gone forever gone ; And on a careless, sullen peace, My double-fronted mind, Like JANUS when his gates were shut, Looks forward and behind. APOLLO placed his harp, of old, A while upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, A breaking harp-string's tone ; And thus my heart, though wholly now, From early softness free, If touch'd, will yield the music yet, It first received of thee. EDWARD C. PINKNEY. 279 THE OLD TREE. AND is it gone, that venerable tree, The old spectator of my infancy 1 It used to stand upon this very spot, And now almost its absence is forgot. I knew its mighty strength had known decay, Its heart, like every old one, shrank away, But dreamt not that its frame would fall, ere mine At all partook my weary soul's decline. The great reformist, that each day removes The old, yet never on the old improves, The dotard, Time, that like a child destroys, As sport or spleen may prompt, his ancient toys, And shapes their ruins into something new Has planted other playthings where it grew. The wind pursues an unobstructed course, Which once among its leaves delay'd perforce ; The harmless Hamadryad, that of yore Inhabited its bole, subsists no more ; Its roots have long since felt the ruthless plough There is no vestige of its glories now ! But in my mind, which doth not soon forget, That venerable tree is growing yet ; Nourish'd, like those wild plants that feed on air, By thoughts of years unconversant with care, And visions such as pass ere man grows wholly A fiendish thing, or mischief adds to folly. I still behold it with my fancy's eye, A vernant record of the days gone by : I see not the sweet form and face more plain, Whose memory was a weight upon my brain. Dear to my song, and dearer to my soul, Who knew but half my heart, yet had the whole Sun of my life, whose presence and whose flight Its brief day caused, and never-ending night ! Must this delightless verse, which is indeed The mere wild product of a worthless weed, (But which, like sunflowers, turns a loving face Towards the lost light, and scorns its birthand place,) End with such cold allusion unto you, To whom, in youth, my very dreams were true 1 It must; I have no more of that soft kind, My age is not the same, nor is my mind. TO . T WAS eve ; the broadly shining sun Its long, celestial course had run ; The twilight heaven, so soft and blue, Met earth in tender interview, E'en as the angel met of yore His gifted mortal paramour, Woman, a child of morning then, A spirit still, compared with men. lake happy islands of the sky, The gleaming clouds reposed on high, Each fix'd sublime, deprived of motion, A Delos to the airy ocean. Upon the stirless shore no breeze Shook the green drapery of the trees, Or, rebel to tranquillity, Awoke a ripple on the sea. Nor, in a more tumultuous sound, Were the world's audible breathings drown'd ; The low, strange hum of herbage growing, The voice of hidden waters flowing, Made songs of nature, which the ear Could scarcely be pronounced to hear ; But noise had furl'd its subtle wings, And moved not through material things, All which lay calm as they had been Parts of the painter's mimic scene. 'Twas eve; my thoughts belong to thee, Thou shape of separate memory ! When, like a stream to lands of flame, Unto my mind a vision came. Methought, from human haunts and strife Remote, -we lived a loving life ; Our wedded spirits seem'd to blend In harmony too sweet to end, Such concord as the echoes cherish Fondly, but leave at length to perish. Wet rain-stars are thy lucid eyes, The Hyades of earthly skies, But then upon my heart they shone, As shines on snow the fervid sun. And fast went by those moments bright, Like meteors shooting through the night ; But faster fleeted the wild dream That clothed them with their transient beam. Yet love can years to days condense, And long appear'd that life intense ; It was, to give a better measure Than time, a century of pleasure. ELYSIUM. SHE dwelleth in Elysium ; there, Like Echo, floating in the air ; Feeding on light as feed the flowers, She fleets away uncounted hours, Where halcyon Peace, among the bless'd, Sits brooding o'er her tranquil nest. She needs no impulse ; one she is, Whom thought supplies with ample bliss : The fancies fashion'd in her mind By Heaven, are after its own kindj Like sky-reflections in a lake, Whose calm no winds occur to break. Her memory is purified, And she seems never to have sigh'd : She hath forgot the way to weep; Her being is a joyous sleep ; The mere imagining of pain, Hath pass'd, and cannot come again. Except of pleasure most intense And constant, she hath lost all sense ; Her life is day without a night, An endless, innocent delight ; No chance her happiness now mars, Howe'er Fate twine her wreaths of stars. And palpable and pure, the part Which pleasure playeth with her heart ; For every joy that seeks the maid, Foregoes its common painful shade Like shapes that issue from the grove Arcadian, dedicate to JOVE. 280 EDWARD C. PINKNEY. TO H- THE firstlings of my simple song Were offer'd to thy name ; Again the altar, idle long, In worship rears its flame. My sacrifice of sullen years, My many hecatombs of tears, No happier hours recall Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore To one who ever loved thee more Than fickle Fortune's all. And now, farewell ! and although here Men hate the source of pain, I hold thee and thy follies dear, Nor of thy faults complain. For my misused and blighted powers, My waste of miserable hours, I will accuse thee not : The fool who could from self depart, And take for fate one human heart, Deserved no better lot. I reck of mine the less, because In wiser moods I feel A doubtful question of its cause And nature, on me steal An ancient notion, that time flings Our pains and pleasures from his wings With much equality And that, in reason, happiness Both of accession and decrease Incapable must be. UNWISE, or most unfortunate, My way was ; let the sign, The proof of it, be simply this Thou art not, wert not mine ! For 'tis the wont of chance to bless Pursuit, if patient, with success ; And envy may repine, That, commonly, some triumph must Be won by every lasting lust. How I have lived imports not now; I am about to die, Else I might chide thee that my life Has been a stifled sigh ; Yes, life ; for times beyond the line Our parting traced, appear not mine, Or of a world gone by ; And often almost would evince, My soul had transmigrated since. Pass wasted flowers ; alike the grave, To which I fast go down, Will give the joy of nothingness To me, and to renown : Unto its careless tenants, fame Is idle as that gilded name, Of vanity the crown, Helvetian hands inscribe upon The forehead of a skeleton. List the last cadence of a lay, That, closing as begun, Is govern'd by a note of pain, O, lost and worshipp'd one ! None shall attend a sadder strain, Till MEMXON'S statue stand again To mourn the setting sun, Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem To share the nature of their theme. SERENADE. LOOK out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light ; Then, lady, up, look out, and be A sister to the night ! Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast : Sleep not ! from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day. THE WIDOW'S SONG. I BURX no incense, hang no wreath O'er this, thine early tomb : Such cannot cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed ; They lose their perfume and their powtf, When ofler'd to the dead. And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense, to feed On fragrance, near its urn It is enough, that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And falls these heavy tears. SONG. I NEED not name thy thrilling name, Though now I drink to thee, my dear, Since all sounds shape that magic word, That fall upon my ear, MAHT ; And silence, with a wakeful voice, Speaks it in accents loudly free, As darkness hath a light that shows Thy gentle face to me, MART. I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul, With scarce one hope, and mnny fears, Mix'd, were I of a melting mood, With many bitter tears, MAHT I pledge thee, and the empty Cup Emblems this hollow life of mine, To which, a gone enchantment, thou No more wilt be the wiue, MART. RALPH WALDO EMERSON [Born, 1803.] RALPH WALDO EMERSON, one of the most eminent authors of this country, was born in Bos- ton about the year 1803. After obtaining his bachelor's degree at Harvard College, he studied theology, and was settled over the Second Unitarian Church in his native city, but subsequently aban- doned the pulpit on account of having adopted the Quaker opinion in regard to the sacrament of the Lord's Supper ; and has since lived in retirement, devoting his time to the study of literature and philosophy. Mr. EMERSOJT has been a contributor to the " North American Review" and the " Christian Examiner," and was two years editor of "The Dial," a literary and philosophical magazine printed in Boston. He has published a work entitled " Nature ;" a collection of " Orations," and two volumes of " Essays," all of which have peculiar and extraordinary merits. The first collection of his Poems was published in Boston in the begin- ning of 1847. Many of them bear the unques- tionable marks of genius. EACH IN ALL. LITTLE thinks in the field yon red-cloak'd clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; And the heifer that lows in the upland farm Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton tolling his bell at noon Dreams not that great NAPOLEOX Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent, All are needed by each one ; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home in his nest at even, He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky, He sang to my ear, these sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetch'd my sea-born treasures home, But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair, Their concord is beyond compare. The lover watch'd his graceful maid As mid the virgin train she stray'd, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by that snow-white quire. At last, she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage, The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. 36 Then, I said, " I covet truth ; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; I leave it behind with the games of youth ;" As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curl'd its pretty wreath, Running over the hair-cap burs : I inhaled the violet's breath : Around me stood the oaks ^*id firs : Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. Over me soar'd the eternal sky Full of light and of deity ; Again I saw again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird : Beauty through my senses stole, I yielded myself to the perfect whole. "GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!" GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home, Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine : Too long through weary crowds I roam : A river ark on the ocean brine, Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam But now, proud world, I 'm going home. Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; To Grandeur with his wise grimace : To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; To supple office, low and high ; To crowded halls, to court and street, To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, To those who go, and those who come, Good-bye, proud world, Im going home. I go to seek my own hearth-stone Bosom'd in yon green hills alone ; A secret lodge in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, Where arches green, the livelong day Echo the blackbird's roundelay, And evil men have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and GOD. 2A2 281 282 KALPH WALDO EMERSON. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet 1 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. FINE humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! Where thou art is clime for me, Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek, I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines, Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Flower-bells, Honey'd cells, These the tents Which he frequents. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June, Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze, Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a colour of romance, And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets, Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tune, Telling of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers, Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found, Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury or unclean Hath my insect never seen, But violets, and bilberry bells, Maple sap, and daffodels, Clover, catchfly, adders-tongue, And brier-roses dwelt among. All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he pass'd. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breech'd philosopher, Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep, Wo and want thou canst outsleep ; Want and wo which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. THE RHODORA. LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school ; The lively show beguiled me from my way. Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee %vhy This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew, But in my simple ignorance suppose [you. The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought THE SNOW-STORM. ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopp'd, the courier's feet Delay'd, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnish'd with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are number'd, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish'd Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 283 THE SPHINX. THE Sphinx is drowsy, Her wings are furl'd, Her ear is heavy, She broods on the world. "Who'll tell me my secret The ages have kept ] I awaited the seer While they slumber'd and slept. The fate of the manchild, The meaning of man, Known fruit of the unknown, Daedalian plan. Out of sleeping a waking, Out of waking a sleep, Life death overtaking, Deep underneath deep. " Erect as a sunbeam Upspringeth the palm ; The elephant browses Undaunted and calm; In beautiful motion The thrush plies his wings, Kind leaves of his covert ! Your silence he sings. "The waves unashamed In difference sweet, Play glad with the breezes, Old playfellows meet. The journeying atoms, Primordial wholes, Firmly draw, firmly drive, By their animate poles. " Sea, earth, air, sound, silence, Plant, quadruped, bird, By one music enchanted, One deity stirr'd, Each the other adorning, Accompany still, Night veileth the morning, The vapour the hill. " The babe, by its mother Lies bathed in joy, Glide its hours uncounted, The sun is its toy ; Shines the peace of all being Without cloud in its eyes, And the sum of the world In soft miniature lies. " But man crouches and blushes, Absconds and conceals ; He creepeth and peepeth, He palters and steals ; Infirm, melancholy, Jealous glancing around, An oaf, an accomplice, He poisons the ground. " Outspoke the great mother Beholding his fear ; At the sound of her accents Cold shudder'd the sphere ; " Who has drugg'd my boy's cup, Who has mix'd my boy's bread 1 Who, with sadness and madness, Has turn'd the manchild's head?' " I heard a poet answer Aloud and cheerfully, u Say on, sweet Sphinx ! thy dirges Are pleasant songs to me. Deep love lieth under These pictures of time, They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime. " The fiend that man harries Is love of the Best, Yawns the Pit of the Dragon Lit by rays from the Blest ; The Lethe of Nature Can't trance him again, Whose soul sees the Perfect Which his eyes seek in vain. " Profounder, profounder Man's spirit must dive : To his aye-rolling orbit No goal will arrive. The heavens that now draw him With sweetness untold, Once found, for new heavens He spurneth the old. " Pride ruin'd the angels, Their shame them restores : And the joy that is sweetest Lurks in stings of remorse. Have I a lover Who is noble and free, I would he were nobler Than to love me. " Eterne alternation Now follows, now flies, And under pain, pleasure, Under pleasure, pain lies. Love works at the centre Heart heaving alway, Forth speed the strong pulses To the borders of day. " Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits ! Thy sight is growing blear ; Hemlock and vitriol for the Sphinx Her muddy eyes to clear.'' The old Sphinx bit her thick lip, Said, Who taught thee me to name ? Manchild ! I am thy spirit ; Of thine eye I am eyebeam. << Thou art the unanswer'd question : Couldst see thy proper eye, Alway it asketh, asketh, And each answer is a lie. So take thy quest through nature, It through thousand natures ply, Ask on, thou clothed eternity, Time is the false reply." 284 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Uprose the merry Sphinx, And crouch'd no more in stone, She hopp'd into the baby's eyes, She hopp'd into the moon, She spired into a yellow flame, She flower'd in blossoms red, She flow'd into a foaming wave, She stood Monadnoc's head. Thorough a thousand voices Spoke the universal dame, Who telleth one of my meanings Is master of all I am." THE PROBLEM. I LIKE a church, I like a cowl, I love a prophet of the soul, And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure ? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle ; Out from the heart of nature roll'd The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and wo. The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groin'd the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity. Himself from God he could not free ; He builded better than he knew, The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon wood-bird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ; Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell ; Or how the sacred pine tree adds To her old. leaves new myriads T Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone ; And morning opes with haste her lida To gaze upon the Pyramids ; O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye ; For, out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air, And nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grew as grows the grass, Art might obey but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o'er him plann'd, And the same power that rear'd the shrine, Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentacost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting quires, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken, Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; The word by seers or sybils told In groves of oak or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost I know what say the Fathers wise, The book itself before rne lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines ; His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear, And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be. THE FORE-RUNNERS. LONG I follow 'd happy guides: I could never reach their sides. Their step is forth and, ere the day, Breaks up their leaguer and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young, Right good will my sinews strung. But no speed of mine avails To hunt upon their shining trails. On and away, their hasting feet Make the morning proud and sweet Flowers they strew, I catch the scent, Or tone of silver instrument Leaves on the wind melodious trace, Yet I could never see their face. On eastern hills I see their smokes Mix'd with mist by distant lochs. I met many travellers Who the road had surely kept, They saw not my fine revellers, These had cross'd them while they slept Some had heard their fair report, In the country or the court. Fleetest couriers alive Never yet could once arrive, As they went or they return'd, At the house where these sojourn'd. Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, Though they are not overtaken : In sleep their jubilant troop is near, I tuneful voices overhear, It may be in wood or waste, At unawares 't is come and pass'd. Their near camp my spirit knows By signs gracious as rainbows. I thenceforward and long after, Listen for their harp-like laughter, And carry in my heart for days Peace that hallows rudest ways. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 285 THE POET. Fon this present, hard Is the fortune of the bard Born out of time ; AH his accomplishment From nature's utmost treasure spent Booteth not him. When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, He speeds to the woodland walks, To birds and trees he talks; Caesar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river side, Not hook nor line hath he : He stands in the meadows wide, Nor gun nor scythe to see ; With none has he to do, And none to seek him, Nor men 'below, Nor spirits dim. What he knows nobody wants ; What he knows, he hides, riot vaunts. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest ; Pondering shadows, colours, clouds, Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds, Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violets' petal, Why nature loves the number five, And why the star-form she repeats ; Lover of all things alive, Wondcrer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, Who can tell him what he is ; Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities ? . . . . Arid such I knew, a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year, Foreteller of the vernal ides, Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, A lover true, who knew by heart Each joy the mountain dales impart ; It seem'd that nature could not raise A plant in any secret place, In quaking bog, on snowy hill, Beneath the grass that shades the rill, Under the snow, between the rocks, In damp fields known to bird and fox, But he would come in the very hour It opcrTd in its virgin bower, As if a sunbeam show'd the place, And tell its long descended race. It seem'd as if the breezes brought him, It seem'd as if the sparrows taught him, As if by secret sight he knew Where in far fields the orchis grew. There are many events in the field, Which are not shown to common eyes, But all her shows did nature yield To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods, He heard the woodcock's evening hymn, He found the tawny thrush's broods, And the shy hawk did wait for him. What others did at distance hear, And guess'd within the thicket's gloom, Was show'd to this philosopher, And at his bidding seem'd to come. DIRGE. KNOWS he who tills this lonely field To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn 1 In the long sunny afternoon The plain was full of ghosts, I wander'd up, I wander'd down, Beset by pensive hosts. The winding Concord gleam'd below, Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago, Came with me to the wood. But they are gone the holy ones Who trod with me this lonely vale, The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low, and pale. My good, my noble, in their prime, W T ho made this world the feast it was, Who learn'd with me the lore of Time, Who loved this dwelling-place ; They took this valley for their toy, They play'd with it in every mood, A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, They treated Nature as they would. They colour'd the whole horizon round, Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearken'd for their sound, They made the woodlands glad or mad. I touch this flower of silken leaf Which once our childhood knew, Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew. Hearken to yon pine warbler, Singing aloft in the tree ; Hearest thou, traveller ! What he singeth to me 1 Not unless God made sharp thine ear With sorrow such as mine, Out of that delicate lay couldst thou Its heavy tale divine. " Go, lonely man," it saith, "They loved thee from their birth, Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, There are no such hearts on earth. " Ye drew one mother's milk, One chamber held ye all, A very tender history Did in your childhood fall. " Ye cannot unlock your heart, The key is gone with them ; The silent onran loti.i, .-t ehants The master's requiem.'' SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. [Born 1803. Died 1844.] THE author of The Last Night of Pompeii" was born in Warwick, near the western border of Massachusetts, in the autumn of 1803. His father, a respectable physician, died in 1806, and his mo- ther, on becoming a widow, returned with two children to her paternal home in Worcester. Mr. FAIRFIEI/D entered Harvard College when thirteen years of age ; but, after spending two years in that seminary, was compelled to leave it, to aid his mother in teaching a school in a neigh- bouring village. He subsequently passed two or three years in Georgia and South Carolina, and in 1824 went to Europe. He returned in 1826, was soon afterwards married, and from that period re- sided in Philadelphia, where for several years he conducted the "North American Magazine," a monthly miscellany in which appeared most of his prose writings and poems. He commenced the business of authorship at a very early period, and perhaps produced more in the form of poetry than any of his American con- temporaries. " The Cities of the Plain," one of his earliest poems, was originally published in England. It was founded on the history of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, in the eigh- teenth and nineteenth chapters of Genesis. The "Heir of the World," which followed in 1828, is a poetical version of the life of ABRAHAM. It is in the Spenserian measure, and contains some fine passages, descriptive of scenery and feeling. His next considerable work, " The Spirit of Destruc- tion," appeared in 1830. Its subject is the deluge. Like the Cities of the Plain," it is in the heroic verse, in which he wrote with great facility. His "Last Night of Pompeii"* was published in 1832. It is the result of two years' industrious labour, and was written amid the cares and vexations of poverty. The destruction of the cities of Herculaneum, Pom- peii, Retina and Stabiae, by an eruption of Vesuvius, in the summer of the year seventy-nine, is perhaps one of the finest subjects for poetry in modern his- tory. Mr. FAIRFIELD in this poem exhibits a fa- miliar acquaintance with the manners and events of the period, and his style is stately and sustained. His shorter pieces, though in some cases turgid and unpolished, are generally distinguished for vigour of thought and depth of feeling. An edition of his principal writings was published in a closely-printed octavo volume, in Philadelphia, in 1841. The first and last time I ever saw FAIRFIELD was in the summer of 1842, when he called at my hotel to thank me for some kind notice of him in one of the journals, of which he supposed me * Mr. FAIRFIELD accused Sir EDWARD BUIAVKR I/VT- TON of founding on this poem his romance of the " Last Days of Pompeii." to be the author. In a note sent to my apartment he described himself as " an outcast from all hu- man affections" except those of his mother and his children, with whom he should remain but a little while, for he " felt the weight of the arm of Death." He complained that every man's hand had been against him, that exaggerated accounts had been published of his infirmities, and uncharitable views given of his misfortunes. He said his mother, who had " been abused as an annoying old crone," in the newspapers, for endeavouring to obtain sub- scribers for his works, was attending him from his birth to his burial, and would never grow weary till the end. This prediction was verified. About a year afterwards I read in a published letter from New Orleans that FAIRFIELD had wandered to that city, lived there a few months in solitude and destitution, and after a painful illness died. While he lingered on his pallet, between the angel of death and bis mother, she counted the hours of day and night, never slumbering by his side, nor leaving him, until as his only mourner she had fol- lowed him to a grave. Not wishing to enter into an}" particular exami- nation of his claims to personal respect, I must still express an opinion that FAIRFIELD was harshly treated, and that even if the specific charges against him were true, it was wrong to permit the private character of the author to have any influence upon critical judgments of his works. He wrote much, and generally with commendable aims. ^His know- ledge of books was extensive and accurate. He had considerable fancy, which at. one period was under the dominion of cultivated taste and chastened feeling ; but troubles, mostly resulting from a want of skill in pecuniary affairs, induced recklessness, misan- thropy, intemperance, and a general derangement and decay of his intellectual and moral nature. I see not much to admire in his poems, but they are by no means contemptible ; and " the poet FAIR- FIELD" had during a long period too much notoriety not to deserve some notice in a work of this sort, even though his verses had been still less poetical. Persons of an ardent temperament and rciincd sensibilities have too frequently an aversion to the practical and necessary duties of common life, to the indulgence of which they owe their chief mis- fortunes and unhappiness. The mind of the true poet, however, is well ordered and comprehensive, and shrinks not from the humblest of duties. FAiHFfELD had the weakness or madness, absurdly thought to Ixiloiig to the poetical character, which unfitted him for an honourable and distinguished life. He needed, besides his " some learning and more feeling," a strong will and good sense, to be either great or useful. 2S6 SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 267 DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.* A ROAR, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth Shuddcr'd, and a thick storm of lava hail Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, Stole from the stricken bosoms ; and there stood, With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) The Christian waiting the high will of Heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror, o'er the street Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. "Hear ye not now?" said PANSA. Death is Ye saw thJe avalanche of fire descend [here ! Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength Sweep on to Herculaneum ; and ye cried, 'It threats not us: why should we lose the sport 1 ? Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?' Your sister city the most beautiful Gasps in the burning ocean from her domes Fly the survivors of her people, driven Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, With desolation red and o'er her grave Unearthly voices raise the heart's last cries 'Fly, fly ! O, horror! O, my son! my sire !' The hoarse shouts multiply ; without the mount Are agony and death within, such rage Of fossil fire as man may not behold ! Hark ! the destroyer slumbers not and now, Be your theologies but true, your JOVE, Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. The lion trembles ; will^e have my blood, Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?" Vesuvius answer'd : from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapp'dinlightnings, fell. O, then, the love of life ! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape ! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now, One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled in madness warring in their wrath. Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods ; Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost ; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens ; * From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene follows the destruction of Herculaneum. PANSA, a Christian, condemned by DIOMEDE, is brought into the gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius causes a suspension of the proceedings. And some were still in utterness of wo. Yet all toil'd on in trembling waves of life Along the subterranean corridors. Moments were centuries of doubt and dread ; Each breathing obstacle a hated thing; Each trampled wretch a footstool to o'erlook The foremost multitudes; and terror, now, Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness, For, in the madness of their agonies, Strong men cast down the feeble, who delay'd Their flight; and maidens on the stones were crush'd, And mothers madden 'd when the warrior's heel Pass'd o'er the faces of their sons ! The throng Press'd on, and in the ampler arcades now Beheld, as floods of human life'roll'd by, The uttermost terrors of the destined hour. In gory vapours the great sun went down ; The broad, dark sea heaved like the dying heart, 'Tween earth and heaven hovering o'er the grave, And moan'd through all its waters ; every dome And temple, charr'd and choked with ceaseless Of suffocating cinders, seem'd the home [showers Of the triumphant desolator, Death. One dreadful glance sufficed, and to the sea, Like Lybian winds, breathing despair, they fled. Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, Prophesies danger ere man's thought awakes, And shrinks in fear from common savageness, Made gentle by its terror; thus, o'erawed, E'en in his famine's fury, by a Power Brute beings more than human oft adore, The lion lay, his quivering paws outspread, His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs Had pass'd the corridors ; then, glaring up, His eyes imbued with saraiel light, he saw The crags and forests of the Apennines Gleaming far off, and, with the exulting sense Of home and lone dominion, at a bound He leap'd the lofty palisades, and sprung Along the spiral passages, with howls Of horror, through the flying multitudes, Flying to seek his lonely mountain-lair. From eVery cell shrieks burst ; hyenas cried, Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls ; The giant elephant, with matchless strength, Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groan'd and panted ; and the leopard's yell, And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled ; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now ; Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds, to glare on agony ; And, when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below, While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through th? channel'd mountain rocks Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. 288 SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. VISIONS OF ROMANCE. WHEW dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering world Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws, And the tired wings of human thought are furl'd, And sleep descends, like dew upon the rose, How full of bliss the poet's vigil hour, When o'er him elder time hath magic power ! Before his eye past ages stand reveal'd, When feudal chiefs held lordly banquettings, In the spoils revelling of flood and field, Among their vassals proud, unquestion'd kings : While honour'd minstrels round the ample board The lays of love or songs of battle pour'd. The dinted helmet, with its broken crest, The serried sabre, and the shatter'd shield Hung round the wainscot, dark, and well express'd That wild, fierce pride, which scorn'd, unscathed, to The pictures there, with dusky glory rife, [yield ; From age to age bore down stern characters of strife. Amid long lines of glorious ancestry, [walls, Whose eyes flash'd o'er them from the gray, old What craven quails at Danger's lightning eye ? What warrior blenches when his brother falls 1 Bear witness Cressy and red Agincourt ! Bosworth, and Bannockburn, and Marston Moor! The long, lone corridors, the antler'd hall, The massive walls, the all-commanding towers Where revel reign'd, and masquerading ball, And beauty won stern warriors to her bowers In ancient grandeur o'er the spirit move, With all their forms of chivalry and love. The voice of centuries bursts upon the soul ; Long-buried ages wake and live again; Past feats of fame and deeds of glory roll, Achieved for ladye-love in knighthood's reign ; And all the simple state of olden time Assumes a garb majestic and sublime. The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed, The mitred primate, and the Norman lord, The peerless maid, awarding valour's meed, And the meek vestal, who her GOD adored The pride, the pomp, the power and charm of earth From fancy's dome of living thought come forth. The feast is o'er, the huntsman's course is done, The trump of war, the shrill horn sounds no more ; The heroic revellers from the hall have gone, The lone blast moans the ruin'd castle o'er ! The spell of beauty, and the pride of power Have pass'd forever from the feudal tower. No more the drawbridge echoes to the tread Of visor'd knights, o'ercanopied with gold ; O'er mouldering gates and crumbling archways Dark ivy waves in many a mazy fold, [spread, Where chiefs flash'd vengeance from their lightning glance, [lance. And grasp'd the brand, and couch'd the conquering The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by, The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall, Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye, And fancy's bright and gay creations all Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance. Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies, Their glories flash along the gloom of years ; The beacon-lights of time, to wisdom's eyes, O'er the deep-rolling stream of human tears. Fade ! fade ! ye visions of antique romance ! Tower, casque, and mace, and helm, and banner'd lance ! AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT. AVE MARIA ! 'tis the midnight hour, The starlight wedding of the eartli and heaven, When music breathes its perfume from the flower, And high revealings to the heart are given ; Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy air Like dreams of bliss ; the deep-blue ether glows, And the stream murmurs round its islets fair The tender night-song of a charm'd repose. Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love, The kiss of rapture, and the link'd embrace, The hallow'd converse in the dim, still grove, The elysium of a heart-revealing face, When all is beautiful for we are bless'd, When all is lovely for we are beloved, When all is silent for our passions rest, When all is faithful for our hopes are proved. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer, Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare, High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even; When hope becomes fruition, and we feel The holy earnest of eternal peace, That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel, That bids our wild and warring passions cease. Ave Maria ! soft the vesper hymn Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile, And, mid the stillness of the night-watch dim, Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile ! Hark ! hath it ceased 1 The vestal seeks her cell, And reads her heart a melancholy tale ! A song of happier years, whose echoes swell O'er her lost love, like pale bereavement's wail. Ave Maria ! let our prayers ascend From them whose holy offices afford No joy in heaven on earth without a friend That true, though faded image of the LORD ! For them in vain the face of nature glows, For them in vain the sun in glory burns, The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes, And meets despair and death where'er it turns. Ave Maria ! in the deep pine wood, On the clear stream, and o'er the azure sky Bland midnight smiles, and starry solitude Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by. Ave Maria ! may our last hour come As bright, as pure, as gentle, Heaven ! as this ! Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb, And life and death are both the heirs of bliss ! RUFUS DAWES. [Bora, IS03.] THE family of the author of " Geraldine" is one of the most ancient and respectable in Massachu- setts. His ancestors were among the earliest set- tlers of Boston ; and his grandfather, as president of the Council, was for a time acting governor of the state, on the death of the elected chief magis- trate. His father, THOMAS DAWES, was for ten years one of the associate judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, in the state convention called for its consideration. He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independ- ence of character, and was distinguished for the brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.* RUFCS DAWES was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered Harvard College in 1820; but in consequence of class disturbances, and insubordination, of which it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he was compelled to leave that institution without a degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe satire on the most prominent members of the faculty the first poem he ever published. He then entered the office of General WILLIAM SPL- LIVAX, as a law-student, and was subsequently admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. He has however never pursued the practice of the legal profession, having been attracted by other pursuits more congenial with his feelings. In 1829 he was married to the third daughter of Chief Justice CHANCH, of Washington. In 1830 he published " The Valley of the Nashaway, and other Poems," some of which had appeared originally in the Cambridge " United States Lite- rary Gazette;" and in 1839, "Athenia of Damas- cus," Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical writings. His last work, " Nix's Mate," an histo- rical romance, appeared in the following year. With Mr. DAWES poetry seems to have been a passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be a disciple of COLERIDGE, but in reality is a de- voted follower of SWEDENBOHG; and to this influ- ence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which pervades his later productions. He has from time to time edited several legal, literary, and political works, and in the last has shown himself to be an adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings. His versification is generally easy and correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considera- ble imagination. In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course of lectures in the city of New York, before the American Institute, in which he combated the principles of the French eclectics and the Tran- sccndentalists, contending that their philosophy is only a sublimated natural one, and very far re- moved from the true system of causes, and genu- ine spirituality. LANCASTER. THE Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough ; The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, Whispers the coming of delighted hours, While birds within the heaping foliage, sing Their music-welcome to returning Spring. O, Nature ! loveliest in thy green attire Dear mother of the passion-kindling lyre; Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where The mountains freeze above the summer air ; Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, Lead me again thy flowery paths among, To sing of native scenes as yet unsung ! Dear Lancaster ! thy fond remembrance brings Thoughts, like the music of ^Eolian strings, * He is classed by Mr. KETTELL among the American poets ; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by him are given some passages of his "Law given on Sinai," published in Boston in 1T77. 37 When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps, While tearful Love his anxious vigil keeps : When press'd with grief, or sated with the show That Pleasure's pageant offers here below, Midst scenes of heartless mirth or joyless glee, How oft my aching heart has turn'd to thee, And lived again, in memory's sweet recess, The innocence of youthful happiness ! In life's dull dream, when want of sordid gain Clings to our being with its cankering chain, When lofty thoughts arc cramp'd to stoop below The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow, Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene, To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene ; And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours, When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers 1 Now, while the music of the feather'd choir RinB 239 290 RUFUS DAWES. As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell, Though few may listen, what she loved so well. Dear hours of childhood, y outh's propitious spring, When Time fann'd only roses with his whig, When dreams, that mock reality, could move To yield an endless holiday to Love, How do ye crowd upon my fever'd brain, And, in imagination, live again ! Lo ! I am with you now, the sloping green, Of many a sunny hill is freshly seen ; Once more the purple clover bends to meet, And shower their dew-drops on the pilgrim's feet ; Once more he breathes the fragrance of your fields, Once more the orchard tree its harvest yields, Again he hails the morning from your hills, And drinks the cooling water of your rills, While, with a heart subdued, he feels the power Of every humble shrub and modest flower. O thou who journey est through that Eden-clime, Winding thy devious way to cheat the time, Delightful Nashaway ! beside thy stream, Fain would I paint thy beauties as they gleam. Eccentric river ! poet of the woods ! Where, in thy far secluded solitudes, The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave, With charms more sweet than ever Fancy gave ; How oft with Mantua's bard, from school let free, I've conn'd the silver lines that flow like thee, Couch'd on thy emerald banks, at full length laid, Where classic elms grew lavish of their shade, Or indolently listen'd, while the throng Of idler beings woke their summer song ; Or, with rude angling gear, outwatched the sun, Comparing mine to deeds by WALTON done, Far down the silent stream, where arching trees Bend their green boughs so gently to the breeze, One live, broad mass of molten crystal lies, Clasping the mirror'd beauties of the skies ! Look, how the sunshine breaks upon the plains ! So the deep blush their flatter'd glory stains. Romantic river ! on thy quiet breast, While flash'd the salmon with his lightning crest, Not long age, the Indian's thin canoe Skimm'd lightly as the shadow which it threw ; Not long ago, beside thy banks of green, The night-fire blazed and spread its dismal sheen. Thou peaceful valley ! when I think how fair Thy various beauty shines, beyond compare, I cannot choose but own the Power that gave Amidst thy woes a helping hand to suve, When o'er thy hills the savage war-whoop came, And desolation raised its funeral flame ! 'T is night ! the stars are kindled in the sky, And hunger wakes the famished she-wolf's cry, While, o'er the crusted snow, the careful tread Betrays the heart whose pulses throb with dread ; Yon flickering light, kind beacon of repose ! The weary wanderer's homely dwelling shows, Where, by the blazing fire, his bosom's joy Holds to her heart a slumbering infant boy ; While every sound her anxious bosom moves, She starts and listens for the one she loves ; Hark! was't the night-bird's cry that met her ear. Curdling the blood that thickens with cold fear? "Again, God ! that voice, 'tis his ! 'tis his !" She hears the death-shriek and the arrow's whiz, When, as she turns, she sees the bursting door Roll her dead husband bleeding on the floor. Loud as the burst of sudden thunder, rose The maddening war-cry of the ambush'd foes ; Startling in sleep, the dreamless infant wakes, Like morning's smile when daylight's slumber breaks ; " For mercy ! spare my child, forbear the blow !" In vain ; the warm blood crimsons on the snow. O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries ; She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved ; Lo ! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, The frenzied woman rose the deed to do ; Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood ; She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, She sees her infant dashed against the tree, 'T is done ! the red men sleep eternally. [now, Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster ! but No spot so peaceful and serene as thou ; Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, The glory and the beauty of the land. From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, What joy was mine to drink the morning air ! Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd wing, Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove, Nor less than that which springs from mutual love, Could challenge mine, when to the ravish'd sense The sunrise painted Gon's magnificence ! George-hill, thou pride of Nashaway, for thee, Thyself the garden of fertility, Nature has hung a picture to the eye, Where Beauty smiles at sombre Majesty. The river winding in its course below, [grow, Through fertile fields where yellowing harvests The bowering elms that so majestic grew, A green arcade for waves to wander through; The deep, broad valley, where the new-mown hay Loads the fresh breezes of the rising day, And, distant far, Wachusett's towering height, Blue in the lingering shadows of the night, Have power to move the sternest heart to love, That Nature's loveliness could ever move. Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, And clouds break purpling through the eastern shades, Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn, To lead your buoyant footsteps o'er the lawn, Can never know what joy the ravish'd sense Feels in that moment's sacred influence. I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile, The flatterer's praise, that masks his heart of guile, So I can walk beneath the ample sky, And hear the birds' discordant melody, RUFUS DAWES. 291 And see reviving Spring, and Summer's gloom, And Autumn bending o'er his icy tomb, And hoary Winter pile his snowy drifts ; For these to me are Fortune's highest gifts ; And I have found in poor, neglected flowers, Companionship for many weary hours ; And high above the mountain's crest of snow, Communed with storm-clouds in their wrath below ; And where the vault of heaven, from some vast height Grew black, as fell the shadows of the night, Where the stars seem to come to you, I've woo'd The grandeur of the fearful solitude. From such communion, feelings often rise, To guard the heart midst life's perplexities, Lighting a heaven within, whose deep-felt joy Compensates well for Sorrow's dark alloy. Then, though the worldly chide, and wealth deny, And passion conquer where it fain would fly, Though friends you love betray, while these are left, The heart can never wholly be bereft. Hard by yon giant elm, whose branches spread A rustling robe of leaves above your head ; Where weary travellers, from noonday heat, Beneath the hospitable shade retreat, The school-house met the stranger's busy eye, Who turned to gaze again, he knew not why. Thrice lovely spot ! where, in the classic spring, My young ambition dipp'd her fever'd wing, And drank unseen the vision and the fire That break with quenchless glory from the lyre ! Amidst thy wealth of art, fair Italy ! While Genius warms beneath thy cloudless sky, As o'er the waking marble's polished mould The sculptor breathes PYGMALION'S prayer of old, His heart shall send a frequent sigh to rove, A pilgrim to the birth-place of his love ! And can I e'er forget that hallowed spot, Whence springs a charm that may not be forgot ; Where, in a grove of elm and sycamore, The pastor show'd his hospitable door, And kindness shone so constantly to bless That sweet abode of peace and happiness 1 The oaken bucket where I stoop'd to drink The crystal water, trembling at the brink, Which through the solid rock in coldness flow'd, While creaked the ponderous lever with its load ; The dairy where so many moments flew, With half the dainties of the soil in view ; [care, Where the broad pans spread out the milkmaid's To feed the busy churn that labour'd there ; The garden where such neatness met the eye, A stranger could not pass unheeding by ; The orchard and the yellow-mantled fields, Each in its turn some dear remembrance yields. Ye who can mingle with the glittering crowd, Where Mammon struts in rival splendour proud ; Who pass your days in heartless fashion's round, And bow with hatred, where ye fear to wound ; Away ! no flatterer's voice, nor coward's sneer, Can find a welcome, or an altar here. But ye who look beyond the common ken, Self-unexalted when ye judge of men, Who, conscious of defects, can hurry by Faults that lay claim upon your charity ; Who feel that thrilling vision of the soul Which looks through faith beyond an earthly goal, And will not yet refuse the homely care Which every being shares, or ought to share ; Approach ! the home of Goodness is your own, And such as ye are worthy, such alone. When silence hung upon the Sabbath's smile, And noiseless footsteps paced the sacred aisle, When hearts united woke the suppliant lay, And happy faces bless'd the holy day ; 0, Nature ! could thy worshipper have own'd Such joy, as then upon his bosom throned ; When feelings, even as the printless snow, Were harmless, guileless as a child can know ; Or, if they swerved from right, were pliant still, To follow Virtue from the path of ill ? No ! when the morning 's old, the mist will rise To cloud the fairest vision of our eyes ; As hopes too brightly formed in rainbow dyes, A moment charm then vanish in the skies ! Sweet hour of holy rest, to mortals given, To paint with love the fairest way to heaven ; When from the sacred book instruction came With fervid eloquence and kindling flame. No mystic rites were there ; to Go alone Went up the grateful heart before his throne, While solemn anthems from the organ pour'd Thanksgiving to the high and only LORD. Lo ! where yon cottage whitens through the green, The loveliest feature of a matchless scene ; Beneath its shading elm, with pious fear, An aged mother draws her children near ; While from the Holy Word, with earnest air, She teaches them the privilege of prayer. Look ! how their infant eyes with rapture speak ; Mark the flush'd lily on the dimpled cheek ; Their hearts are filled with gratitude and love, Their hopes are center'd in a world above, Where, in a choir of angels, faith portrays The loved, departed father of their days. Beside yon grassless mound, a mourner kneels, There gush no tears to soothe the pang he feels ; His loved, his lost, lies cofnn'd in the sod, Whose soul has found a dwelling-place with GOD ! Though press'd with anguish, mild religion shows His aching heart a balm for all its woes ; And hope smiles upward, where his love shall find A union in eternity of mind ! Turn there your eyes, ye cold, malignant crew, Whose vile ambition dims your reason's view, Ye faithless ones, who preach religion vain, And, childlike, chase the phantoms of your brain ; Think not to crush the heart whose truth has Its confidence in heavenly love reveal'd. [seal'd Let not the atheist deem that Fate decrees The lot of man to misery or ease, While to the contrite spirit faith is given, To find a hope on earth, a rest in heaven. Unrivall'dNashaway ! where the willows throw Their frosted beauty on thy path below, Beneath the verdant drapery of the trees, Luxuriant Fancy woos the sighing breeze. The redbreast singing where the fruit-tree weaves Its silken canopy of mulb'ry leaves ; 292 RUFUS DAWE8. Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine Crop the wet grass, or in the shade recline ; The tapping woodbird, and the minstrel bee, The squirrel racing on his moss-grown tree, With clouds of pleasant dreams, demand in vain Creative thought to give them life again. I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys Art building up the wreck of other days ; For graves of silent tribes upheave the sod, And Science smiles where savage PHILIP trod; Where wing'd the poison'd shaft along the skies, The hammer rings, the noisy shuttle flies ; Impervious forests bow before the blade, And fields rise up in yellow robes array'd. No lordly palace nor imperial seat Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their feet; No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves, To make us blush for ancestry of slaves ; But, lo ! unnumber'd dwellings meet the eye, Where men lie down in native majesty : The morning birds spring from their leafy bed, As the stern ploughman quits his happy shed ; His arm is steel'd to toil his heart to bear The robe of pain, that mortals always wear ; Though wealth may never come, a plenteous board Smiles at the pamper'd rich man's joyless hoard ; True, when among his sires, no gilded heir Shall play the fool, and damn himself to care, But Industry and Knowledge lead the way, Where Independence braves the roughest day. Nurse of my country's infancy, her stay In youthful trials and in danger's day ; Diffusive Education ! 'tis to thee She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty ; To thee she looks, through time's illusive gloom, To light her path, and shield her from the tomb ; Beneath thine ^Egis tyranny shall fail, Before thy frown the traitor's heart shall quail ; Ambitious foes to liberty may wear A patriot mask, to compass what they dare, And sting the thoughtless nation, while they smile Benignantly and modestly the while ; But thou shalt rend the virtuous-seeming guise, And guard her from the worst of enemies. Eternal Power ! whose tempted thunder sleeps, While heaven-eyed Mercy turns away and weeps ; Thou who didst lead our fathers where to send Their free devotions to their GOD and friend ; Thou who hast swept a wilderness away, That men may walk in freedom's cloudless day ; Guard well their trust, lest impious faction dare Unlock the chain that binds our birthright fan- ; That private views to public good may yield, And honest men stand fearless in the field ! Once more I turn to thee, fair Nashaway ! The farewell tribute of my humble lay ; The time may come, when lofty notes shall bear Thy peerless beauty to the gladden'd air ; Now to the lyre no daring hand aspires, And rust grows cankering on its tuneless wires. Our lays arc like the fitful streams that flow From careless birds, that carol as they go ; Content, beneath the mountain-top to sing, And only touch Castalia with a wing. ANNE BOLEYN. I -WEEP while gazing on thy modest face, Thou pictured history of woman's love ! Joy spreads his burning pinions on thy cheek, Shaming its whiteness ; and thine eyes are full Of conscious beauty, as they undulate. Yet all thy beauty, poor, deluded girl ! Served but to light thy ruin. Is there not, Kind Heaven ! some secret talisman of hearts, Whereby to find a resting-place for love '.' Unhappy maiden ! let thy story teach The beautiful and young, that while their path Softens with roses, danger may be there ; That Love may watch the bubbles of the stream, But never trust his image on the wave. SUNRISE, FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON. THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem : And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her halt-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away ! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on the day the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming ; no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze ; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks ! The sunshine and the shade of poetry. I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature ! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued ; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending, Questions the eye with ever-varying forms. The sun comes up ! away the shadows fling From the broad hills and, hurrying to the west, Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down, Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light Dances along with their perennial flow. And there is beauty in yon river's path, The glad Connecticut ! I know her well, By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms : At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills, Sportfully hiding then again with glee Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves, And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods, And all that hold the faculty entranced, RUFUS DAWES. 293 Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air, And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. There is an awful stillness in this place, A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, Till the heart pour its agony in tears. But I must drink the vision while it lasts ; For even now the curling vapours rise, Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace These towering summits bidding me away ; But often shall my heart turn back again, Thou glorious eminence ! and when oppress'd, And aching with the coldness of the world, Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, And wheels her course in a joyous flight ; I know her track through the balmy air, By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there ; She leaves the tops of the mountains green, And gems the valley with crystal sheen. At morn, I know where she rested at night, For the roses are gushing with dewy delight ; Then she mounts again, and round her flings A shower of light from her crimson wings ; Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high, That silently fills it with ecstasy. At noon she hies to a cool retreat, Where bowering elms over waters meet ; She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip, As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip, When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain, From her lover, the hope that she loves again. At eve she hangs o'er the western sky Dark clouds for a glorious canopy, And round the skirts of their deepen'd fold She paints a border of purple and gold, Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay, When their god in his glory has passed away. She hovers around us at twilight hour, When her presence is felt with the deepest power ; She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream With shadows that flit like a fairy dream ; Then wheeling her flight through the gladden'd air, The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere. LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. YF.S ! still I love thee : Time, who seta His signet on my brow, And dims my sunken eye, forgets The heart he could not bow ; Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas ! that little knows How love may sometimes last ; Like sunshine wasting in the skies, When clouds are overcast. The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose, Within its robe of light, Can never touch a leaf that blows, Though seeming to the sight ; And yet it still will linger there, Like hopeless love without despair, A snow-drop in the sun ! A moment finely exquisite, Alas ! but only one. I would not have thy married heart Think momently of me, Nor would I tear the cords apart, That bind me so to thee ; No ! while my thoughts seem pyre and mild, Like dew upon the roses wild, I would not have thee know, The stream that seems to thee so still, Has such a tide below ! Enough ! that in delicious dreams I see thee and forget Enough, that when the morning beams, I feel my eyelids wet ! Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall The darkness, for creation's pall, To meet thee, and to love, I would not shrink from aught below, Nor ask for more above. EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE." I KXOW a spot where poets fain would dwell, To gather flowers and food for afterthought, As bees draw honey from the rose's cell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought; And there a cottage from a sylvan screen Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green. Around that hermit-home of quietude, The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude, But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honeysuckle climbed, And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood, That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink. The green earth heaved her giant waves around, Where through the mountain vista one vast height [bound Tower'd heavenward without peer, his forehead With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light, While far below, the lake, in bridal rest, Slept with his glorious picture on her breast 2u2 EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. [Born, 1804. Died, 1830.] EDMUSTD DORK GRIFFIN was born in the cele- brated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poems were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and after spending two years in the active discharge of the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, Eng- land, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but re- signed the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devo- tion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo vo- lumes, in 1831. LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY. " Deh! fossi tu men bella, oalmen piu forte." FILICAIA. WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower ! To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air, Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power ; To look upon whose mountains in the hour When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil Of purple flows around them, would restore The sense of beauty when all else might fail. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas ! no more of men ! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading soon, E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave ! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence ! Thy fostering care Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak ; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn con- Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean ! Can nothing rouse ye both 1 no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the' brave, of what has been ] Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence : Shades of departed heroes, rise again ! Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence ! 0, Italy ! my country, fare thee well ! For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell, The fathers of my mind ? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams 1 Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost : Too early lost, alas ! when once so dear ; I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And urge the feet forbid to linger here. But must I rove by Arno's current clear, And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, Where CAESAR'S palace in its glory stood ; And see again Parthenope's loved bay, And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar [more ] It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. Fare fare thee well once more. I love thee not As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherish'd mistress of my youth ; forgot Thou never canst be while I have a heart Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind, I know not, ask not, what may be my lot ; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought. 294 EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. 295 DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS. THOUGH old in cunning, as in years, He is so small, that like a child In face and form, the god appears, A nd sportive like a boy, and wild ; Lightly he moves from place to place, In none at rest, in none content ; Delighted some new toy to chase On childish purpose ever bent. Beware ! to childhood's spirit gay Is added more than childhood's power ; And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play. He quick is anger'd, and as quick His short-lived passion's over past, Like summer lightnings, flashing thick, But flying ere a bolt is cast I've seen, myself, as 'twere together, Now joy, now grief assume its place, Shedding a sort of April weather, Sunshine and rain upon his face. His curling hair floats on the wind, Like Fortune's, long and thick before, And rich and bright as golden ore : Like hers, his head is bald behind. His ruddy face is strangely bright, It is the very hue of fire, The inward spirit's quenchless light, The glow of many a soft desire. He hides his eye that keenly flashes, But sometimes steals a thrilling glance From 'neath his drooping silken lashes, And sometimes looks with eye askance ; But seldom ventures he to gaze With looks direct and open eye ; For well he knows the urchin sly But one such look his guile betrays. His tongue, that seems to have left just then His mother's breast, discourses sweet, And forms his lisping infant strain In words scarce utter'd, half-complete ; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh, And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly, Its coldness melt, and tame its pride. In smiles that hide intended wo, His ruddy lips are always dress'd, As flowers conceal the listening crest Of the coil'd snake that lurks below. In carriage courteous, meek, and mild, Humble in speech, and soft in look, He seems a wandering orphan child, And asks a shelter in some nook Or corner left unoccupied : But, once admitted as a guest, By slow degrees he lays aside That lowly port and look distress'd Then insolent assumes his reign, Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain. EMBLEMS. Yox rose, that bows her graceful head to hail The welcome visitant that brings the morn, And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale The coolness on its early pinions borne, Listing the music of its whisper'd tale, And giving stores of perfume in return Though fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide ; Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky, Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, From noonday heats to guard the weary flocks Though strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm, [storm, The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, Gliding majestic on her silent way, And sends her silvery beam serenely down, 'Mong waving boughs and frolic leaves to play, To sleep upon the bank with moss o'ergrown, Or on the clear waves, clearer far than they Seems purity itself; but if again We look, and closely, we perceive a stain. Fit emblems all, of those unworthy joys On which our passions and our hopes dilate : We wound ourselves to seize on Pleasure's toys, Nor see their worthlessness until too late ; And Power, with all its pomp and all its noise, Meets oft a sudden and a hapless fate ; And Fame of gentle deeds and daring high, Is often stain'd by blots of foulest dye. Where then shall man, by his Creator's hand Gifted with feelings that must have an aim, Aspiring thoughts and hopes, a countless band ; Affections glowing with a quenchless flame, And passions, too, in dread array that stand, To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame : Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and given ? Fix it on GOD, and it shall rise to Heaven. TO A LADY. LIKE target for the arrow's aim, Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame, Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 'tis love that made me so, And, lady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes, The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind, That make me such ; ah, then be kind ! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite ; Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, My wishes ne'er did passion light A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs. And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys. J. H. BRIGHT. [Bora, 1804. Died, 1837.] JONATHAN HUNTIHGTON BRIGHT was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and sub- sequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that THE VISION OF DEATH. THE moon was high in the autumn sky, The stars waned cold and dim, Where hoarsely the mighty Oregon Peals his eternal hymn ; And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads Far over the river's brim. An impulse I might not defy, Constrain'd my footsteps there, When through the gloom a red eye burn'd With fix'd and steady glare ; And a huge, misshapen form of mist Loom'd in the midnight air. Then out it spake : " My name is Death !" Thick grew my blood, and chill A sense of fear weigh'd down my breath, And held my pulses still ; And a voice from that unnatural shade Compell'd me to its will. " Dig me a grave ! dig me a grave !" The gloomy monster said, And make it deep, and long, and wide, And bury me my dead." A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, And rusted mattock laid. With trembling hand the tool I spann'd, 'T was wet with blood, and cold, And from its slimy handle hung The gray and ropy mould ; And I sought to detach my stiffen'd grasp, But could not loose my hold. " Now cautiously turn up the sod ; GOD'S image once it bore, And time shall be when each small blade To life He will restore, And the separate particles shall take The shape which first they wore." Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced, It touch'd the festering dead ; Tier above tier the corpses lay, As leaves in autumn shed ; The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings, And scream'd, above my head. city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of " Viator." His poetry has never been published collectively. O, then I sought to rest my brow, The spade I held, its prop ; " Toil on ! toil on !" scream'd the ugly fiend, " My servants never stop ! Toil on ! toil on ! at the judgment-day Ye '11 have a glorious crop !" Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes, 'Twas horrible to see How the grave made bare her secret work, And disclosed her depths to me ; While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd Like the billows of the sea. The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth " Ye like not this, I trow : Six thousand years your fellow-man Has counted me his foe, And ever when he cursed I laugh' d, And drew my fatal bow. " And generations all untold In Ihis dark spot I 've laid The forest ruler and the young And tender Indian maid ; And moulders with their carcasses Behemoth of the glade. Yet here they may no more remain ; I fain would have this room : And they must seek another rest, Of deeper, lonelier gloom ; Long ages since I mark'd this spot To be the white man's tomb. "Already his coming steps I hear, From the east's remotest line, While over his advancing hosts The forward banners shine : And where he builds his cities and towns, I ever must build mine." Anon a pale and silvery mist Was girdled round the moon : Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes, On midnight's solemn noon. " Ha !" mutter'd the mocking sprite, " I fear We 've waken'd them too soon ! 1 Now marshal all the numerous host In one concentred band, 296 J. H. BRIGHT. 297 And hurry them to the west," said he, " Where ocean meets the land : They shall regard thy bidding voice, And move at thy command." Then first I spake the sullen corpse Stood on the gloomy sod, Like the dry bones the prophet raised, When bidden by his GOD ; A might company, so vast, Each on the other trod. They stalk'd erect as if alive, Yet not to life allied, But lik* the pestilence that walks, And wasteth at noontide, Corruption animated, or The grave personified. The earth-worm drew his slimy trail Across the bloodless cheek, And the carrion bird in hot haste came To gorge his thirsty beak ; But, scared by the living banquet, fled, Another prey to seek. While ever as on their way they moved, No voice they gave, nor sound, And before and behind, and about their sides, Their wither'd arms they bound ; As the beggar clasps his skinny hands His tatter'd garments round. On, on we went through the livelong night, Death and his troop, and I ; We turn'd not aside for forest or stream Or mountain towering high, But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps Athwart the stormy sky. Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd, With a bright and star-like ray, And I stoop'd to take the diamond up From the grass in which it lay ; 'T was an eye that from its socket fell, As some wretch toil'd on his way. At length our army reach'd the verge Of the far-off western shore ; Death drove them into the sea, and said, " Ye shall remove no more." The ocean hymn'd their solemn dirge, And his waters swept them o'er. The stars went out, the morning smiled With rosy tints of light, The bird began his early hymn, And plumed his wings for flight : And the vision of death was broken with The breaking up of night. HE WEDDED AGAIN. ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her cheek, Or worn ofF the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak, And our hearts vainly strove to GOD'S judgment to bow; 38 He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then Sought out a new object, and wedded again. The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre, And its soft,melting tones still held captive the ear, While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire, And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear ; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cy press had not taken root in the sod, [gave ; Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again. His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad ! When we thought of the light death had stolen away, Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had, And that one was now widow'd and both in decay; But its deep desolation had fled even then He sought a new idol, and wedded again. But can site be quite blest who presides at his board 7 Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade, Of a future love luring and charming her lord, When she with our lost one forgotten is laid 1 She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again. SONG. SHOULD sorrow o'er thy brow Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring ; Should pleasure at its birth Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth, There 's rest for thee in heaven ! If ever life shall seem To thee a toilsome way, And gladness cease to beam Upon its clouded day ; If, like the wearied dove, O'er shoreless ocean driven, Raise thou thine eye above, There 's rest for thee in heaven ! But, O ! if always flowers Throughout thy pathway bloom, And gayly pass the hours, Undimn'd by earthly gloom ; Still let not every thought To this poor world be given, Not always be forgot Thy better rest in heaven ! When sickness pales thy cheek, And dims thy lustrous eye, And pulses low and weak Tell of a time to die Sweet hope shall whisper then, Though thou from earth be riven, There 's bliss beyond thy ken, There 's rest for thee in heaven !" GEORGE D. PRENTICE. [Born, 1804.J MB. PRENTICE is a native of Preston, in Con- necticut, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. He edited for several years, at Hartford, "The New England Weekly Review," in connection, I believe, with JOHN G. WHITTIEH; and in 1831 he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the " Journal," of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. Nearly all his poems were written while he was in the university. They have never been published collectively. THE CLOSING YEAR. 'T is midnight's holy hour and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirr'd, As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, [form, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad lake the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 'T is a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield Flash'd in the light of midday and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity 1 On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain-crag, but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink, Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations ; and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of GOD, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. LINES TO A LADY. LADY, I love, at eventide, When stars, as now, are on the wave, To stray in loneliness, and muse Upon the one dear form that gave Its sunlight to my boyhood ; oft That same sweet look sinks, still and soft, Upon my spirit, and appears As lovely as in by-gone years. Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now, With deep and soul-like murmuring, Through the dark pines ; and thy sweet words Seem borne on its mysterious wing ; 29,3 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 299 And oft, mid musings sad and lone, At night's deep noon, that thrilling tone Swells in the wind, low, wild, and clear, Like music in the dreaming air. When sleep's calm wing is on my brow, And dreams of peace my spirit lull, Before me, like a misty star, That form floats dim and beautiful ; And, when the gentle moonbeam smiles On the blue streams and dark-green isles, In every ray pour'd down the sky, That same light form seems stealing by. It is a blessed picture, shrined In memory's urn ; the wing of years Can change it not, for there it glows, Undimm'd by " weaknesses and tears ;" Deep-hidden in its still recess, It beams with love and holiness, O'er hours of being, dark and dull, Till life seems almost beautiful. The vision cannot, fade away ; 'Tis in the stillness of my heart, And o'er its brightness I have mused In solitude ; it is a part Of my existence ; a dear flower Breathed on by Heaven : morn's earliest hour That flower bedews, and its blue eye At eve still rests upon the sky. Lady, like thine, my visions cling To the dear shrine of buried years ; The past, the past ! it is too bright, Too deeply beautiful for tears ; We have been bless'd ; though life is made A tear, a silence, and a shade, And years have left the vacant breast To loneliness we have been bless'd ! Those still, those soft, those summer eyes, When by our favourite stream we stood, And watch'd our mingling shadows there, Soft-pictured in the deep-blue flood, Seem'd one enchantment. ! we felt, As there, at love's pure shrine, we knelt, That life was sweet, and all its hours A glorious dream of love and flowers. And still 'tis sweet. Our hopes went by Like sounds upon the unbroken sea ; Yet memory wings the spirit back To deep, undying melody; And still, around her early shrine, Fresh flowers their dewy chaplets twine, Young Love his brightest garland wreathes, And Eden's richest incense breathes. Our hopes are flown yet parted hours Still in the depths of memory lie, Like night-gems in the silent blue Of summer's deep and brilliant sky ; And Love's bright flashes seem again To fall upon the glowing chain Of our existence. Can it be That all is but a mockery 1 Lady, adieu ! to other climes I go, from joy, and hope, and thee ; A weed on Time's dark waters thrown, A wreck on life's wild-heaving sea ; I go ; but O, the past, the past ! Its spell is o'er my being cast, And still, to Love's remember'd eves, With all but hope, my spirit cleaves. Adieu ! adieu ! My farewell words Are on my lyre, and their wild flow Is faintly dying on the chords, Broken and tuneless. Be it so ! Thy name O, may it never swell My strain again yet long 'twill dwell Shrined in my heart, unbreathed, unspoken- A treasured word a cherish'd token. THE DEAD MARINER. SLEEP on, sleep on ! above thy corse The winds their Sabbath keep ; The waves are round thee, and thy breast Heaves with the heaving deep. O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings, And there the white gull lifts her wings, And the blue halcyon loves to lave Her plumage in the deep blue wave. Sleep on ; ho willow o'er thee bends With melancholy air, No violet springs, nor dewy rose Its soul of love lays bare ; But there the sea-flower, bright and young, Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung, And, like a weeping mourner fair, The pale flag hangs its tresses there. Sleep on, sleep on ; the glittering depths Of ocean's coral caves Are thy bright urn thy requiem The music of its waves ; The purple gems forever burn In fadeless beauty round thy urn, And, pure and deep as infant love, The blue sea rolls its waves above. Sleep on, sleep on ; the fearful wrath Of mingling cloud and deep May leave its wild and stormy track Above thy place of sleep ; But, when the wave has sunk to rest, As now, 'twill murmur o'er thy breast, And the bright victims of the sea Perchance will make their home with thee. Sleep on ; thy corse is far away, But love bewails thee yet ; For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed, And lovely eyes are wet : And she, thy young and beauteous bride, Her thoughts are hovering by thy side, As oft she turns to view, with tears, The Edert of departed years. 300 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. SABBATH EVENING. Howcalmly sinks the parting sun ! Yet twilight lingers still ; And beautiful as dream of Heaven It slumbers on the hill ; Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings, And, rendering back the hues above, Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks the forest-trees In shadowy groups recline, Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer Around their holy shrine ; And through their leaves the night-winds blow So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, Soft echo'd on the evening air. And yonder western throng of clouds, Retiring from the sky, So calmly move, so softly glow, They seem to fancy's eye Bright creatures of a better sphere, Come down at noon to worship here, And, from their sacrifice of love, Returning to their home above. The blue isles of the golden sea, The night-arch floating by, The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, The bright streams leaping by, Are living with religion deep On earth and sea its glories sleep, And mingle with the starlight rays, Like the soft light of parted days. The spirit of the holy eve Comes through the silent air To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes A gush of music there ! And the far depths of ether beam So passing fair, we almost dream That we can rise, and wander through Their open paths of trackless blue. Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams, Each pulse is beating wild ; And thought is soaring to the shrine Of glory undefiled ! And holy aspirations start, Like blessed angels, from the heart, And bind for earth's dark ties are riven Our spirits to the gates of heaven. TO A LADY. I THIXK of thee when morning springs From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, And, like a young bird, lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when, at noon, the breath of love O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove, I think of thee I think of thee. I think of thee, when, soft and wide, The evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of night. And when the moon's sweet crescent springs In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth, like blessed things, I think of thee I think of thee. I think of thee ; that eye of flame, Those tresses, falling bright and free, That brow, where " Beauty writes her name," I think of thee I think of thee. WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. THE trembling dew-drops fall Upon the shutting flowers ; like souls at rest The stars shine gloriously : and all Save me, are blest. Mother, I love thy grave ! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave Above thy child 1 'T is a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow; Dear mother, 't is thine emblem ; dust Is on thy brow. And I could love to die: To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, And share thy dreams. And I must linger here, To stain the plumage of my sinless years, And mourn the hopes to childhood dear With bitter tears. Ay, I must linger here, A lonely branch upon a wither'd tree, Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, Went down with thee ! Oft, from life's wither'd bower, In still communion with the past, I turn, And muse on thee, the only flower In memory's urn. And, when the evening pale Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave, I stray to hear the night-winds wail Around thy grave. Where is thy spirit flown 1 I gaze above thy look is imaged there; I listen and thy gentle tone Is on the air. O, come, while here I press My brow upon thy grave ; and, in those mild And thrilling tones of tenderness, Bless, bless thy child! Yes, bless your weeping child ; And o'er thine urn religion's holiest shrine O, give his spirit, undefiled, To blend with thine. WILLIAM CROSWELL. [Born, 1804.] THE Reverend WILLIAM CHOSWELL is a son of the Reverend Doctor CKOSWELL, of New Haven, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in the summer of 1824. He was subse- quently, for two years, associated with Doctor DOAXE, now Bishop of New Jersey, in the editor- ship of the " Episcopal Watchman," at Hartford, after which he removed to Boston, and was for THE SYNAGOGUE. "But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away." ST. PAUL. I SAW them in their synagogue, As in their ancient day, And never from my memory The scene will fade away, For, dazzling on my vision, still The latticed galleries shine With Israel's loveliest daughters, In their beauty half-divine ! It is the holy Sabbath eve, The solitary light Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, A lustre nothing bright ; On swarthy brow and piercing glance It falls with saddening tinge, And dimly gilds the Pharisee's Phylacteries and fringe. The two-leaved doors slide slow apart Before the eastern screen, As rise the Hebrew harmonies, With chanted prayers between, And mid the tissued vails disclosed, Of many a gorgeous dye, Enveloped in their jewell'd scarfs, The sacred records lie. Robed in his sacerdotal vest, A silvery-headed man With voice of solemn cadence o'er The backward letters ran, And often yet methinks I see The glow and power that sate Upon his face, as forth he spread The roll immaculate. And fervently that hour I pray'd, That from the mighty scroll Its light, in burning characters, Might break on every soul, That on their harden'd hearts the veil Might be no longer dark, But be forever rent in twain Like that before the ark. several years minister of Christ's Church, in that city. He is now rector of St. Peter's, in the beau- tiful village of Auburn, in the western part of the state of New York. His poems are nearly all religious. Bishop DOANE, in a note to his edition of KEBLE'S " Christian Year," remarks that "he has more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he knows. For yet the tenfold film shall fall, O, Judah ! from thy sight, And every eye be purged to read Thy testimonies right, When thou, with all MESSIAH'S signs In CHRIST distinctly seen, Shall, by JEHOVAH'S nameless name, Invoke the Nazarene. THE CLOUDS. " Cloud land ! Gorgeous land !" COLERIDGE. I CANNOT look above and see Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly In gold and purple pass, And think not, LORD, how thou wast seen On Israel's desert way, Before them, in thy shadowy screen, Pavilion'd all the day ! Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue Which the Redeemer wore, When, ravish'd from his followers' view, Aloft his flight he bore, When lifted, as on mighty wing, He curtained his ascent, And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing Above the firmament. Is it a trail of that same pall Of many-colour'd dyes, That high above, o'ermantling all, Hangs midway down the skies Or borders of those sweeping folds Which shall be all unfurl'd About the Saviour, when he holds His judgment on the world 1 For in like manner as he went, My soul, hast thou forgot ? Shall be his terrible descent, When man expecteth not ! Strength, Son of man, against that hour, Be to our spirits given, When thou shall come again with power, Upon the clouds of heaven ! 2C 301 302 WILLIAM CROSWELL. THE ORDINAL. ALAS for me if I forget The memory of that day Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet E'en sleep can take away ! In dreams I still renew the rites Whose strong but mystic chain The spirit to its GOD unites, And none can part again. How oft the bishop's form I see, And hear that thrilling tone Demanding with authority The heart for GOD alone ; Again I kneel as then I knelt, While he above me stands, And seem to feel, as then I felt, The pressure of his hands. Again the priests in meet array, As my weak spirit fails, Beside me bend them down to pray Before the chancel-rails ; As then, the sacramental host Of GOD'S elect are by, When many a voice its utterance lost, And tears dimm'd many an eye. As then they on my vision rose, The vaulted aisles I see, And desk and cushion'd book repose In solemn sanctity, The mitre o'er the marble niche, The broken crook and key, That from a bishop's tomb shone rich With, polished tracery ; The hangings, the baptismal font, All, all, save me unchanged, The holy table, as was wont, With decency arranged ; The linen cloth, the plate, the cup, Beneath their covering shine, Ere priestly hands are lifted up To bless the bread and wine. The solemn ceremonial past, And I am set apart To serve the LOUD, from first to last, With undivided heart ; And I have sworn, with pledges dire, Which GOD and man have heard, To speak the holy truth entire, In action and in word. Thou, who in thy holy place Hast set thine orders three, Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace To win a good degree ; That so, replenish'd from above, And in my office tried, Thou mayst be honoured, and in love Thy church be edified ! CHRISTMAS EVE. THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe Through every hallow'd fane A soft, reviving odour breathe Of summer's gentle reign ; And rich the ray of mild green light Which, like an emerald's glow, Comes struggling through the latticed height Upon the crowds below. 0, let the streams of solemn thought Which in those temples rise, From deeper sources spring than aught Dependent on the skies : Then, though the summer's pride departs, And winter's withering chill Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts Shall be unchanging still. THE DEATH OF STEPHEN. WITH awful dread his murderers shook, As, radiant and serene, The lustre of his dying look Was like an angel's seen ; Or MOSES' face of paly light, When down the mount he trod, All glowing from the glorious sight And presence of his GOD. To us, with all his constancy, Be his rapt vision given, To look above by faith, and see Revealments bright of heaven. And power to speak our triumphs out, As our last hour draws near, While neither clouds of fear nor doubt Before our view appear. THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING. WE come not with a costly store, O LORD, like them of old, The masters of the starry lore, From Ophir's shore of gold : No weepings of the incense tree Are with the gifts we bring, No odorous myrrh of Araby Blends with our offering. But still our love would bring its best, A spirit keenly tried By fierce affliction's fiery test, And seven times purified: The fragrant graces of the mind, The virtues that delight To give their perfume out, will find Acceptance in thy sight. WALTER COLTON. [Born, 1804.] Mr. COLTOX is a native of Rutland, in Vermont. After obtaining a degree at Yale College, he was three years in the theological seminary at Andover. In 1820 he entered the navy as a chaplain, and after a short service in the West India squadron, was or- dered to that of the Mediterranean, during his con- nection with which he travelled through Southern Europe and Asia Minor, and visited Paris and Lon- don. Among the fruits of his tours are two works entitled " Ship and Shore," and " Athens and Con- stantinople." He was appointed historiographer to the South Sea Exploring Expedition, but the ulti- mate reduction of the exploring squadron, and the resignation of his associates, induced him to forego the advantages of this office, and he was subsequent- ly attached several years to the naval stations at Philadelphia. He is now (in the autumn of 1845) at sea as chaplain to the United States ship Congress. THE SAILOR. A SAILOR ever loves to be in motion, Roaming about he scarce knows where or why ; He looks upon the dim and shadowy ocean As home, abhors the land ; and e'en the sky, Boundless and beautiful, has naught to please, Except some clouds, which promise him a breeze. He is a child of mere impulse and passion, Loving his friends, and generous to his foes, And fickle as the most ephemeral fashion, Save in the cut and colour of his clothes, And in a set of phrases which, on land, The wisest head could never understand. He thinks his dialect the very best That ever flow'd from any human lip, And whether in his prayers, or at a jest, Uses the terms for managing a ship ; And even in death would order up the helm, In hope to clear the undiscover'd realm." He makes a friend where'er he meets a shore, One whom he cherishes with some affection ; But leaving port, he thinks of her no more, Unless it be, perchance, in some reflection Upon his wicked ways, then, with a sigh, Resolves on reformation ere he die. In calms, he gazes at the sleeping sea, Or seeks his lines, and sets himself 'to angling, Or takes to politics, and, being free Of facts and full of feeling, falls to wrangling : Then recollects a distant eye and lip, And rues the day on which he saw a ship: Then looks up to the sky to watch each cloud, As it displays its faint and fleeting form ; Then o'er the calm begins to mutter loud, And swears he would exchange it for a storm, Tornado, any thing to put a close To this most dead, monotonous repose. An order given, and he obeys, of course, Though 'twere to run his ship upon the rocks Capture a squadron with a boat's-crew force Or batter down the massive granite blocks Of some huge fortress with a swivel, pike, Pistol, aught that will throw a ball, or strike. He never shrinks, whatever may betide ; His weapon may be shiver'd in his hand, His last companion shot down at his side, Still he maintains his firm and desperate stand Bleeding and battling with his colours fast As nail can bind them to his shatter'd mast. . . . I love the sailor his eventful life His generous spirit his contempt of danger His firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife ; And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger, GOD grant he make that port, when life is o'er, Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more. MY FIRST LOVE, AND MY LAST. CATHAHA, when the many silent tears Of beauty, bending o'er thy bed, Bespoke the change familiar to our fears, I could not think thy spirit yet had fled So Like to life the slumber death had cast On thy sweet face, my first love and my last. I watch'd to see those lids their light unfold, For still thy forehead rose serene and fair, As when those raven ringlets richly roll'd O'er life, which dwelt in thought and beauty there : Thy cheek the while was rosy with the theme That flush'd along the spirit's mystic dream. Thy lips were circled with that silent smile Which oft around their dewy freshness woke. When some more happy thought or harmless wile Upon thy warm and wandering fancy broke : For thou wert Nature's child, and took the tone Of every pulse, as if it were thine own. I watch'd, and still believed that thou wouldst wake, When others came to place thee in the shroud : I thought to see this seeming slumber break, As I have seen a light, transparent cloud Disperse, which o'er a star's sweet face had thrown A shadow like to that which veil'd thine own. But, no: there was no token, look, or breath: The tears of those around, the tolling bell And hearse told us at last that this was death ! I know not if I breathed a last farewell ; But since that day my sweetest hours have pass'd In thought of thee, my first love and my last 303 WILLIAM PITT PALMER. [Bon, 1S05.] MH. PALMER is descended from a Puritan an- cestor who came to America in the next ship after the May Flower. His father was a youthful sol- dier in the Revolution, and one of the latest, if not the last, of the survivors of the Jersey prison ship. Having acquired a competency as the cap- tain of a New York merchantman, he retired from the sea early in the present century, to Stock- bridge, Berkshire county, Massachusetts, where he spent the remainder of his days, in that sunshine of love and respect which has gilded the declining years of so many men of our heroic age. There, on the twenty-second of February, 1805, our poet was born, and named in honour of the great orator whose claims to gratitude are recognised among us in a thousand living monuments which bear the name of WILLIAM PITT. In his native county, Mr. PALMER has told me, the first and happiest half of his life was spent on the farm, in the desultory acquisition of such know- ledge as could then be obtained from a New Eng- land common school, and a " college" with a single professor. The other half has been chiefly passed in New York, as a medical student, teacher, writer for the gazettes, and, for several years, clerk in a public office. Mr. PALMER is a man of warm affections, who finds a heaven in a quiet home. He is a lover of nature, too, and like most inhabitants of the pent-up city, whose early days have been passed in the country, he delights in recollections of rural life. Some of his poems have much tenderness and delicacy, and they are generally very complete and polished. LIGHT. FROM the quicken'd womb of the primal gloom The sun roll'd black and bare, Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast, Of the threads of my golden hair ; And when the broad tent of the firmament Arose on its airy spars, I pencill'd the hue of its matchless blue, And spangled it round with stars. I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And their leaves of living green, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes Of Eden's virgin queen ; And when the fiend's art, on her trustful heart, Had fastcn'd its mortal spell, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear To the trembling earth I fell. When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed Their work of wrath hath sped, And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, Came forth among the dead ; With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams I bade their terrors cease ; As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll GOD'S covenant of peace. Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast, Night's funeral shadow slept, Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains Their lonely vigils kept ; When I flash'd on their sight the heralds bright Of heaven's redeeming plan, As they chanted the mom of a Saviour born Joy, joy to the outcast man ! Equal favour I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend ; E'en die blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears, Feel my smile the best smile of a friend : Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of kings ; As the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, And lo ! the gay butterfly's wings ! The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Conceals all the pride of her charms, Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her bowers, And lead the young Day to her arms ; And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover, And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fann'd west, In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, I gaze with unslumbering eye, When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from the sky ; And guided by me through the merciless sea, Though sped by the hurricane's wings, His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, To the haven-home safely he brings. I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, The birds in their chambers of green, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, As they bask in my matinal sheen. O, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, Though fitful and fleeting the while, What glories must rest on the home of the bless'd, i Ever bright with the DEITY'S smile ! 304 WILLIAM PITT PALMER. 305 LINES TO A CHRYSALIS. MUSING long I asked me tills, Chrysalis, Lying helpless in my path, Obvious to mortal scath From a careless passer by, What thy life may signify ? Why, from hope and joy apart, Thus thou art 1 Nature surely did amiss, Chrysalis, When she lavish'd fins and wings Nerved with nicest moving-springs, On the mote and madripore, Wherewithal to swim or soar ; And dispensed so niggardly Unto thee. E'en the very worm may kiss, Chrysalis, Roses on their topmost stems Blazon'd with their dewy gems, And may rock him to and fro As the zephyrs softly blow ; Whilst thou lyest dark and cold On the mould. Quoth the Chrysalis, Sir Bard, Not so hard Is my rounded destiny In the great Economy : Nay, by humble reason view'd, There is much for gratitude In the shaping and upshot Of my lot. Though I seem of all things born Most forlorn, Most obtuse of soul and sense, Next of kin to Impotence, Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'er Priest or prophet, sage or seer, May sublimer wisdom teach Thdh I preach. From my pulpit of the sod, Like a god, I proclaim this wondrous truth, Farthest age is nearest youth, Nearest glory's natal porch, Where with pale, inverted torch, Death lights downward to the rest Of the blest. Mark yon airy butterfly's Rainbow-dyes ! Yesterday that shape divine Was as darkly hearsed as mine ; But to-morrow I shall be Free and beautiful as she, And sweep forth on wings of light, Like a sprite. Soul of man in crypt of clay ! Bide the day When thy latent wings shall be Plumed for immortality, And with transport marvellous Cleave their dark sarcophagus, O'er Elysian fields to soar Evermore ! THE HOME VALENTINE. STILL fond and true, though wedded long. The bard, at eve retired, Sat smiling o'er the annual song His home's dear Muse inspired : And as he traced her virtues now With all love's vernal glow, A gray hair from his bended brow, Like faded leaf from autumn bough, Fell to the 1 page below. He paused, and with a mournful mien The sad memento raised, And long upon its silvery sheen In pensive silence gazed : And if a sigh escaped him then, It were not strange to say ; For fancy's favourites are but men ; And who e'er felt the stoic when First conscious of decay 7 Just then a soft cheek press'd his own With beauty's fondest tear, And sweet words breathed in sweeter tone Thus murmur'd in his ear : Ah, sigh not, love to mark the trace Of time's unsparing wand ! It was not manhood's outward grace, No charm of faultless form or face, That won my heart and hand. Lo ! dearest, mid these matron locks, Twin-fated with thine own, A dawn of silvery lustre mocks The midnight they have known : But time to blighted cheek and tress May all his snows impart ; Yet shalt thou feel in my caress No chill of waning tenderness, No whiter of the heart ! Forgive me, dearest Beatrice ! The grateful bard replied, As nearer and with tenderer kiss He pressed her to his side : Forgive the momentary tear To manhood's faded prime ; I should have felt, hadst thou been near, Our hearts indeed have nought to fear From all the frosts of time ! 2c 2 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. [Bom, \SOS.} THE author of "Greyslaer," "Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," etc., is a brother of the Honourable OGDEN HOFFMAN, and a son of the late eminent lawyer of the same name.* He is the child of a second marriage. His maternal grandfather was Jonx FF.X>-O, of Philadelphia, one of the ablest political writers of the old Fede- ral party, during the administration of WASHING- TON. The family, which is a numerous one in the state of New York, planted themselves, at an early day, in the valley of the Hudson, as appears from the Dutch records of PETER STUTVESAXT'S storied reign. Mr. HOFFXAX was born in New York, in the year 1806. He was sent to a Latin grammar- school in that city, when six years old, from which, at the age of nine, he was transferred to the Poughkeepsie academy, a seminary upon the Hudson, about eighty miles from New York, which at that time enjoyed great reputation. The harsh treatment he received here induced him to run away, and his father, finding that he had not im- proved under a course of severity, did not insist upon his return, but placed him under the care of an accomplished Scottish gentleman in one of the rural villages of New Jersey. During a visit home from this place, and when about twelve years of age, he met with an injury which in- volved the necessity of the immediate amputa- tion of the right leg, above the knee. The pain- ful circumstances are minutely detailed in the New York "Evening Post," of the twenty-fifth of October? 1817, from which it appears, that while, with other lads, attempting the dangerous feat of leaping aboard a steamer as she passed a pier, under full way, he was caught between the vessel and the wharf. The steamer swept by, and left him clinging by his hands to the pier, crushed in a manner too frightful for description. This de- privation, instead of acting as a disqualification for the manly sports of youth, and thus turning the subject of it into a retired student, seems rather to have given young HOFFMAN an especial ambi- tion to excel in swimming, riding, etc., to the still further neglect of perhaps more useful acquire- ments. When fifteen years old, he entered Columbia College, and here, as at preparatory schools, was noted rather for success in gymnastic exercises * Judge HOFFMAN was, in curly life, one of the most dislinsuis!i?il advocates at the American bar. He won his first ivmse in \w Jersey at the age of seventeen ; the illness of counsel or the indulgence of the court giving him the opportunity to ?ppak. At twenty-one he suc- ceeded his father as representative, from New York, in the state legislature. At twenty-six he filled the office of attorney-general; and thenceforth the still youthful pleader was often the successful competitor of HAMIL- TON, Hi RH, PIXKNKV, and other professional giants, for the highest honours of the legal forum. than in those of a more intellectual character. His reputation, judging from his low position in his class, contrasted with the honours that were awarded him by the college-societies at their anni- versary exhibitions, was greater with the students than with the faculty, though the honorary degree of Master of Arts, conferred upon him under pe- culiarly gratifying circumstances, after leaving the institution in his third or junior year, without having graduated, clearly implies that he was still a favourite with his alma iniiter.* Immediately after leaving college being then eighteen years old he commenced the study ot'the law with the Honourable HAHMAMJS BLF.F.CKF.R, of Albany, now Charge d' Affaires ot'the United States at the Hague. When twenty-one, he was admitted to the bar, and in the succeeding three years he practised in the courts of the city of New York. During this period he wrote anonymously for the New York American having made his first essay as a writer for the gazettes while in Al- bany and I believe finally became associated with Mr. CHARLES KING- in the editorship of that paper. Certainly he gave up the legal profession, for the successful prosecution of which he appears to have been unfitted by his love of books, society, and the rod and gun. His feelings at this period are described in some rhymes, entitled " Forest Musings," from which the following stanzas quoted, to show the fine relish for forest-life scenery which has thrown a peculiar charm aro every production from his pen : The hunt is up The merry woodland shout, That rung these echoing glades about An hour agor.e, TIath swept beyond the eastern hills, Where, pale and lone, The moon her mystic circle fills; A while across the setting sun's broad disc The dusky larch, As if to pierce the blue o'erhanging arch, Lifts its tall obelisk. And now from thicket dark, Where, by the mist-wreathed river, The fire-fly's spark Will filfiil quiver, And bubbles round the lily's cup From larking trout come coursing up, The doe hath led her fawn to drink ; While, scared by step so near, Uprising from the sedgy brink The lonely bittern's cry will sink Upon the startled ear. And thus upon my dreaming youth, When boyhood's gambols pleased no more, And young Romance, in euise of Truth, Usurp'd the heart all their? Iiefre ; * At the first semi-centennial anniversary of the in- corporation of Columbia College, the honorary degree Master of Arts was conferred upon FITZ-GREENT HAL- LECK, WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT, and CHARLES FEXKO HOFFMAN. 306 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 307 Thus broke ambition's trumpet-note On Visions wild, Yet blithesome as this river On which the smiling moon-beams float, That thus have there for ages smiled, And will thus smile forever. And now no more the fresh green-wood, The forest's fretted aisles And leafy domes above them bent, And solitude So eloquent! Mocking the varied skill that's blent In art's most gor{jous piles No more can soothe my soul to sleep Than they can awe the sounds that sweep To hunter's horn and merriment Their verdant passes through, When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent Upon the morning dew. The game's afoot! and let the chase Lead on, whate'er my destiny Though fate her funeral drum may brace Full soon for me ! And wave death's pageant o'er me Yet now the new and untried world Like maiden banner first unfurl'd, Is glancing bright before me! The quarry soars ! and mine is now the sky, Where, "at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly!" Yet something whispers through the wood A voice like that perchance Which taught the haunter of EDEMA'S grove To tame the Roman's dominating mood And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance Before the images of Law and Love Some mystic voice that ever since hath dwelt Along with Echo in her dim retreat, A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt By wood, or glen, or where on silver strand The clasping waves of Ocean's belt Do clashing meet Around the land: It whispers me that soon too soon The pulses which now beat so high Impatient with the world to cope Will, like the hues of autumn sky, Be changed and fallen ere life's noon Should tame its morning hope. It tells me not of heart betray'd Of health impair'd, Of fruitless toil, And ills alike by thousands shared, Of which each year some link is made To add to " mortal coil :" And yet its strange prophetic tone So faintly murmurs to my soul The fate to be my own, That all of those may be Reserved for me Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll. Yet why, While Hope so jocund singeth And with her plumes the gray-beard's arrow wingeth, Should I Think only of the barb itbringeth? Though every dream deceive That to my youth is dearest, Until my heart they leave Like forest leaf when searest Yet still, mid forest leives, Where now Its tissue tliiis my idle fancy weaves, Still with heart new-blossoming While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring, At Nature's shrine I'll bow; Nor seek in vain that truth in her She keeps for her idolater. Since that time Mr. HOFFMAX has devoted his attention almost constantly to literature. \Vhile connected with the " American," he published a series of brilliant articles in that paper, under the signature of a star (*), which attracted much at- tention. In 1833, for the benefit of his health, he left New York on a travelling tour for the " far west," and his letters, written during his absence, were also first published in that popular journal. They were afterward included in his " Winter in the West," of which the first impression appeared in New York, in 1834, and the second, soon after, in London. This work has passed through many editions, and it will continue to be popular so long as graphic descriptions of scenery and character, and richness and purity of style, are admired. His next work, entitled " Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," was first printed in 1837, and, like its predecessor, it contains many admirable pictures of scenery, inwoven with legends of the western country, and descriptive poetry. This was followed by a romance, entitled " Greyslaer," founded upon the famous criminal trial of BEAU- CHAMP, for the murder of Colonel SHARPS, the So- licitor-General of Kentucky, the particulars of which, softened away in the novel, are minutely detailed in the appendix to his Winter in the West." " Greyslaer" was a successful novel two editions having appeared in the author's native city, one in Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, in the same year. It placed him in the front rank of American novelists. He describes in it, with remarkable felicity, American forest-life, and sa- vage warfare, and gives a truer idea of the border contests of the Revolution than any formal his- tory of the period that has been published. The Knickerbocker magazine was first issued under the editorial auspices of Mr. HOFFMAX. He subsequently became the proprietor of the American Monthly Magazine, (one of the ablest literary periodicals ever published in this country,) and during the long term of which he was the chief editor of this journal, he also, for one year, conducted the New York Mirror, for its proprietor, and wrote a series of zealous papers in favour of international copyright, for the New Yorker, the Corsair, and other journals. Mr. HOFFMAN published in 1843 The Vigil of Faith, a Legend of the Andirondack Mountains, and other Poems ;"in 1844," Borrowed Notes for Home Circulation," (the title of which was suggested by an article on The Poets and Poetry of America," in " The Foreign Quarterly Review,") and near the close of 1845, through the house of Harper and Brothers, of New York, the most complete collec- tion that has been printed of his poetical writings. The poetry of Mr. HOFFJIAX is graceful and fanciful. No American is comparable to him as a song-writer. Although some of his pieces are exquisitely finished, they have all evidently been thrown off without labour, in moments of feeling. A few of his pieces, in which he has copied the style of " the old and antique song," are equal to the richest melodies of the time of HEIIHICK and WALLEII. 308 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON. WRITTEN AT WEST POINT. I 'M not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd By things around him, that 't is vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers, Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers : And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever ? Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon Azure fields thou who, once earth ward bending, Didst loose thy virgin zone to young ENDYMION On dewy Latinos to his arms descending Thou whom the world of old on every shore, Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore : Tell me where'er thy silver bark be steering, By bright Italian or soft Persian lands, Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands ; Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, A lovelier stream than this the wide world over 1 Doth Achelous or Araxes, flowing Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er-meeting brothers Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver Match they in beauty my own glorious river ! What though no cloister gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear 1 What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition here What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls Its sinking arches once gave back as proud An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray : For here amid these wooils did he keep court, B.-fori 1 wh'xe mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's chosen bovv'd HE who his country's ea^le taught to soar, And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore. And sights and sounds at which the world have wonder'd Within these wild ravines have had their birth ; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thunder'd, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth ; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story. And yet not rich in high-soul'd memories only, Is every moon-kiss'd headland round me gleaming, Each cavern'd glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night Thou that to love so oft has lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, Or fiery ROMEO to his JULIET stole Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth ? O, loiter not upon that fairy shore, To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, When sunset brightens on their sails no more, And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tide Loiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, What time the bird of night proclaims love's power. Even as I gaze upon my memory's track, Bright as that coil of light along the deep, A scene of early youth comes dream-like back. Where two stand gazing from yon tide-wash'd steep A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing, A girl scarce yet in ripen'd beauty blushing. The hour is his and, while his hopes are soaring, Doubts he th.it maiden will become his bride ! Can she resist that gush of wild adoring, Fresh from a heart full-volumcd as the tide] Tremulous, but radiant is that peerless daughter Of loveliness as is the star-paved water ! The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd then Alas ! how oft have they been since renew'd ! How oft the whip-poor-will from yonder glen Each year has whistled to her callow brood ! How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam Dream'd here of bliss and wakcn'd from their dream ! But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending, Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride. Farewell ! Though tears on every leaf arc starting : While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So could I fling o'er glory's title one ray Would I too steal from tliis dark world away. CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 309 THE BOB-0-LINKUM. THOU vocal sprite thou feather 5 J troubadour! In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more, And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger] Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature, But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The school-boy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob-0-Linkum. Say ! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover 1 Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish ? They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks, They say, alike thy song and plumage changes ; Here both are gay ; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river. Thou art unmatdi'd, blithe warbler of the North, While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver. Joyous, yet tender was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where mid its wild flowers The silent prairie listens all day loner, [smiling The only captive to such sweet beguiling; Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls And column'd isles of western groves symphoni- Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals, [ous, To make our flowering pastures here harmonious"? Cauaht'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid, [ing, Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plash- Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade, Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing ? Or did the reeds of some savannah South, Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing 1 Unthrifty prodigal ! is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever 1 Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest for ever? Yet now in wilder'd maze of concord floating, 'T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doating And pause to listen to thy rapturous song ! THE REMONSTRANCE. You give up the world ! why, as well might the sun, When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers, While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one by one, Die away with the muezzin's last note from the towers, Declare that he never would gladden again, With one rosy smile, the young morn in its birth ; But leave weeping Day, with her sorrowful train Of hours, to grope o'er a pall-cover'd earth. The light of that soul once so brilliant and steady, So far can the incense of flattery smother, That, at thought of the world of hearts conquer'd already, Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another 1 ! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried, And fresh as was ours, when first we began it, Let me know but the sphere where you next will abide, And that instant, for one, I am off for that planet ^ PRIMEVAL WOODS. YES ! even here, not less than in the crowd, Here, where yon vault in formal sweep seems piled Upon the pines, monotonously proud, Fit dome for fane, within whose hoary veil No ribald voice an echo hath defiled W'here Silence seems articulate ; up-stealing Like a low anthem's heavenward wail : Oppressive on my bosom weighs the feeling Of thoughts that language cannot shape aloud; For song too solemn, and for prayer too wild, Thoughts, which beneath no human power could quail, For lack of utterance, in abasement bow'd, The cavern'd waves that struggle for revealing. Upon whose idle foam alone God s light hath smiled. Ere long thine every stream shall find a tongue, Land of the Many Waters ! But the sound Of human music, these wild hills among, Hath no one save the Indian mother flung Its spell of tenderness ? Oh, o'er this ground So redolent of Ueauty, hath there play'd no breath Of human poesy none beside the word Of Love, as, murmur'd these old boughs beneath, Some fierce and savage suitor it hath stirr'd To gentle issues none but these been heard 1 No mind, no soul here kindled but my own 1 Doth not one hollow trunk about resound With the faint echoes of a song long flown, By shadows like itself now haply heard alone 1 And Ye, with all this primal growth must go ! And loiterers beneath some lowly spreading shade, Where pasture-kissing breezes shall, ere then, have play'd, A century hence, will doubt that there could grow From that meek land such Titans of the glade ! Yet wherefore primal? when beneath my tread Are roots whose thrifty growth, perchance, hath arm'd The Anak spearman when his trump alarm'd! Roots that the Deluge wave hath plunged below ; Stvds that the Deluge wind hath scattered ; Berries that Eden's warblers may have fed ; Safe in the slime of earlier worlds embalmM : Again to quicken, germinate and blow, [charm'd. Again to charm the land as erst the land they 310 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. LE FAINEANT. Now arouse thee, Sir Knight, from thine indolent case, Fling boldly thy banner abroad in the breeze, Strike home for thy lady strive hard for the prize, And thy guerdon shall beam from her love-lighted eyes!" " I shrink not the trial," that bluff knight replied " But I battle not I for an unwilling bride ; Where the boldest may venture to do and to dare, My pennon shall flutter my bugle peal there ! " I quail not at aught in the struggle of life, I'm not all unproved even now in the strife, But the wreath that I win, all unaided alone, Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown !" Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win ; Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more ; Up ! Sir Knight, for thy lady and do thy devoir !" " She hath shrunk from my side, she hath fail'd in her trust, Not relied on my blade, but remember'd its rust ; It shall brighten once more in the field of its fame, But it is not for her I would now win a name." The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh'd, When he featly as ever his steed would bestride, While the mould from the banner he shook to the wind Seem'd to fall on the breast he left aching behind. But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart Had corroded too long and too deep to depart, And the brand only brighten'd in honour once more, When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled shore. TO AN AUTUMN ROSE. TELL her I love her love her for those eyes Now soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies, Reveal two heavens here to us on Earth The one in which their soulful beauty lies, And that wherein such soulfulness has birth: Go to my lady ere the season flies, And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast Go ! and with all of eloquence thou hast, The burning story of my love discover, And if the theme should fail, alas ! to move her, Tell her when youth's gay budding-time is past, And summer's gaudy flowering is over, Like thee, my love will blossom to the last ! SYMPATHY. WELL ! call it Friendship .' have I ask'd for more, Even in those moments, when I gave thee most 1 'Twas but for thee, I look'd so far before ! I saw our bark was hurrying blindly on, A guideless tiling upon a dangerous coast With thcc with thee, where would I not have gone 1 But could I see thee drift upon the shore, Unknowing drift upon a shore, unknown 1 Yiv, call it Friendship, and let no revealing If love be there, e'er make love's wild name heard, It will not die, if it be worth concealing ! Call it then Friendship but oh, let that word Speak but for me for me, a deeper feeling Than ever yet a lover's bosom stirr'd ! A PORTRAIT. NOT hers the charms whioh Laura's lover drew, Or Titian's pencil on the canvas threw ; No soul enkindled beneath southern skies Glow'd on her cheek and sparkled in her eyes ; No prurient charms set off her slender form With swell voluptuous and with contour warm ; While each proportion was by Nature told In maiden beauty's most bewitching mould. High on her peerless brow a radiant throne IJnmix'd with aught of earth pale genius sat alone. And yet, at times, within her eye there dwelt Softness that would the sternest bosom melt ; A depth of tenderness which show'd, when woke, That woman there as well as angel spoke. Yet well that eye could flash resentment's rays, Or, proudly scornful, check the boldest gaze ; Chill burning passion with a calm disdain, Or with one glance rekindle it again. Her mouth Oh ! never fascination met Near woman's lips half so alluring yet : For round her mouth there play'd, at times, a smile, Such as did man from Paradise beguile ; Such, could it light him through this world of pain, As he'd not barter Eden to regain. What though that smile might beam alike on all ; What though that glance on each as kindly fall ; What though you knew, while worshipping their power, Your homage but the pastime of the hour, Still they, however guarded were the heart, Could every feeling from its fastness start Deceive one still, howe'er deceived before, And make him wish thus to lie cheated more, Till, grown at last in such illusions gray, Faith follow'd Hope and stole with Love away. Such was Alinda ; such in her combined Those charms which round our very nature wind ; Which, when together they in one conspire, He who admires must love who sees, admire. Variably perilous ; upon the sight Now beam'd her beauty in resistless light, And subtly now into the heart it stole, And, ere it startled, occupied the whole. 'Twas well for her, that lovely mist-hief, well That she could not the pangs it waken'd tell; That, like the princess in the fairy tale, No soft emotions could her soul assail ; For Nature, that Alinda should not feel For wounds her eyes might make, but never heal, In mercy, while she did each gift impart Of rarest excellence, withheld a heart ! CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 311 THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting, One toast ere we arm for the fight ; Fill round, each to her he loves dearest 'T is the last he may pledge her, to-night. Think of those who of old at the banquet Did their weapons in garlands conceal, The patriot heroes who hallowed The entwining of myrtle and steel ! Then hey for the myrtle and steel, Then ho for the myrtle and steel, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! 'T is in moments like this, when each bosom With its highest-toned feeling is warm, Like the music that's said from the ocean To rise ere the gathering storm, That her image around us should hover, Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper, As we drink to the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel, Then ho for the myrtle and stool, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! Now mount, for our bugle is ringing To marshal the host for the fray, Where proudly our banner is flinging Its folds o'er the battle-array ; Yet gallants one moment remember, When your sabres the death-blow would deal, That MKIICT wears her shape who's cherish'd By lads of the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel, Then ho for the myrtle and steel, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! EPITAPH UPON A DOG. AN ear that caught my slightest tone, In kindness or in anger spoken ; An eye that ever watch'd my own, In vigils death alone has broken ; Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought Affection to the last revealing ; Beaming almost with human thought, And more far more than human feeling ! Can such hi endless sleep be chill'd, And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was still'd May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love, That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above, The types of what is due to Heaven, Can these be with the things that were, Things cherish'd but no more returning, And leave behind no trace of care, No shade that speaks a moment's mourning 1 Alas ! my friend, of all of worth That years have stolen or years yet leave me, I've never known so much on earth, But that the loss of thine must grieve me. ANACREONTIC. not the bowl the fruitful bowl, Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape OSIRIS gave Makes rigid age so lithe of limb 1 Illumines memory's tearful wave, And teaches drowning hope to swim! Did ocean from his radiant arms To earth another VENUS give, He ne'er could match the mellow charms That in the breathing beaker live. Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, In characters that mock the sight, Till some kind liquid, o'er them pour'd, Brings all their hidden warmth to light Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till, fill'd with glowing BACCHUS up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And, as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife. The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd, From earth again rose joyously : Bore not beneath the bitter brine Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine Our hearts toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies. A HUNTER'S MATIN. UP, comrades, up ! the morn 's awake Upon the mountain side, The curlew's wing hath swept the lake, And the deer has left the tangled brake, To drink from the limpid tide. Up, comrades, up ! the mead-lark's note And the plover's cry o'er the prairie float ; The squirrel, he springs from his covert now, To prank it away on the chestnut bough, Where the oriole's pendant nest, high up, Is rock'd on the swaying trees, While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup, As it bends to the morning breeze. Up, comrades, up ! our shallops grate Upon the pebbly strand, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait To spring from the huntsman's hand. 312 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. LOVE AND POLITICS. A BIHTH-DAT MEDITATION. ANOTHER year ! alas, how swift, ALIXDA, do these years flit by, Like shadows thrown by clouds that drift In flakes along a wintry sky. Another year ! another leaf Is turn'd within life's volume brief, And yet not one bright page appears Of mine within that book of years. There are some moments when I feel As if it should not yet be so ; As if the years that from me steal Had not a right alike to go, And lose themselves in Time's dark sea, Unbuoy'd up by aught from me ; Aught that the future yet might claim To rescue from their wreck a name. But it was love that taught me rhyme, And it was thou that taught me love ; And if I in this idle chime Of words a useless sluggard prove, It was thine eyes the habit nurs'd, And in their light I learn'd it first. It is thine eyes which, day by day, Consume my time and heart away. And often bitter thoughts arise Of what I 've lost in loving thee, And in my breast my spirit dies, The gloomy cloud around to see, Of baffled hopes and ruined powers Of mind, and miserable hours Of self-upbraiding, and despair Of heart, too strong and fierce to bear. " Why, what a peasant slave am I," To bow my mind and bend my knee To woman in idolatry, Who takes no thought of mine or me. O, GOD ! that I could breathe my life On battle-plain in charging strife In one mad impulse pour my soul Far beyond passion's base control. Thus do my jarring thoughts revolve Their gather'd causes of offence, Until I in my heart resolve To dash thine angel image thence ; When some bright look, some accent kind, Comes freshly in my heated mind, And scares, like newly-flushing day, These brooding thoughts like owls away. And then for hours and hours I muse On things that might, yet will not be, Till, one by one, my feelings lose Their passionate intensity, And steal away in visions soft, Which on wild wing those feelings waft Far, far beyond the drear domain Of Reason and her freezing reign. And now again from their gay track I call, as I despondent sit, Once more these truant fancies back, Which round my brain so idly flit ; And some I treasure, some I blush To own and these I try to crush And some, too wild for reason's reign, I loose in idle r^yme again. And even thus my moments fly, And even thus my hours decay, And even thus my years slip by, My life itself is wiled away ; But distant still the mounting hope, The burning wish with men to cope In aught that minds of iron mould May do or dare for fame or gold. Another year ! another year, ALIXDA, it shall not be so; Both love and lays forswear I here, As I've forsworn thee long ago. That name, which thou wouldst never share, Proudly shall Fame emblazon where On pumps and corners posters stick it, The highest on the JACKSON ticket WHAT IS SOLITUDE? NOT in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the echoes brood In caves untrod by men ; Not by the bleak sea-shore, Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not on the desert plain, Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main Not there is solitude ! Birds are in woodland bowers, Voices in lonely dells, Streams to the listening hours Talk in earth's secret cells ; Over the gray-ribb'd sand Breathe ocean's frothing lips, Over the still lake's strand The flower toward it dips ; Pluming the mountain's crest, Life tosses in its pines ; Coursing the desert's breast, Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave if thou wouldst be lonely Leave Nature for the crowd ; Seek there for one one only With kindred mind endow'd ! There as with Nature erst Closely thou wouldst commune The deep soul-music, nursed In either heart, attune ! Heart-wearied, thou wilt own, Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true solitude ! CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 313 INDIAN SUMMER, 1828. LIGHT as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid ri^pr ; The blue bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air he carols, faintly quiver ; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving ; Beaded with dew, the witch-elm's tassels shiver ; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leaping. I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes That richly deck the slow-declining year ; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, I love the note of each wild bird that flics, [brief; As on the wind he pours his parting lay, And wings his loitering flight to summer climes away. O, Nature ! still I fondly turn to thee, With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were ; Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear ; To thee to thee though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee, And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity. TOWN REPININGS. RIVER ! O, river ! thou rovest free, From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea ! Free thyself, but with silver chain, Linking each charm of land and main, From the splinter'd crag thou leap'st below, Through leafy glades at will to flow Lingering now, by the steep's moss'd edge Loitering now mid the dallying sedge : And pausing ever, to call thy waves From grassy meadows and fern-clad caves And then, with a prouder tide to break From wooded valley, to breezy lake : Yet all of these scenes, though fair they be, River ! O, river ! are bann'd to me. River ! 0, river ! upon thy tide Full many a freighted bark doth glide ; Would that thou thus couldst bear away The thoughts that burthen my weary day ! Or that I, from all save them made free, Though laden still, might rove with thee ! True that thy waves brief lifetime find, And live at the will of the wanton wind True that thou seekest the ocean's flow, To be lost therein for evermoe. Yet the slave who worships at Glory's shrine, But toils for a bubble as frail as thine : But loses his freedom here, to be Forgotten as soon as in death set free. 40 TO A LADY BLUSHING. THK lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery 1 ?) And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes reveal'd, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd. I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken, Yet can't regret that thou forgive the thought- As flowers when shaken Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind. THE FAREWELL. THE conflict is over, the struggle is past, I have look'd I have loved I have worshipp'd my last, And now back to the world, and let Fate do her worst On the heart that for thee such devotion hath nursed : To thee its best feelings were trusted away, And life hath hereafter not one to betray. Yet not in resentment thy love I resign ; I blame not upbraid not one motive of thine ; I ask not what change has come over thy heart, I reck not what chances have doom'd us to part ; I but know thou hast told me to love thee no more, And I still must obey where I once did adore. Farewell, then, thou loved one ! loved but too well, Too deeply, too blindly, for language to tell Farewell ! thou hast trampled love's faith in the dust, Thou hast torn from my bosom its hope and its trust ! Yet, if thy life's current with bliss it would swell, I would pour out my own in this last fond farewell ! I WILL LOVE HER NO MORE. I WILL love her no more 'tis a waste of the heart, This lavish of feeling a prodigal's part : Who, heedless the treasure a life could not earn, Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return. I will love her no more ; it is folly to give Our best years to one, when for many we live. And he who the world will thus barter for one, I ween by such traffic must soon be undone. I will love her no more ; it is heathenish thus To bow to an idol which bends not to us ; Which heeds not, which hears not, which recks not for aught That the worship of years to its altar hath brought. I will love her no more ; for no love is without Its limit in measure, and mine hath run out ; She engrosseth it all, and, till some she restore, Than this moment I love hei, how can I love more ? 3D 314 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. THEY ARE MOCKERY ALL. THEY are mockery all those skies, those skies Their untroubled depths of blue They are mockery all these eyes, these eyes, Which seem so warm and true, Each tranquil star in the one that lies, Each meteor glance that at random flies The other's lashes through ; They are mockery all, these flowers of spring, Which her airs so softly woo And the love to which we would madly cHng, Ay ! it is mockery too ; The winds are false which the perfume stir, And the looks deceive to which we sue, And love but leads to the sepulchre, Which the flowers spring to strew. MELODY. WHEX the flowers of Friendship or Love have de- cay'd, In the heart that has trusted and once been betray'd, No sunshine of kindness then- bloom can restore ; For the verdure of feeling will quicken no more ! Hope cheated too often when life's in its spring, From the bosom that nursed it for ever takes wing ! And Memory comes, as its. promises fade, To brood o'er the havoc that Passion has made. As 'tis said that the swallow the tenement leaves Where ruin endangers her nest in the eaves, While the desolate owl takes her place on the wall, And builds in the mansion that nods to its fall. MORNING HYMN. " LET THERE BE LIGHT !" The Eternal spoke, And from the abyss where darkness rode The earliest dawn of nature broke, And light around creation flow'd. The glad earth smiled to see the day, The first-born day, come blushing in ; The young day smiled to shed its ray Upon a world untouch'd by sin. Let there be light !" O'er heaven and earth, The GOD who first the day-beam pour'd, Utter'd again his fiat forth, And shed the gospel's light abroad, And, like the dawn, its cheering rays On rich and poor were meant to fall, Inspiring their Redeemer's praise, In lowly cot and lordly hall. Then come, when in the orient first Flushes the signal-light for prayer ; Come with the earliest beams that burst From GOD'S bright throne of glory there. Come kneel to Him who through the night Hath watch'd above thy sleeping soul, To Him whose mercies, like his light, Are shed abroad from pole to pole. THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS. WEXD, love, with me, to the deep woods, wend, Wh^re far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. Thou shall gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the saffron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet ; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there, An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thec many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams [meet. Through the branches around our lodge that Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. THY NAME. IT comes to me when healths go round, And o'er the wine their garlands wreathing The flowers of wit, with music wound, Are freshly from the goblet breathing ; From sparkling song and sally gay It comes to steal my heart away, And fill my soul, mid festal glee, With sad, sweet, silent thoughts of thee. It comes to me upon the mart, Where care in jostling crowds is rife ; Where Avarice goads the sordid heart, Or cold Ambition prompts the strife ; It comes to whisper, if I 'm there, 'T is but with thee each prize to share, For Fame were not success to me, Nor riches wealth unshared with thee. It comes to me when smiles arc bright On gentle lips that murmur round me, And kindling glances flash delight In eyes whose spell would once have bound me. It comes but comes to bring alone Remembrance of some look or tone, Dearer than aught I hear or see, Because 'twas born or breathed by thee. It comes to me where cloister'd boughs Their shadows cast upon the sod ; A while in Nature's fane my vows Are lifted from her shrine to GOD ; It comes to tell that all of worth I dream in heaven or know on earth, However bright or drar it be, Is blended with my thought of thee. CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 315 ROSALIE CLARE. WHO owns not she 's peerless, who calls her not fair, Who questions the beauty of ROSALIE CLARE 7 Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And, though harness'd in proof, he must perish or yield ; For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare The lance that is couch'd for young ROSALIE CLARE. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is pour'd, And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup, What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whisper'd more warmly, than ROSALIE CLARE 1 They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine ; Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles, [isles ; Where the sea's studded over with green summer But what flower of far-away clime can compare With the blossom of ours bright ROSALIE CLARE? Who owns not she 's peerless, who calls her not fair! Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE ! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form, And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is bless'd by sweet ROSALIECLARE. THINK OF ME, DEAREST. THINK of me, dearest, when day is breaking Away from the sable chains of night, When the sun, his ocean-couch forsaking, Like a giant first in his strength awaking, Is flinging abroad his limbs of light ; As the breeze that first travels with morning forth, Giving life to her steps o'er the quickening earth As the dream that has cheated my soul through the night, Let me in thy thoughts come fresh with the light. Think of me, dearest, when day is sinking In the soft embrace of twilight gray, When the starry eyes of heaven are winking, And the weary flowers their tears are drinking, As they start like gems on the moon-touch'd spray. Let me come warm in thy thoughts at eve, As the glowing track which the sunbeams leave, When they, blushing, tremble along the deep, While stealing away to their place of sleep. Think of me, dearest, when round thee smiling Are eyes that melt while they gaze on thee ; When words are winning and looks are wiling, And those words and looks, of others, beguiling Thy fluttering heart from love and me. Let me come true in thy thoughts in that hour ; Let my trust and my faith my devotion have power, When all that can lure to thy young soul is nearest, To summon each truant thought back to me, dearest. WE PARTED IN SADNESS. WE parted in sadness, but spoke not of parting ; We talk'd not of hopes that we both must resign, I saw not her eyes, and but one tear-drop starting, Fell down on her hand as it trembled in mine : Each felt that the past we could never recover, Each felt that the future no hope could restore ; She shudder 'd at wringing the heart of her lover, I dared not to say I must meet her no more. Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles ever As o'er our young loves itfirst smiled in their birth. Long years have gone by , yet that parting, ! never Can it be forgotten by either on earth. [ven, The note of each wild bird that carols toward hea- Must tell herof swift-winged hopes thatweremine, And the dew that steals over each blossom at even Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their decline. THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. And first behold this cordial Julep here, That flames and dances in its crystal bounds, With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed; Not that Nepenthes which the wife of THOME In Egypt gave to Jove-born HELENA, Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. MILTON Comus. 'T is said that the gods, on Olympus of old, (And who the bnght legend profanes with a doubt?) One night, 'mid their revels, by BACCHUS were told That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out ! But, determined to send round the goblet once more, They sued to the fairer immortals for aid [o'er, In composing a draught, which, till drinking were Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade. Grave CERES herself blithely yielded her corn, And the spirit that lives in each amber hued grain, And which first had its birth from the dews of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. Po^roxA, whose choicest of fruits on the board Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach. The liquids were mingled, while VEXXTS looked on, With glances so fraught with sweet magical power, That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, Has never been missed in the draught from that hour. FLORA then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook, And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl, All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook, The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole. The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim, Though something yet wanting they all did be- But juleps the drink of immortals became, [wail; When JOVE himself added a handful of hail. 316 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. jrw and bright in liquid light Does the wine our goblets gleam in, With hue as red as the rosy bed Which a bee would choose to dream in. Then fill to-night with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. ! if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, We here a while would now beguile The gray beard of his pinions, To drink to-night with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. But since delight can't tempt the wight, Nor fond regret delay him, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor sober Friendship stay him, We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. SEEK NOT TO UNDERSTAND HER. WHY seek her heart to understand, If but enough thou knowest To prove that all thy love, like sand, Upon the wind thou throwest? The ill thou makest out at last Doth but reflect the bitter past, While all the good thou learnest yet, But makes her harder to forget. What matters all the nobleness Which in her breast resideth, And what the warmth and tenderness Her mien of coldness hideth, If but ungenerous thoughts prevail When thou her bosom wouldst assail, While tenderness and warmth doth ne'er, By any chance, toward thee appear. Sum up each token thou hast won Of kindred feeling there How few for Hope, to build upon, How many for Despair ! And if e'er word or look declareth Love or aversion, which she beareth, While of the first, no proof thou hast, How many are there of the last ! Then strive no more to understand Her heart, of whom thou knowest Enough to prove thy love like sand Upon the wind thou throwest : The ill thou makest out at last Doth but reflect the bitter past, While all the good thou learnest yet But makes her harder to forget. ASK NOT WHY I SHOULD LOVE HER. ASK me not why I should love her : Look upon those soul-full eyes ! Look while mirth or feeling move her, And see there how sweetly rise Thoughts gay and gentle from a breast, Which is of innocence the nest Which, though each joy were from it shred, By truth would still be tenanted ! See, from those sweet windows peeping, Emotions tender, bright, and pure, And wonder not the faith I 'm keeping Every trial can endure! Wonder not that looks so winning Still for me new ties arc spinning ; Wonder not that heart so true Keeps mine from ever changing too. SHE LOVES, BUT 'TIS NOT ME. SHE loves, but 'tis not me she loves: Not me on whom she ponders, When, in some dream of tenderness, Her truant fancy wanders. The forms that flit her visions through Are like the shapes of old, Where tales of prince and paladin On tapestry are told. Man may not hope her heart to win, Be his of common mould. But I though spurs are won no more Where herald's trump is pealing, Nor thrones carved out for lady fair Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling I loose the falcon of my hopes Upon as proud a flight As those who hawk'd at high renown, In song-ennobled fight. If daring, then, true love may crown, My love she must requite. THY SMILES. 'T is hard to share her smiles with many ! And while she is so dear to me, To fear that I, far less than any, Call out her spirit's witchery ! To find my inmost heart when near her Trembling at every glance and tone, And feel the while each charm grow dearer That will not beam for me alone. How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander The treasures one alone can prize ! How can her eyes to all thus wander, When I but live in those sweet eyes ! Those syren tones so lightly spoken Cause many a heart I know to thrill ; But mine, and only mine, till broken, In every pulse must answer still. N. P. WILLIS. [Bom, 1807.J NATHANIEL P. WILLIS was born at Portland, in Maine, on the twentieth day of January, 1807. During his childhood his parents removed to Bos- ton ; and at the Latin school in that city, and at the Philips Academy in Andover, he pursued his studios until he entered Yale College, in 1823. While he resided at New Haven, as a student, he won a high reputation, for so young an author, by a series of " Scripture Sketches," and a few other brief poems ; and it is supposed that the warm and too indiscriminate praises bestowed upon these pro- ductions, influenced unfavourably his subsequent progress in the poetic art. He was graduated in 1827, and in the following year he published a " Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Brown University," which, as well as his " Sketches," issued soon after he left college, was very favourably noticed in the best periodicals of the time. He also edited " The Token," a well- known annuary, for 1828; and about the same period published, in several volumes, "The Le- gendary," and established "The American Month- ly Magazine." To this periodical several young writers, who afterward became distinguished, were contributors ; but the articles by its editor, consti- tuting a large portion of each number, gave to the work its character, and were of all its contents the most popular. In 1830 it was united to the "New York Mirror," of which Mr. WILLIS be- came one of the conductors ; and he soon after sailed for Europe, to be absent several years. He travelled over Great Britain, and the most interesting portions of the continent, mixing largely in society, and visiting every thing worthy of his regard as a man of letters, or as an American ; and his "First Impressions" were given in his letters to the Mirror," in which he described, with remark- able spirit and fidelity, and in a style peculiarly graceful and elegant, scenery and incidents, and social life among the polite classes in Europe. His letters were collected and republished in London, under the title of " Pcncillings by the Way," and violently attacked in several of the leading periodi- cals, ostensibly on account of thoir too great free- dom of personal detail. Captain MAH.IITAT, who was at the time editing a monthly magazine, wrote an article, characteristically gross and malignant, which led to a hostile meeting at Chatham, and Mr. LOCKHATIT, in the "Quarterly Review," published a "criticism" alike illiberal and unfair. Mr. WILLIS perhaps erred in giving to the public dinner-table conversations, and soaio of his de- scriptions of manners; but Captain MAKRTAT hhnsi'lf is not undeserving of censure on account of the " personalities" in his writings ; and for other reasons he could not have been the most suitable person in England to avenge the wrong it was alleged Mr. WILLIS had offered to soci- ety. That the author of " Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," a work which is filled with far more reprehensible personal allusions than are to be found in the " Pencillings," should have ventured to attack the work on this ground, may excite surprise among those who have not ob- served that the " Quarterly Review" is spoken of with little reverence in the letters of the American traveller. In 1835 Mr. WILLIS was married in England. He soon after published his " Inklings of Adven- ture," a collection of tales and sketches originally written for a London magazine, under the signature of "Philip Slingsby;" and in 1837 he returned to the United States, and retired to his beautiful estate on the Susquehanna, named "Glenmary," in compliment to one of the most admirable wives that ever gladdened a poet's solitude. In the early part of 1839, he became one of the editors of "The Corsair," a literary gazette, and in the autumn of that year went again to London, where, in the following winter, he published his " Loiterings of Travel," in three volumes, and "Two Ways of Dying for a Husband," comprising the plays " Bi- anca Visconti," and "Tortesa the Usurer." In 1840 appeared the illustrated edition of his poems, and his " Letters from Under a Bridge," and he retired a second time to his seat in western New York, where he now resides. Besides the works already mentioned, he is the author of "Ameri- can Scenery," and of " Ireland," two works illus- trated in a splendid manner by BARTLETT, and of numerous papers in the reviews, magazines, and other periodicals. The prose and poetry of Mi WILLIS are alike distinguished for exquisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich ; his imagina- tion brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality. Many of his descriptions of natural scenery are written pictures ; and no other author has repre- sented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquaintance with the common sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writings for affluence of language and imagery, and descriptive power. His leading characteristics are essentially differ- ent from those of his contemporaries. DANA and BRYAST are the teachers of a high, religious phi- losophy; HALT.ECK and HOLMES excel in humour and delicate satire; LONGFELLOW has a fine ima- gination and is unequalled as an artist; but WIL- LIS is more than any other the poet of society, familiar with the secret springs of action in social life, and moved himself by t!i" same influences which guide his fellows. His genius is various : " Parrhasius," "Spring," " Hagar in the Wilder- ness," "The Annoycr," and other pieces, present strong contrasts ; and thev are alike excellent. 2 D 2" 317 318 N. P. WILLIS. MELANIE. I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* And marvell'd at the Sybil's fane, When I was not what I am now. My life was then untouch'd of pain ; And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair, My spirit freshen'd in the sky, And all things that were true and fair Lay closely to my loving eye, With nothing shadowy between I was a boy of seventeen. Yon wondrous temple crests the rock, As light upon its giddy base, As stirless with the torrent's shock, As pure in its proportion'd grace, And seems a thing of air, as then, Afloat above this fairy glen ; But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art, The link is lost that sent the thrill, Like lightning, instant to my heart. And thus may break, before we die, The electric chain 'twixt soul and eye ! Ten years like yon bright valley, sown. Alternately with weeds and flowers Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown, And still I loved the rosy hours ; And if there lurk'd within my breast Some nerve that had been overstrung And quiver'd in my hours of rest, Like bells by their own echo rung, I was with Hope a masker yet, And well could hide the look of sadness, And, if my heart would not forget, I knew, at least, the trick of gladness, And when another sang the strain, I mingled in the old refrain. 'T were idle to remember now, Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. I bear beneath this alter'd brow The ashes of a thousand dreams : Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers, Some colour'd of Love's pencil well, But none of which a shadow lingers, And none, whose story I could tell. Enough, that when I climb'd again To Tivoli's romantic steep, Life had no joy, and scarce a pain, Whose wells I had not tasted deep ; And from my lips the thirst had pass'd For every fount save one the sweetest and the last The last the last ! My friends were dead, Or false ; my mother in her grave ; Above my father's honour'd head The spa had lock'd its hiding wave ; Ambition had but foil'd my grasp, And Love had pcrish'd in my clasp ; * The story is told during a walk around the Casca- telles of Tivoli. And still, I say, I did not slack My love of life, and hope of pleasure, But gather'd my affections back ; And, as the miser hugs his treasure, When plague and ruin bid him flee, I closer clung to mine my loved, lost MELASIE ! The last of the DE BHEVEHX race, My sister claiin'd no kinsman's care ; And, looking from each other's face, The eye stole upward unaware For there was naught whereon to lean Each other's heart and heaven between Yet that was world enough for me, And, for a brief, but blessed while, There seem'd no care for MELANIE, If she could see her brother smile ; But life, with her, was at the flow, And every wave went sparkling higher, While mine was ebbing, fast and low, From the same shore of vain desire, And knew I, with prophetic heart, That we were wearing aye insensibly apart. We came to Italy. I felt A yearning for its sunny sky; My very spirit seem'd to melt As swept its first warm breezes by. From lip and cheek a chilling mist, From life and soul a frozen rime By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd : GOD'S blessing on its radiant clime ! It was an endless joy to me To see my sister's new delight ; From Venice, in its golden sea, To Paestum, in its purple light, By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills, In Vallombrosa's convent gloom, Mid Terni's vale of singing rills, By deathless lairs in solemn Rome, In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell," At Arethusa's hidden well, We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun, That slept so lovingly on all, And made a home of every one Ruin, and fane, and waterfall And crown'd the dying day with glory, If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story. We came, with spring, to Tivoli. My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key ; And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play. * And, like a child that longs for home, When weary of its holiday. I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps the fancy haunts me still 'Twas but a boding sense of ill. It was a morn, of such a day As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May. Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, N. P. WILLIS. 319 And, on the burden of the air, The breath of buds came faint and rare ; And, far in the transparent sky, The small, earth-keeping birds were seen, Soaring deliriously high ; And through the clefts of newer green Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ; And, with a gayer smile and bow, Troop'd on the merry village-girls ; And, from the Contadina's brow, The low-slouch'd hat vvas backward thrown, With air that scarcely seem'd his own; And MKLAXIE, with lips apart, And clasped hands upon my arm, Flung open her impassion'd heart, And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. In happiness and idleness We wander'd down yon sunny vale, 0, mocking eyes ! a golden tress Floats back upon this summer gale ! A foot is tripping on the grass ! A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! I see a bounding shadow pass ! O, GOD ! my sister once was here ! Come with me, friend ; we rested yon ; There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore ; She sat upon this mossy stone ! That broken fountain, running o'er With the same ring, like silver bells ; She listen'd to its babbling flow, And said, " Perhaps the gossip tells Some fountain nymph's love-story now!" And, as her laugh rang clear and wild, A youth a painter pass'd and smiled. He gave the greeting of the morn With voice that linger'd in mine ear. I knew him sad and gentle born By those two words, so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high, And swept by threads of raven hair ; The fire of thought was in his eye, And he was pale and marble fair ; And Grecian chisel never caught The soul in those slight features wrought I watch'd his graceful step of pride, Till hidden by yon leaning tree, And loved him e'er the echo died: And so, alas ! did MELANIE ! We sat and watch'd the fount a while In silence, but our thoughts were one ; And then arose, and, with a smile Of sympathy, we saunter'd on ; And she by sudden fits was gay, And then her laughter died away ; And, in this changefulncss of mood, Forgotten now those May-day spells, We turn'd where VAHRO'S villa stood, And, gazing on the Cascatcllcs, (Who?o hurrying waters, wild and white, Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,) I chanced to turn my eyes away, And, lo ! upon a bank alone, The youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! His pencils on the grass were thrown, And by his side a sketch was flung, And near him as I lightly crept, To see the picture as he slept, Upon his feet he lightly sprung; And, gazing with a wild surprise Upon the face of MKLAMK, He said and dropp'd his earnest eyes "Forgive me ! but I dream'd of thee !" His sketch, the while, was in my hand, And, for the lines I look'd to trace A torrent by a palace spann'd, Half-classic and half-fairy-land I only found my sister's face ! in. Our life was changed. Another love In its lone woof began to twine ; But, ah ! the golden thread was wove Between my sister's heart and mine ! She who had lived for me before She who had smiled for me alone Would live and smile for me no more ! The echo to my heart was gone ! It seem'd to me the very skies Had shone through those averted eyes ; The air had breathed of balm the flower Of radiant beauty seem'd to be But as she loved them, hour by hour, And murmur'd of that love to me ! O, though it be so heavenly high The selfishness of earth above, That, of the watchers in the sky, He sleeps who guards a brother's love Though to a sister's present weal The deep devotion far transcends The utmost that the soul can feel For even its own higher ends Though next to Gon, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even 'T is difficult to see another, A passing stranger of a day, Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away, To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care, Who is enrich'd. he knows nol why ; Who suddenly hath found a treasure Golconda were too poor to buy ; And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, (Albeit, in hrr forgetful dream, The unconscious idol happier seem,) 'T is difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast, To press the heart to earth, and hush Its bitter jealousy to rest, And difficult the eye gets dim The lip wants power to smile on him ! I thank sweet MART Mother now, Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, 320 N. P. WILLIS. And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow With sunshine that my heart belied. I never spoke of wealth or race, To one who ask'd so much of me, I look'd but in my sister's face, And mused if she would happier be; And, hour by hour, and day by day, I loved the gentle painter more, And in the same soft measure wore My selfish jealousy away ; And I began to watch his mood, And feel, with her, love's trembling care, And bade GOD bless him as he woo'd That loving girl, so fond and fair, And on my mind would sometimes press A fear that she might love him less. But MELANIE I little dream'd What spells the stirring heart may move PYGMALION'S statue never seem'd More changed with life, than she with love. The pearl-tint of the early dawn Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue ; The meek, moss-folded bud of morn Flung open to the light and dew; The first and half-seen star of even Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven Similitudes perchance may be ; But these are changes oftener seen, And do not image half to me My sister's change of face and mien. 'T was written in her very air, That love had pass'd and enter'd there. A calm and lovely paradise Is Italy, for minds at ease. The sadness of its sunny skies Weighs not upon the lives of these. The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, The broken column, vast and prone It may be joy, it may be pain, Amid such wrecks to walk alone ; The saddest man will sadder be, The gentlest lover gentler there, As if, whate'er the spirit's key, It strengthen'd in that solemn air. The heart soon grows to mournful things ; And Italy has not a breeze But comes on melancholy wings ; And even her majestic trees Stand ghost-like in the CESAR'S home, As if their conscious roots were set In the old graves of giant Rome, And drew their sap all kingly yet ! And every stone your feet beneath Is broken from some mighty thought, And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought, And sunder' d arch, and plunder'd tomb Ktill thunder back the echo, "Rome!" Vet gayly o'er Egeria's fount The ivy flings its emerald veil. And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, And light-sprung arches span the dale, And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; And gracefully Albano's hill Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill, And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came ANGELO and MELANIE, And earth for us was all in tune For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me ! T. I shrink from the embitter'd close Of my own melancholy tale. 'Tis long since I have waked my woes And nerve and voice together fail ! The throb beats faster at my brow, My brain feels warm with starting tears, And I shall weep but heed not thou ! 'T will soothe a while the ache of years. The heart transfix'd worn out with grief Will turn the arrow for relief. The painter was a child of shame ! It stirr'd my pride to know it first, For I had question'd but his name, And thought, alas ! I knew the worst, Believing him unknown and poor. His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; A high-born Conti was his mother, But, though he knew one parent's face, He never had beheld the other, Nor knew his country or his race. The Roman hid his daughter's shame Within St. Mona's convent wall, And gave the boy a painter's name And little else to live withal ! And, with a noble's high desires Forever mounting in his heart, The boy consumed with hidden fires, But wrought in silence at his art; And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, Worn thin with penance harsh and long, He saw his mother's form divine, And loved her for their mutual wrong. I said my pride was stirr'd but no ! The voice that told its bitter tale Was touch'd so mournfully with wo, And, as he ceased, all deathly pale, He loosed the hand of MELAXIE, And gazed so gaspingly on me The demon in my bosom died ! " Not thine," I said, " another's guilt ; I break no hearts for silly pride ; So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt !" TI. St. Mona's morning mass was done ; The shrine-lamps struggled with the day ; And, rising slowly, one by one, Stole the last worshippers away. The organist play'd out the hymn, The incense, to St. MAHY swung, N. P. WILLIS. 321 Had mounted to the cherubim, Or to the pillars thinly clung; And boyish chorister replaced The missal that was read no more, And closed, with half-irreverent haste, Confessional and chancel-door ; And as, through aisle and oriel pane, The sun wore round his slanting beam, The dying martyr stirr'd again, And warriors battled in its gleam ; And costly tomb and sculptured knight Show'd warm and wondrous in the light. I have not said that MELANIE Was radiantly fair This earth again may never see A loveliness so rare ! She glided up St. Mona's aisle That morning as a bride, And, full as was my heart the while, I bless'd her in my pride ! The fountain may not fail the less Whose sands are golden ore, And a sister for her loveliness May not be loved the more ; But as, the fount's full heart beneath, Those golden sparkles shine, My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe Its brightness over mine ! St. Mona has a chapel dim Within the altar's fretted pale, Where faintly comes the swelling hymn, And dies, half-lost, the anthem's wail. And here, in twilight meet for prayer, A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine, And RAPHAEL'S MAHT, soft and fair, Looks down with sweetness half-divine, And here St. Mona's nuns alway Through latticed bars are seen to pray. Ave and sacrament were o'er, And AXGELO and MELANIE Still knelt the holy shrine before ; But prayer, that morn, was not for me ! My heart was lock'd ! The lip might stir, The frame might agonize and yet, GOD ! I could not pray for her ! A seal upon my soul was set My brow was hot my brain opprest And fiends seem'd muttering round, " Your bridal is unblest!" With forehead to the lattice laid, And thin, white fingers straining through, A nun the while had softly pray'd. O, e'en in prayer that voice I knew ! Each faltering word, each mournful tone, Each pleading cadence, half-suppress'd Such music had its like alone On lips that stole it at her breast ! And ere the orison was done 1 loved the mother as the son ! And now, the marriage-vow to hear, The nun unveil'd her brow; When, sudden, to my startled ear, There crept a whisper, hoarse, like fear, DE BREVERX! is it thou,.'" 41 The priest let fall the golden ring, The bridegroom stood aghast ; While, like some wierd and frantic thing, The nun was muttering fast ; And as, in dread, I nearer drew, She thrust her arms the lattice through, And held me to her straining view ; But suddenly begun To steal upon her brain a light, That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight, And, with a mouth all ashy white, She shriek'd, " // is his son ! The bridegroom is thy blood thy brother! RonoLPH BE BHEVERN wrong 1 d his mother !" And, as that doom of love was heard, My sister sunk, and died, without a sign or word ! I shed no tear for her. She died With her last sunshine in her eyes. Earth held for her no joy beside The hope just shatter'd, -and she lies In a green nook of yonder dell ; And near her, in a newer bed, Her lover brother sleeps as well ! Peace to the broken-hearted dead ! THE CONFESSIONAL. I THOUGHT of thee I thought of thee On ocean many a weary night, When heaved the long and sullen sea, With only waves and stars in sight. We stole along by isles of balm, We furl'd before the coming gale, We slept amid the breathless calm, We flew beneath the straining sail, But thou wert lost for years to me, And day and night I thought of thee! I thought of thee I thought of thee In France, amid the gay saloon, Where eyes as dark as eyes may be Are many as the leaves in June : Where life is love, and e'en the air Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, And song, and dance, and music are With one warm meaning only fraught, My half-snared heart broke lightly free, And, with a blush, I thought of thee ! I thought of thee I thought of thee In Florence, where the fiery hearts Of Italy are breathed away In wonders of the deathless arts ; Where strays the Contadina, down Val d' Arno, with song of old ; Where clime and women seldom frown, And life runs over sands of gold ; I stray'd to lonely Fiesolc, On many an eve, and thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In Rome, when, on the Palatine, Night left the Cesar's palace free To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; 322 N. P. WILLIS. Or, on the Coliseum's wall, When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, Reclining, with a thought of all That o'er this scene hath come and gone, The shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In Vallombrosa's holy shade, Where nobles bom the friars be, By life's rude changes humbler made. Here MILTOST framed his Paradise ; I slept within his very cell ; And, as I closed my weary eyes, I thought the cowl would fit me well ; The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, Of heart's-ease but I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In Venice, on a night in June; When, through the city of the sea, Like dust of silver, slept the moon. Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier, And, as the black barks glided by, The water, to my leaning ear, Bore back the lover's passing sigh ; It was no place alone to be, I thought of thee I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In the Ionian isles, when straying With wise ULTSSES by the sea, Old HOMER'S songs around me playing; Or, watching the bewitch'd caique, That o'er the star-lit waters flew, I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, Who sung the song that SAPPHO knew : The poet's spell, the bark, the sea, All vanish'd as I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In Greece, when rose the Parthenon Majestic o'er the Egean sea, And heroes with it, one by one ; When, in the grove of Academe, Where LAIS and LKOSTTIUM stray'd Discussing PLATO'S mystic theme, I lay at noontide in the shade The Egean wind, the whispering tree Had voices and I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee In Asia, on the Dardanelles, Where, swiftly as the waters flee, Each wave some sweet old story tells ; And, seated by the marble tank Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, (The fount where peerless HELE^ drank, And VENUS laved her locks of gold,) I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, Yet even here I thought of thee. I thought of thee I thought of thee Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, All palace-lined from sea to sea : And ever on its shores the daughters Of the delicious east are seen, Printing the brink with slipper'd feet, And, 0, the snowy folds between, What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! Peris of light no fairer be, Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee. I've thought of thee I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget ; Thy face looks up from every sea, In every star thine eyes are set. Though roving beneath orient skies, Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, I envy every bird that flies Into the far and clouded west ; I think of thee I think of thee ! O, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ! LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast, Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! Strain home ! lithe and quivering spars ! Point home, my country's flag of stars ! The wind blows fair, the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze, And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas ! O, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale, I've seen your semblance in the sky, And long'd, with breaking heart, to flee On such white pinions o'er the sea ! Adieu, lands of fame and eld ! I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; My lips are dry with vague desire, My cheek once more is hot with joy ; My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! O, what has changed that traveller-boy ! As leaves the ship this dying foam, [home ! His visions fade behind his weary heart speeds Adieu, O soft and southern shore. Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven ; Those forms of beauty, seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! O, still the enamour'd sun delays, And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again ! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home forever; And, could I live for this alone, Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slave's can be; Held not the west one glorious star, New-born and blazing for the free, Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet, Rome, with her helot sons, should teach me to forget ! N. P. WILLIS. 323 Adieu, O, fatherland ! I see Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, And, though to freer skies I flee, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim! As knows the dove the task yjan give her, When loosed upon a foreign shore ; As spreads the rain-drop in the river In which it may have flow'd before To England, over vale and mountain, My fancy flew from climes more fair, My blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ran warm and fast in England's air. My mother ! in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears ! On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! Sleep safe, wave-worn mariner, Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! The ear of Heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me ! The wind-toss'd spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blaze: And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays ! Dear mother ! when our lips can speak, When first our tears will let us see, When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had ; For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! But there's a change, beloved mother, To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; I come but with me comes another, To share the heart once only mine ! Thou, on whose thoughts, -when sad and lonely, One star arose in memory's heaven ; Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only, Water'd one flower with tears at even : Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left Is darken'd to make light to ours ! There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts that languish more than flowers ; She was their light, their very air [prayer ! Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy SPRING. TUT. Spring is here, the delicate-footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers ; And with it comes a thirst to be away, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours ; A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things. We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods ; Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June, And the light whisper as their edges meet: Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There 's no contentment in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye And pine till it is hooded from the sky. TO, ERMENGARDE. I Kiaow not if the sunshine waste, The world is dark since thou art gone ! The hours are, ! so leaden-paced ! The birds sing, and the stars float on, But sing not well, and look not fair; A weight is in the summer air, And sadness in the sight of flowers ; And if I go where others smile, Their love but makes me think of ours, And Heaven gets my heart the while. Like one upon a desert isle, I languish of the dreary hours ; I never thought a life could be So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! I sit and watch the summer sky : There comes a cloud through heaven alone ; A thousand stars are shining nigh, It feels no light, but darkles on ! Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, And, flashing through its fringe of snow, There steals a rosier dye, and soon Its bosom is one fiery glow ! The queen of life within it lies, Yet mark how lovers meet to part: The cloud already onward flies, And shadows sink into its heart; And (dost thou see them where thou art?) Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! Its light, like mine, is seen no more, And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before. Where press, this hour, those fairy feet ? Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue 7 What music in thine ear is sweet 1 What odour breathes thy lattice through 1 What word is on thy lip ? What tone, What look, replying to thine own 1 Thy steps along the Danube stray, Alas, it seeks an orient sea ! Thou wouldst not seem so far away, Flow'd but its waters back to me ! I bless the slowly-coming moon, Because its eye look'd late in thine ; I envy the west wind of June, Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; The flower I press upon my brow Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now! 324 N. P. WILLIS. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad To the dejected HAGAR. The moist earth Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing, as if life Were a new thing to them ; but, O ! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at ABRAHAM'S tent Her lips were press'd Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of he~aven, Which made its language legible, shot back From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce train'd to balance oh the tented floor, Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up Into his mother's face, until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swell'd, Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily? His beard Is low upon his breast, and on his high brow, So written with the converse of his GOD, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigour is not there ; and, though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. O, man may bear with suffering: his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain, that wrings mortality ; but tear One chord affection clings to, part one tie That binds him to a woman's delicate love, And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should HACAR weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? O, no ! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness, yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devoted ness like hers. But, ! estrange her once it boots not how By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'crmastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd His hand till it was pain'd : for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest; but HAGAR found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know Why GOD denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him further on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd : "GoD stay thee in thine agony, my boy! I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle-joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? "I did not dream of this when them wert straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wearing rosy hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. "O, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How pray'd I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! "And now the grave for its cold breasthathwon thee, And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; And, O ! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there Upon his clustering hair!" N. P. WILLIS. 325 She stood beside the well her GOD had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A FIRST CHILD, BORN DEAD. Roo:vt, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven! Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, 0, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! But, lo ! while you delay to let her forth, Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life Held as a welcome to her. Weep, O, mother ! But not that from this cup of bitterness A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. One look upon her face ere she depart ! My daughter ! it is soon to let thee go ! My daughter ! with thy birth has gush'd a spring I knew not of: filling my heart with tears, And turning with strange tenderness to thee ! A love O, Gon, it seems so which must flow Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me, Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain, Drawing me after thee ! And so farewell ! T is a harsh world in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost But the lone grave ! Thou, who so late was sleeping Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving, But it was sent thee with some tender thought How can I leave thee here ! Alas, for man ! The herb in its humility may fall, And waste into the bright and genial air, While we. by hands that minister'd in life Nothing but love to us, are thrust away, The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms, And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours, And thought how little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on, Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone; The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters ; The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers ; And, far below, seen under arching leaves, Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointing the living after thee. And this Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now The flowers that have made room for thee, I go To whisper the same peace to her who lies Robb'd of her child, and lonely. 'T is the work Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, To bring the heart back from an infant gone! Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot Its images from all the silent rooms, And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest link ; and so, at last, The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever, Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring Wakens its buds above thee, we will come, And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, Look on each other cheerfully, and say, A child that we have loved is gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away ! THE BELFRY PIGEON. Ox the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air ; I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 'T is a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There 's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell Chime of the hour, or funeral knell The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with " nine at night," When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smoothe his breast, Then drops again, with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen ! Thy lot, like mine, ie cast with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smoothe thy feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. I would that, in such wings of gold, I could my weary heart upfold ; I would I could look down unmoved, (Unloving as I am unloved,) And, while the world throngs on beneath, Smoothe down my cares and calmly breathe ; And never sad with others' sadness, And never glad with others' gladness, Listen, unstirr'd, to knell or chime, And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time. 2E 326 N. P. WILLIS. APRIL. "A violet hy a mossy stone, Half-hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky." WORDSWORTH. I HAVE found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful, bright neck ; and, from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea, Tells the release of waters, and the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass ; and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Take of my violets ! I found them where The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank That lean'd to running water. There 's to me A daintiness about these early flowers, That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets, when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deem'd too idle, but the young Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven, And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! Ye spirits of habitual unrest, And read it, when the "fever of the world" Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow, And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April-time. THE ANNOYER. LOVE knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, And comes, unbidden, everywhere, Like thought's mysterious birth. The moonlit sea and the sunset sky Are written with Love's words, And you hear his voice unceasingly, Like song, in the time of birds. He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream, And he'll float to his eye in morning light, Like a fay on a silver beam. He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud, and the open sky, He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye. The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he ; He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, And speaks in the ripple low, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, And the hook hangs bare below. He blurs the print of the scholar's book, And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, And profanes the cell of the holy man In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought Will Love be lurking nigh. TO A FACE BELOVED. THE music of the waken'd lyre Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire Upon the lip that trembling sings ; Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween, Forever in its sparry wells ; The spells of the enchanter lie [eye. Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and I look upon a face as fair As ever made a lip of heaven Falter amid its music-prayer ! The first-lit star of summer even Springs not so softly on the eye, Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, Nor, mid its sisters of the sky, So seems of heaven the dearest light ; Men murmur where that face is seen My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien. Yet, though we deem the stars are blest, And envy, in our grief, the flower That bears but sweetness in its breast, And fear'd the enchanter for his power, And love the minstrel for his spell He winds out of his lyre so well ; The stars are almoners of light, The lyrist of melodious air, The fountain of its waters bright, And every thing most sweet and fair Of that by which it charms the ear, The eye of him that passes near ; A lamp is lit in woman's eye That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by. EDWARD SANFORD. [Born, 1807.] EDWARD SANTORH, a son of the late Chancellor SAXFORD, is a native of the city of New York. He was graduated at the Union College in 1824, and in the following year became a law student in the office of BEXJAMIX F. BUTLKR, afterward Attorney -General of the United States. He sub- sequently practised several years in the courts of ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. THERE 's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of tune ; Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. Chief of a hundred warriors ! dost thou yet Vanquished and captive dost thou deem that here The glowing day-star of thy glory set Dull night has closed upon thy bright career 1 Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild 1 To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast Of thy crush'd victims ; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers 1 And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced bro- For it was cruel, BLACK HAWK, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Bo,, r ot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late [will To crush the hordes who have the power and To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder 1 Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky ; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by ? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion 1 Thou 'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases ; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces] New York, but finally abandoned his profession to conduct the " Standard," an able democratic journal, with which he was connected during the political contest which resulted in the election of Mr. VAN BUREX to the Presidency, after which he was for a time one of the editors of " The Globe," at Washington. He now resides in New York. Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour ; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten,and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou 'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king to clown. Thou seest these tilings unmoved ! sayst so, old fellow ] Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion 1 ITas't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters 1 They are thy people's deadliest poison. They First make them cowards, and then white men's slaves ; And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For, by their power, believe me, not a day goes But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes. Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away, To the deep bosom of thy forest-home 1 The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come 1 Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here ? The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her and melt Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison-bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the West, The victor of a hundred forest-wars, Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show, Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new-caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown ? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout 1 Whence came thy cold philosophy ? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thv fierce passions 1 Thou despiscst fun, 32 328 EDWARD SANFORD. And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral-pile Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's ; Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's. Proud scion of a noble stem ! thy tree Is blanch'd, and bare, and sear'd, and leafless I '11 not insult its fallen majesty, [now. Nor drive.with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold, New, barren earth ; no life sustains it there, But, even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, " every inch a lung." Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy. Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow ; Let him who doubts them meet thine eagle-eye, He '11 quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family ; For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society. TO A MUSQUITO. His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low. King Lear. THOU sweet musician, that around my bed Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led, Feed'st thou my ear with music till 't is morn 1 The wind-harp's tones are not more soft than thine, The hum of falling waters not more sweet: I own, indeed, I own thy song divine, [meet, And when next year's warm summer nights we (Till then, farewell !) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy. Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Such eloquent music ? was 't thy tuneful sire 1 Some old musician ? or didst take a course Of lessons from some master of the lyre ? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump ? Did NORTOV form thy notes so clear and full 1 Art a phrenologist, and is the bump Of song developed in thy little skull 1 A t N i B to ' s hast thou been when crowds stood mute, Drinking the birdlike tones of CUDDY'S flute 1 Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song. Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long, Still night ! With song dost drive away d ull care? Art thou a vieux garcon, a gay deceiver, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, Who thy advance with halfway shyness meets '! Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, " In maiden meditation, fancy free ?" Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore Charm'd with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine. They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, 2That thou mayst use, unharm'd, thy little sting, The very moment we begin to doze ; Thou worse than siren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living vampire, and thou gallinipper ! Nature is full of music, sweetly sings The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee ; on every shore, 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador, The world's free citizen, thou roamest wild. Wherever " mountains rise or oceans roll," Thy voice is heard, from Indus to the Pole." The incarnation of Queen MAB art thou, " The fairies' midwife ;" thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low, The honey-dew from many a lady's lip (Though that they straight on kisses dream," I doubt ) On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with sympathetic snout" " Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep ; And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, " On the forefinger of an alderman." Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born YEXUS from the wave, So didst thou rise to life ; the teeming earth, The living water and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate Meant thee to Jeed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy. The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind-harp's tones at distance heard ; 'Tis sweet at distance, at the day's decline, To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note. The autumn-winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb : Then soar, and sing thy little life away ! Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou : For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with autumn's dying flowers. J. 0. ROCKWELL. [Born, 1S07. Died, 1831.] . JAMES OTIS ROCKWELL was born in Lebanon, an agricultural town in Connecticut, in 1807. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer, in Utica, and in his sixteenth year he began to write verses for the newspapers. Two years afterward he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, in each of which cities he laboured as a journey- man compositor. He had now acquired considera- ble reputation by his poetical writings, and was engaged as associate editor of the " Statesman," an old and influential journal published in Boston, with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, when he became the conductor of the Providence " Patriot," with which he was connected at the time of his death. He was poor, and in his youth he had been left nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn the business of printing, because he thought it would afford him opportunities to improve his mind ; and his education was acquired by diligent study during the leisure hours of his apprentice- ship. When he removed to Providence, it became necessary for him to take an active part in the dis- cussion of political questions. He felt but little interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively from the strife of partisanship ; but it seemed the only avenue to competence and reputation, and he embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, in the hands of able and honourable men, is the noblest of callings ; in the hands of the ignorant and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There are at all times connected with the press, persons of the baser sort, who derive their support and chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst pas- sions; and by some of this class ROCKWELL'S pri- vate character was assailed, and he was taunted with his obscure parentage, defective education, and former vocation, as if to have elevated his po- sition in society, by perseverance and the force of mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too little energy in his nature to regard such assaults with the indifference they merited ; and complained in some of his letters that they " robbed him of rest and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing reputation, however, he continued his editorial la- bours until the summer of 1831, when, at the early age of twenty -four years, he was suddenly called to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the appa- rent neglect of his gazette. The next number of it wore the signs of mourning for his death. A friend of ROCKWELL'S,* in a notice of him published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," mentions as the immediate cause of his death, that he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga- * Reverend CHARLES W. EVEREST, of Meriden, Con- necticut. 42 tion which, from not receiving money then due to him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, was generally believed among his friends at the time. WHITTJEU, who was then editor of the "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote the following lines to his memory : "The turf is smooth above him ! and this rain Will moisten the rent roots, and summon back The perishing life of its green-bladed grass, And the crush'd flower will lift its head again Smilingly unto heaven, as if it kept No vigil with the dead. Well it is meet That the green grass should tremble, and the flowers Blow wild about his resting-place. His mind Was in itself a flower but half-disclosed A bud of blessed promise which the storm Visited rudely, and the passer by Smote down in wantonness. But we may trust That it hath found a dwelling, where the sun Of a more holy clime will visit it, And the pure dews of mercy will descend, Through Heaven's own atmosphere, upon its head. "His form is now before me, with no trace Of death in its fine lineaments, and there Is a faint crimson on his youthful cheek, And his free lip is softening with the smile Which in his eye is kindling. I can feel The parting pressure of his hand, and hear His last 'Goo bless you !' Strange that he is thero Distinct before me like a breathing thing, Even when I know that he is with the dead, And that the dump earth hides him. I would not Think of him otherwise his image lives Within my memory as he seem'd befoie The curse of blighted feeling, and the toil And fever of an uncongenial strife, had left Their traces on his aspect. Peace to him ! He wrestled nobly wilh the weariness And trials of our being smiling on, While poison mingled with his springs of life, And wearing a calm brow, while on his heart Anguish was resting like a hand of fire Until at last the agony of thought Grew insupportable, and madness came Darkly upon him, and the sufferer died ! " Nor died he unlamented ! To his grave The beautiful and gifted shall go up, And muse upon the sleeper. And young lips Shall murmur in the broken tones of grief His own sweet melodies and if the ear Of the freed spirit heedeth aught beneath The brightness of its new inheritance, It may be joyful to the parted one To feel that earth remembers him in love !" The specimens of ROCKWELL'S poetry which have fallen under my notice show him to have possessed considerable fancy and de^p feeling His imagery is not always well chosen, and his ver- sification is sometimes defective ; but his thoughts are often original, and the general effect of his pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, and probably he would have produced works of much merit had he lived to a maturer age. 2 E 2 329 330 J. O. ROCKWELL. THE SUM OF LIFE. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights All waste away in anxious care, Estranged from all of life's delights, Unlearn'd in all that is most fair Who sailcst not with easy glide, But delvest in the depths of tide, And strugglest in the foam ; O ! come and view this land of graves, Death's northern sea of frozen waves, And mark thee out thy home. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Wastes like a fountain in the sun, Clings most, where most its pain does start, Dies by the light it lives upon ; Come to the land of graves ; for here Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear, Gather'd in holy trust ; Here slumber forms as fair as those Whose cheeks, now living, shame the rose, Their glory turn'd to dust. Lover of fame, whose foolish thought Steals onward o'er the wave of time, Tell me, what goodness hath it brought, Atoning for that restless crime? The spirit-mansion desolate, And open to the storms of fate, The absent soul in fear ; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And see where all thy pride must be : Searcher of fame, look here ! And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, That goest to the bugle's call, Come and look down ; this lonely tomb Shall hold thee and thy glories all : The haughty brow, the manly frame, The daring deeds, the sounding fame, Are trophies but for death ! And millions who have toil'd like thee, Are stay'd, and here they sleep ; and see, Does glory lend them breath 1 TO ANN. THOU wert as a lake that lieth In a bright and sunny way ; I was as a bird that flieth O'er it on a pleasant day ; When I look'd upon thy features Presence then some feeling lent ; But thou knowest, most false of creatures, With thy form thy image went. With a kiss my vow was greeted, As I knelt before thy shrine ; But I saw that kiss repeated On another lip than mine ; And a solemn vow was spoken That thy heart should not be changed ; But that binding vow was broken, And thy spirit was estranged. I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride ; Calling out, and then forsaking Flowers the winter wind will chide ; Gulling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore ; But I hush the sad emotion, And will punish thee no more. THE LOST AT SEA. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Puttest up a prayer for one Sailing on the stormy ocean, Hope no more his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow, That he slumbers by thy side ; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing Shadows on your sire's remains ? Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone 1 When the sun look'd on the water, As a hero on his grave, Tinging with the hue of slaughter Every blue and leaping wave, Under the majestic ocean, Where the giant current roll'd, Slept thy sire, without emotion, Sweetly by a beam of gold ; And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair ; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him ; and to tell thee Of our sorrow and thine own, Of the wo that then befell thee, Come we weary and alone. That thine eye is quickly shaded, That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring, Linger on your mother's face Know ye that she is expiring, That ye are an orphan race 1 GOD be with you on the morrow, Father, mother, both no more ; One within a grave of sorrow, One upon the ocean's floor ! J. O. ROCKWELL. 331 THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken ; Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken : Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow It smiles with angel meekness or like sorrow When it is soothed by resignation's glow, Or like herself, she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps ! The young and sinless girl ! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles ! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her ; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl ! an angel broken-hearted ! O, bitter world ! that hadst so cold an eye To look upon so fair a type of heaven ; She could not dwell beneath a winter sky, And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow ! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest ! Jewel, dazzling all the main ! Father of the silver crest ! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sleeping mid the wavy roar, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form ! Wandering monument of rain, Prison'd by the sullen north ! But to melt thy hated chain, Is it that thou comest forth 1 Wend thee to the sunny south, To the glassy summer sea, And the breathings of her mouth Shall unchain and gladden thee ! Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave ! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave ; Parting love's death-link'd embrace Crushing beauty's skeleton Tell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done ! Floating isle, which in the sun Art an icy coronal ; And beneath the viewless dun, Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall ; Shining death upon the sea ! Wend thee to the southern main ; Warm skies wait to welcome thee ! Mingle with the wave again ! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Its crimson radiance fell, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain ! But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon ; And thus he lived, till Time one day Led Death to break his chain : " And then the prisoner went away, And he was free again ! TO A WAVE. LIST ! thou child of wind and sea, Tell me of the far-off' deep, Where the tempest's breath is free, And the waters never sleep ! Thou perchance the storm hast aided, In its work of stern despair, Or perchance thy hand hath braided, In deep caves, the mermaid's hair. Wave ! now on the golden sands, Silent as thou art, and broken, Bear'st thou not from distant strands To my heart some pleasant token ? Tales of mountains of the south, Spangles of the ore of silver ; Which, with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer 1 Mournful wave ! I deem'd thy song Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. While the brave and fair were dying, Wave ! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying 1 Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses! Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing? Faded Wave ! a joy to thee, Now thy flight and toil are over ! 0, may my departure be Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover ! When this soul's last pain or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth, To be lost away in heaven ! THOMAS WARD. [Bom, 1807.] DOCTOR WAHD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WAHD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town ; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress. Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry ; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course of two or three years, however, he gradually with- drew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and gene- ral knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Eu- rope, when he adopted the signature of "FiAccus," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is gene- rally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and spright- liness, than for mere poetical qualities. MUSINGS ON RIVERS. BEAUTIFUL rivers ! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life ; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step ; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire : clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof 'd with o'erarching rainbows ; and your fall To earth was checr'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty ; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks ; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with tbe boisterous glee ; while o'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun. Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely ; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty ; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress : giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass ; The thirsty herd are following at your side ; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy Your sea-bound tides ; and jaded man, released From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants, Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood, Sure of repose along your tranquil shores. And when your end approaches, and ye blend With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade As placidly as when an infant dies ; And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw Gently as twilight takes the parting day, And, with a soft and gradual decline That cheats the senses, lets it down to night. Bountiful rivers ! not upon the earth Is record traced of GOD'S exuberant grace So deeply graven as the channels worn By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth, That, widely branching, circulate its blood : Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides. The whole vast enginery of Nature, all The roused and labouring elements combine In their production ; for the mighty end Is growth, is life to every living thing. The sun himself is charter'd for the work : His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven, Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings; Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet, Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, Floats waiting for the breeze ; loosed on the sky Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping Impel the vast flotilla to its port ; [breath, Where, overhanging wide the arid plain, Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze, 332 THOMAS WARD. 333 New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along. As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth And all her race shed grateful smiles ! not here The bounty ceases : when the drenching streams Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand In bright, perennial springs draws up again For needy man and beast ; and, as the brooks Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man, The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave, The stubborn metal forge ; and, when advanced To sober age at last, ye seek the sea, Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky Vouchsafed to earth for burden ; and your host Of shining branches, linking land to land, Seem bands of friendship silver chains of love, To bind the world in brotherhood and peace. Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh, Girdled with mists ; while saurian reptiles, strange, Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain Paddled and flounder'd ; and the Almighty voice, Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens Summon'd the central and resistless fires, That with a groan from pole to pole upheave The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent, Fracture the rocky crust ; then Andes rose, And Alps their granite pyramids shot up, Barren of soil ; but gathering vapours round Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out Over that rugged and untravell'd land, The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea. Tedious their route, precipitous and vague, Seeking with humbleness the lowliest paths: Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes, Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge Headlong, and hurry to the level main, Rejoicing: misty ages did they run, And, with unceasing friction, all the while Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock, And greund it into soil then dropp'd (O ! sure Fromheaven) the precious seed: first mosses, lichens Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening mould Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, And earth was fitted for her coming lord. TO THE MAGNOLIA. WHEX roaming o'er the marshy field, Through tangled brake and treacherous slough, We start, that spot so foul should yield, Chaste blossom ! such a balm as thou. Such lavish fragrance there we meet, That all the dismal waste is sweet. So, in the dreary path of life, Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife, Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there : Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot. TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. THOU bright and star-like spirit ! That, in my visions wild, I see mid heaven's seraphic host O ! canst thou be my child ? My grief is quench'd in wonder, And pride arrests my sighs ; A branch from this unworthy stock Now blossoms in the skies. Our hopes of thee were lofty, But have we cause to grieve ? O ! could our fondest, proudest wish A nobler fate conceive ? The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin ; The babe, to more than manhood grown, Ere childhood did begin. And I, thy earthly teacher, . Would blush thy powers to see ; Thou art to me a parent now, And I, a child to thee ! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate. Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, Now range the realms of space Look down upon the rolling stars, Look up to GOD'S own face. Thy little hand, so helpless, That scarce its toys could hold, Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, Or twangs a harp of gold. Thy feeble feet, unsteady, That totter d as they trod, With angels walk the heavenly paths, Or stand before their GOD. Nor is thy tongue less skilful, Before the throne divine 'T is pleading for a mother's weal, As once she pray'd for thine. What bliss is born of sorrow ! 'T is never sent in vain The heavenly surgeon maims to save, He gives no useless pain. Our GOD, to call us homeward, His only Son sent down: And now, still more to tempt our hearts, Has taken up our own. JOHN H. BRYANT. [Born, 1807.] JOHN HOWAKD BKYANT was born in Cumming- ton, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was en titled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simulta- neously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collec- tion. After this he gave up the idea of a univer- sity education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superin- tendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes. THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. IT was a wintry scene, The hills were whiten'd o'er, And the chill north winds were blowing keen Along the rocky shore. Gone was the wood-bird's lay, That the summer forest fills, And the voice of the stream has pass'd away From its path among the hills. And the low sun coldly smiled Through the boughs of the ancient wood, Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child, Around a coffin stood. They raised it gently up, And, through the untrodden snow, They bore it away, with a solemn step, To a woody vale below. f And grief was in each eye, As they moved towards the spot And brief, low speech, and tear and sigh Told that a friend was not When they laid his cold corpse low In its dark and narrow cell, Heavy the mingled earth and snow Upon his coffin fell. Weeping, they pass'd away, And left him there alone, In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illi- nois ; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the govern- ment When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bu- reau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effect- ively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning. With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone. When the winter storms were gone And the strange birds sung around, Green grass and violets sprung upon That spot of holy ground. And o'er him giant trees Their proud arms toss'd on high, And rustled music in the breeze That wander'd through the sky. When these were overspread With the hues that Autumn gave, They bow'd them in the wind, and shed Their leaves upon his grave. These woods are perish'd now, And that humble grave forgot, And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough O'er that once sacred spot. Two centuries are flown Since they laid his cold corpse low, And his bones are mouldcr'd to dust, and strown To the breezes long ago. And they who laid him there, That sad and suffering train, Now sleep in dust, to tell us where No letter'd stones remain. Their memory remains, And ever shall remain, More lasting than the aged fanes Of Egypt's storied plain. 334 JOHN H. BRYANT. 335 A RECOLLECTION. HERE tread aside, where the descending brook Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, And all the summer long, on silver feet, Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out A mellow murmur on the quiet air. Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. Her step was tremulous ; slight was her frame, And bow'd with time and toil ; the lines of care Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day I 've met her by the skirt of this old wood, Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, Haply, the history of her better days. I knew that history once, from youth to age : It was a sad one ; he who wedded her Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death Had fallen among her children and her friends. One solace for her age remained, a fair And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes, And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods, And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve, Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers In lone and desolate places, where the foot Of other wanderers but seldom trod. Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps Had led me forth among the pleasant hills, I met her in a shaded path, that winds [low, Far through the spreading groves. The sun was The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale, And the still wafers of the river lay Black in the early twilight. As we met, She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine, And, though I then was but a simple child, Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power, I wonder'd at her beauty. Soon a sound Of thunder, muttering low, along the west, Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth. A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go, Which she observing, kindly led the way, And left me when my dwelling was in sight. I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate, The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash. But where was now ELIZA! When the morn Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead, Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt. Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft Had pierced hersnow-white brow. And here she lies, Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky. 'T is thirty summers since they laid her here ; The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone ; Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth, And this rude stone, that simply bears her name, Is mouldering fast ; and soon this quiet spot, Held sacred now, will be like common ground. Fit place is this for so much loveliness To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave ; The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, Sigh to the winds ; the robin takes his perch Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate ; The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, And hangs above her in the winter days Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, Around the head-stone carefully entwined, Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. For two years past I 've miss'd them ; doubtless one Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, And, sorrowing in secret many a year, At last hath left the earth to be with her. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale, With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground ; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers. 'T was there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done, I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day. There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home, In the lone path that winds across the plain, To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play, And tell him o'er the labours of the day And when the woods put on their autumn glow, And the bright sun came in among the trees, And leaves were gathering in the glen below, Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze, I wander'd till the starlight on the stream At length awoke me from my fairy dream. Ah ! happy days, too happy to return, Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, A bitter lesson has been mine to learn, The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears ; Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay, A twilight of the brightness pass'd away. My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still, Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise ; The play -place, and the prospect from the hill, Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes ; The present brings its storms ; but, while they last, I shelter me in the delightful past. 336 JOHN H. BRYANT. THE INDIAN SUMMER. THAT soft autumnal time Is come, that sheds, upon the naked scene, Charms only known in this our northern clime Bright seasons, far between. The woodland foliage now Is gather'd by the wild November blast ; E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough Are fallen, to the last. The mighty vines, that round The forest trunks their slender branches bind, Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground, Swing naked in the wind. Some living green remains By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ; But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains, And the bright flowers are gone. But these, these are thy charms Mild airs and temper'd light upon the lea; And the year holds no time within its arms That doth resemble thee. The sunny noon is thine, Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night ; And hues that in the flush'd horizon shine At eve and early light. The year's last, loveliest smile, Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, And strengthen it to bear the storms a while, Till winter days depart. O'er the wide plains, that lie A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread, And nightly on the dark walls of the sky A ruddy brightness shed. Far in a shelter'd nook I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, At the quiet noontides' hour : And something told my mind, That, should old age to childhood call me back, Some sunny days and flowers I still might find Along life's weary track. THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT. "And I went and washed, and I received sight." JOHN is. 11. the great Master spoke, He touch'd his wither'd eyes, And at one gleam upon him broke The glad earth and the skies. And he saw the city's walls, And kings' and prophets' tomb, And mighty arches, and vaulted halls, And the temple's lofty dome. He look'd on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, Arid the gentle wave of the palms that stood Upon Judea's hills. He saw on heights and plains Creatures of every race : But a mighty thrill ran through his veins . When he met the human face ; And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd The azure depths of heaven. And woman's voice before Had cheer'd his gloomy night, But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight And his heart, at daylight's close, For the bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning rose, Gave speechless thanks to GOB. SONNET. THKHE is a magic in the moon's mild ray, What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high, That charms the pang of earth-born grief away I raise my eye to the blue depths above, And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at pea* in'his embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest >hings in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, I 've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has mark'd my Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life shine soft, and long abide. SONNET. 'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far To a wild hill, that overlooks a land Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand The streamlet slides with mellow tones away ; The west is crimson with retiring day ; And the north gleams with its own native light. Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie, And through green banks the river wanders by, And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright: Bright but of fading brightness ! soon is past That dream-like glory of the painted wood ; And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast, The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. [Born, 1807.) Mn. Loxr.FF.LT.ow was born in the city of Port- land, in Maine, on the twenty-seventh of Febru- ary, 1807. When fourteen years of age he en- tered Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the law, but being appointed Professor of Modern Lan- guages in the college in which he was educated, he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for the duties of his office, and passed three years and a half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Ger- many, Holland and England. When he returned he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern Languages and Literatures in Harvard College was made vacant, in 1835, by the resignation of Mr. TICKNOH. Mr. LONGFELLOW, being elected his successor, resigned his place in Brunswick, and went a second time to Europe to make himself more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of his studies in the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden ; the autumn and winter in Germany losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg and the follow- ing spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzer- land. He returned to the United States in Octo- ber, 1836, and immediately entered upon his duties at Cambridge, where he has resided ever since, except during a visit to Europe for the restoration of his health, in 1843. The earliest of LONGFELLOW'S metrical compo- sitions were written for " The United States Lit- erary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was an under-graduate ; and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and admired. During his subsequent residence in Brunswick he wrote several of the most elegant and judicious papers that have appeared in the " i< T orth American Re- view ;" made a translation of Coplas de Manrique : and published "Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," acollection of agreeable tales and sketches, chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 1839 appeared his " Hyperion," a romance, which contains passages of remarkable beauty, but has little dramatic or narrative interest. The first collection of his poems was published ' .in 1839, under the title of "Voices of the Night." His ' Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841 ; "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems on Slavery," in 1844, and a complete edition of his poetical writings, excepting some early effusions and the lyrical pieces on slavery, in a large octavo volume, illustrated with engravings by J. CHENEY, from original pictures by HUNGTINHTON, in 1845. LOSG FELLOW'S most considerable poem is the " Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the Swedish of ESAI.VS TEGNER, a venerable bishop of 43 the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet of northern Europe. The genius of TEGNEH had already been made known in this country by a learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by trans- lated passages of great beauty, from his " Frithiof 's Saga," contributed by LONGFELLOW to the " North American Review," soon after he returned from his second visit to Europe. The " Children of the Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the author's great epic, and the English version is a singularly exact reproduction of it, in form and spirit. No translations from the continental lan- guages into the English surpass those of LONG- FELLOW, and it is questionable whether some of his versions from the Spanish, German and Swe- dish, have been equalled. The rendition of the " Children of the Lord's Supper" was among the most difficult tasks to be undertaken, as spondaic words, necessary in the construction of hexameters, and common in the Greek, Latin and Swedish, are so rare in the English language. " The Skeleton in Armour" is the longest and most unique of his original poems. The Copenhagen antiquaries attri- bute the erection of a round tower at Newport, in Rhode Island, to the Scandinavians of the twelfth century. A few years ago a skeleton in complete armour was exhumed in'the vicinity of the tower. These facts are the groundwork of the story. Soon after the appearance of the first edition of this work, I suggested to the late Mr. CAHET, the publisher, widely known for his taste in art and literature, that a series of such volumes, embracing surveys and specimens of the poetry and prose of different countries, would be valuable and popu- lar; and among the results of various conversa- tions on the subject, was a request to Mr. LONG- FELLOW to prepare "The Poets and Poetry of Europe." He acceded, and in the summer of 1845 finished and gave to the press the most compre- hensive, complete, and accurate review of the poetry of the continental nations that has ever appeared in any language. Of all our poets LONGFELLOW best deserves the title of artist. He has studied the principles of verbal melody, and rendered himself master of the mys- terious affinities which exist between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. This tact in the use of language is probably the chief cause of his success. There is an aptitude, a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his stanzas, which at once impress the memory and win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. It is not so much the power of the instrument, as the skill with which it is managed, that excites our sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign litera- ture has been of great advantage, by rendering him familiar with all the delicate capacities of lan- > F J137 338 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. guage, from the grand symphonic roll of Northern tongue to the "soft, bastard Latin" of the South. His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and poetical ; but there is no affluence of imagery, or wonderful glow of emotion, such as take us captive in BTRON or SHELLEY : the claim of LONGFELLOW consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness or originality. He has done much for the Art of Poetry in this country NUREMBERG. Is the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng ; Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, cen- turies old ; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretch'd its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen CUNI- OUNDE'S hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet MELCHTOR singing Kaiser MAX.OII- LIAK'S praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art, Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart ; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commission'd as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted SEBALD sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust ; In the church of sainted LAWRENCE stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labour'd ALBRECHT DURER, the Evan- gelist of Art ; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wander'd, seeking for the Bet- ter Land. by his example, and in this respect may claim the praise which all good critics of English Poetry have bestowed on GRAY and COLLINS. The spirit of LONGFELLOW'S muse is altogether unexceptionable in a moral point of view. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinc- tive recognition of the man. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once j has breathed its air ! Through these streets so broad and stately, these ji obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingera, chanting rude i poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts I the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammer'd to the anvil's chime ; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here HAISS SACHS, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the i gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laugh'd. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; Painted by some humble artist, as in ADAM PCSCH- MAN'S song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanish'd is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard ; But thy painter, ALBHECHT DURER, and HANS SACHS, thy cobbler-bard. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 339 Thus, Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay : Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labour, the long pedigree of toil. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'd arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing, Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Whon the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hoar even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norsemen's And loud, amid the universal clamor, [song, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrcnch'd asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such aceurse