UC-NRLF B 3 315 ^^^ ■J^^ c::^ ^^^<: /i^^ .---7 ^<-'J>^ a>^^^ 9i^ THE WESTERN HOME, Sni> ®l|« |«ni5. BY Mrs. L. II. SIG0UK:^EY. PHILADELPmA: PARRY & MCMILLAN, SUCCESSORS TO A. HART, late CAREY & HART. 1854. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the yeax 1854, by PARRY & MCMILLAN, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern DLstrict of Pennsylvania. STEREOTTPED BY L. JOHXSON ANB CO. PUILADELPniA. PUBLISHER'S NOTICE, It may be proper for us to state that this book con- sists of poems never before published, the longest of which furnishes the title ; also of some selections from the illustrated octavo edition of Mrs. Sigourney's Poems, issued from our house, and of a few other poems that have appeared, from time to time, in various periodicals, but have never before been comprised in any volume. Philadelphia, August^ 1854. 89355^ CONTENTS. Pagb The Western Home 17 Memory 61 Mohawk Warrior 63 Spring Concert 68 Spirit of Beauty..... 70 Gethsemane 72 Uncultured Flowers 76 Death of Cardinal Mazarin 79 Fallen Forests 83 Virginia Dare 86 Micah and the Levite 91 Nature's True Friends 95 Queen Phillippa 97 The Destroyer 100 Talk with the Brooks 104 An Old Story.^. 106 Landing of the Pilgrims 108 Prayer on Bunker Hill 110 1* V VI CONTENTS. Page Power's Statue of the Greek Slave 112 April 113 Divine Wisdom 116 Last Journey of Henry Clay 119 Friendship with Nature 122 '^ Still I live" 125 God save the Plough 127 The Teacher 129 Plant at Sea 135 Morning in Rural and City Life 136 Gregory Brandon 139 The Departed Year 147 Monody to Daniel Wadsworth 149 The Mother of Wolfe 153 The Muse 157 Listen 1 62 The Third Day at Sea 165 Oriska 168 Eeturn of Napoleon 180 Unspoken Language 185 No Concealment 191 Needles, Pen, and Sword 194 Fruitful Autumn 199 To-Morrow 202 Eve 208 Dell of the Wreck 212 Winter and Age 215 CONTENTS. VU Page Birds of Passage 217 Aaron on Mount Hor 221 Lost Day 226 Storm SaUs 228 Scottish Weaver 230 Indian Summer 251 Hermit of the Falls 253 Erin's Daughter 260 The Holy Dead 262 Dew-Drops 264 The Little Footstep 266 Scotland's Famine 269 Falls of the Yantic .'.... 272 Stratford-upon-Avon 275 Midnight Thoughts at Sea 279 Trial of the Dead 281 Emigrant Mother 288 Healing at Sunset 294 Filial Piety of David 296 The Ivy 300 The Rainbow 303 The Thriving Family 305 The Victim of the Deep 308 Harold and Tosti 311 Clock at Versailles 317 Prince of Edom.... 320 Work of the Weary Woman .c. 323 Vlll CONTENTS. Page First Missionary 326 ''Sorrow as on the Sea." 329 Our Country 333 Removal of an Ancient Mansion 337 Lost Lily 342 Twilight 350 Unrifled Cabinet 352 Talk with Time 354 Man's Three Guests 356 u. §ipumt^'^ luniis. THE WESTERN HOME. High noon, on broad Ohio's tide, — And while its flashing waters glide, 'Mid fringed bank, or sunny glade. Or unshorn forest's towering shade. As erst it flowed ere bold and young To birth this wondrous centuiy sprung. In a green thicket dense and rude Two youths the woodman's toil pursued. — Their stalwart arms might rule the tide. Their lips with vermil tinge were dyed. Brown was the cheek that braved the blast, And oft, T\dth clarion swell. Snatches of meriy song were heard As light through opening vistas peered, For at their strokes, dealt thick and fast. The forest monarchs fell. — 2* 17 18 THE WESTERN HOME. Reclining now on greensward fair, The simple noontide meal they share, When one who seemed to muse awhile Looked up, and said, with kindling smile, " Sweet is this life, in greenwood here. Yet sweeter 'twere, to-day. If one from our own clime was near. Whose name I will not say." *' Speak out ! speak out !" his comrade cried, With flashing red his forehead dyed. "I know thou fain wouldst claim Young Mary Ashton for thy bride : How vain to seek with bootless shame From me that truth to hide. She is the fairest of our band, The very lily of the land. And think' st thou that her sire, Wlio frowns if even the zephyr meek Ruffles the ringlets on her cheek, Would yield to thy desire, And see her in thy footsteps go, Mid brambly brake and Indian foe ? Walter St. Clair, I tell thee no." Then to his task he sprang, Nor marked the expression, arch and sly, THE WESTERN HOME. 19 That lurked in Walter's eagle eye And heard without a pang Reverberating cliffs prolong The chorus of his echoed song, ^'Oh! Love is sweet, and Love is strong." And yet, perchance, that manly breast Shut in its deepest core Misgivings more than words confessed; For, when the day was o'er. And long they slept on pallet low Such sleep as toil alone may know. Wild dreams unfurled a tragic scene :— There stood his fair, with gentle mien And trembling smile and tear-drop sheen. As when they parted last. But the stern father rushed between, And all their tender purpose banned, And forced from his, her yielding hand. And then, mid thunder-blast. On a black, storm-tossed flood she lay By fiend-like creatures row'd away. While mocking voices from the shore, Shrieked with hoarse laughter — ''Meet no more!" Then stifled moan and frantic start Betrayed a torture-stricken heart 20 THE WESTERN HOME. Till morn arose with sandals gray, And warned them to the woods away. The breath of Spring, that Nature hails, Stole softly o'er New England's vales. The lingering snow-wreath fled ; From hough and grove gay carols rang. And living emerald freshly sprang Beneath the elastic tread. Spring eve amid a garden bower, — And though its interlacing vine Ventured not yet the tender flower In flexile wreaths to twine. Long willow wands their curtain hung, And through the leafy screen That o'er the simple trellis clung, A youth and maid were seen. Of two I spoke, yet three were there, Though one in vehicle of air Eluded mortal eye, He, whose unfilial arrow keen Spared not to pierce the Paphian queen. That urchin sUght and sly. Around was cast his magic spell. But what he said I may not tell ! THE WESTERN IIUME. 21 His subtle idiom ill may brook The cold restraint of pen or book, And 'twere a losing part Here to be painting blush or sigh, Or whispered vow, or moistened eye, Which but the pencil of the sky Can trace upon the heart. — ^Dark night, and 'gainst the window-pane Dash heavy drops of sleeted rain. For changeful are J^ew England's skies. And fickle Spring may violets throw, Or choke the rills with diifted snow. Just as her mood shall rise. But by a fair, domestic hearth The large, round logs made crackling mirth. And musing, as their leaping flame In every shape fantastic came, A man sedate and sage Was there, the master and the sire : Time had not quenched his dark eyes' fire Though threads of silver, here and there, Lurked mid his wealth of chestnut hair-^ The blossomed seed of thought and care More than of ripening age. THE WESTERN HOME. He mused, percliance, as Priam bent When his last frustrate shaft was spent, "While a slight form in girlhood's grace Sate on his knee, her favourite place. One white arm round his neck was prest, Her head lay lamblike on his breast, Yet still within that half-closed eye Spake woman's deathless constancy. " Oh, father ! since that mother died, Our dearest solace and our pride, My aim hath been both day and night Her place to fill, as best I might ; Yet, ah ! how far each highest care Still fell beneath my hope and prayer. These bitter tears that nightly flow And thine oft-tried forbearance show. — But, father, think ! my sister dear. Scarce younger is she now, THan I when in that wo severe I saw thy manhood bow, And clung all trembling to thy side When the dark grave's brink yawned so wide. — ^Put faith in her, she ^^dll not fail. Brave heart may dwell in casket frail : THE WESTERN HOME. 23 The willow branch, that breezes sway, Is firm when oaks are reft away ; And how could I new pleasures share, If none were left for thee to care?" "I^ot for the sadness that must fall, When thou art gone, on hearth and hall, ISlot at the loss it me and mine, O sweetest daughter ! I repine, For ill befits it one who owes Mid all his manhood's joys and woes, To wedded love such countless debt, Against that love himself to set. N"or yet to blame thy maiden choice E'er have I raised the upbraiding voice; Mary, if part we must, Walter, my true friend's noble son, So well from early boyhood known, Is worthy of thy trust. But I have feared, in western wild. Lest hardships whelm my cherished child. Or danger with its iron hail Should sweep from earth my lily pale. Alas ! in far Ohio's glade I knew the skulking savage stray'd, 24 THE WESTERN HOME. And war-whoop fierce and victim's scream Too often break m}^ startled dream." " G-od is my strength!'' the maiden said; And as she gently raised her head, He marked that steadfast ray "Which o'er her mother's brow did flame "Wlien sudden Death's dark Angel came To snatch the soul away, And deemed that pure, prevaihng tone Some echo from her angel tlii'one. ^'^o longer I resist His will ; Be still, my selfish heart, be still !" Their stated hour of prayer had gone, And midnight's step stole slowly on. Yet on the Book Divine he laid His reverent hand, and humbly read The words our blessed Saviour said To his loved follower, John : — "Let not your hearts be troubled, ye Believe in God, — ^believe in Me." Then, kneeling side by side. And hand in hand, the fiither's prayer Liiplored God's pity on their care. THE WESTERN HOME. 25 Invoked His aid new toils to bear, His grace, whate'er betide. Metbouglit, that on that hour divine The Comforter came down, He who from earthly griefs can twine Heaven's amaranthine crown : For they, whose eyes so long had wept, Whose hearts such anxious vigil kept. Slept their blest sleep who know no guile, And woke with faith's sustaining smile. The earliest rose of Summer's care 1^0 w throws fresh fragrance o'er the air, And o'er full vase and wreathed wall, "Where meekly, mid a festal hall. Stands one who by her lover's side. Awaits the sacred name of bride. And gleaming mid her tresses hung, Twined with the rose-bud bright and sheen, A single lily of the vale. In tender fragrance pure and pale, By florist's skill beyond its date Preserved to deck her marriage fete, Whose emblem flower it long had been Amid her playmates young. 26 THE WESTERN HOME. There was the priest, of reverend mien, The thronging Mends, the sire serene -^ While ranged in beauteous show were seen Seven gracefal heads, a terraced row, Just as the hue of age did go — From four to fair eighteen. Seven steps of life that temple bore, But at its threshold never more The highest shall be seen : Supply that chasm as best ye may, Ye, who so long by night and day, Proud of the elder sister's sway. Have counted her your queen. The rite is o'er, the prayer hath blest, The bride-ring on the finger prest. And heartfelt merriment and jest, "Which the old bridals knew. Ere fashion's foot had trod them out, Toss'd their light garlands all about. Tinting the cheek with ruddier hue ; Then while the rich collation prest Its generous warmth on eveiy guest. The youngest boy, who crept apart With quivering lip and heaving heart, THE WESTERN HOME. 27 Confronted, in a chafing mood, The manly bridegroom where he stood. Luther at Augsburg dealt, perchance, Such fearless and indignant glance. "Wilt take my sister hence away. Where bears and Indians tear their prey?" He stamp' d his foot. "N'ay, Walter — nay; We want her here. We cannot play, I^or read, nor sing, nor sleep, nor pray — We can't be good, if she's away." — Still, as he spoke, his choler rose, " Till mid his hair the crimson glows. She wrapp'd her white arms round the child. And soothed and tamed his temper wild ; Yet might you hear amid the bliss Of her prolonged, protecting kiss. The sobbing tones, " Go, Walter, go ! You shall not be my brother — no !" How beautiful is woman's love ! That from the play-place of its birth. The sister's smile, the parent's hearth, The earliest warmth of friendship true, The holy church where first it knew 28 THE WESTERN HOME. The balm of Clirist's baptismal dew, To stranger-bands, to stranger-bome, O'er desert clime, o'er ocean foam, Goes forth in perfect trust, to prove The untried toil, the burdening care. The peril and the pang to dare. Oh, glorious Love ! whose purpose high. With guardian angel's constancy, . Till severing Death stands sternly by. Hath to a mortal's keeping given Its all of earth, its all of heaven. Heigho ! the western hills are steep, The bridgeless rivers broad and deep ; ISTor steam was there, nor iron horse, With triumph shout and lightning force O'er cliff and stream to sweep. By bridle-path, by blacken'd tree, Their way they win, if way it be. O'er tangled maze and broken sod. In fragile ark the floods they dare — Her heart was strong, for he was there. Fast by his side, she felt no fear ; Her more than friend, or brother dear. Her more than sire, her next to God, THE WESTERN HOxME. 29 I've said tlie road was long and sore, Yet no repentant thought was there ; And when the steeds, all travel-wore, Drew up beside the quiet door Of the new home in greenwood fair. Expect me not in words to say What joy and deep content had sway In their fond hearts that happy day. Their humble roof was firmly laid, Of jointed logs the building made. Yet more of space, and comfort too. Were there than met the careless view ; For well these walls the storm could quell. And tyrant cold or heat repel. N"or deem the ingenious Yankee mind, With woman's household skill combined, Fail'd in that home to blend Somewhat of ornament refined, A cheering grace to lend. Casement, and couch, and table, show Curtain or cloth like drifted snow. One precious picture on the walls. The brow of Mary's sire recalls, In the bright vase her sister gave. The sweetest wild-flowers duly wave. 30 THE WESTERN HOME. "Wliilc seeds a brotlier's care would save Burst tlie rich mould and deck the eaves With clustering buds and lustrous leaves. And well had Nature done her part To deck this temple of the heart : In towering trunks more proud and bold Than were Dodona's oaks of old, The beach and sycamore aspire ; And, mid their boughs, with wings of fii-e The red-bird carols clear ; "While, hid in interlacing fold, The parroquets, in green and gold, Their crested younghngs rear. Through gleaming vistas, darkly green. The dun deer's antler'd brow was seen A moment, ere with graceful bound He lightly clear' d the enchanted ground. From rock to rock, in slight cascade, A silver-footed fountain play'd. And lavish threw its crystal store Like diamonds near that sylvan door ; Then dancing on, in freedom wild. While brightening turf its course confess'd. To fair .Ohio's matron breast Leap'd like a jo^^ous child. THE WESTERN HOME. 31 IIow liappy is the farmer's toil ! To deck with turf the unsightly soil, To clothe the glehe with grain, Even while he sleeps, the busy seed Doth wake to consummate his deed. The earth to bless and man to feed ; Nor shall his hope be vain, "Who walks with IS'ature and with God In holy labor o'er the sod. And "Walter, full of health and zeal, Went forth each morn such joys to feel. ISTor murmur' d she — that new-made bride — Though all day long his task he plied ; For she, with harmonizing will Her pleasure in her duties found. And strove, with still advancing skill. To make her home's secluded bound An Eden refuge, sweet and l>lest, "When, weary, he return' d for rest. There, too, with matron grace she taught The little maiden at her side, Who in each fitting labour wrought, Faithful and satisfied, 32 THE WESTERN HOME. For industry with love was blent ^ And well it pleased her gentle guide To see that docile heart content. Rain heats the blossoms from the tree, Tears wash life's opening joys away — So let the smile be bright and clear, And kind the tones that meet the ear In childhood's fleeting day. It comes but once ; rob not the year Of its sw^eet spring-tide gay. Seasons roll'd on ; but w^hen again Blithe summer led her jocund train, A new delight it bore. What was it ? Flower of fi^agrance fair ? Bird of rich song, or plumage rare ? Fruit of ambrosial store ? ISTo ! Fruit nor flower of gorgeous ray, ITor bird of golden wing might pay Her risk and daring brave. For she had rush'd on death to save A helpless form, a stranger-prize, A mystic life that never dies : Hence on her eye a lustre fell. And round her lip a smile was wove, THE WESTERN HOME. 33 That, eloquent in silence, tell The loss of self in holy love. Now brought each hour its fair em23loy, "While reigned with soft control That fulness of a woman's joy Wliich ripeneth best the soul. Which fitteth for the angel's kiss, In better, purer realms than this — A mother's lot of care and bliss. The babe hath learned — (a marvel fraught With unsurpassed precocious power ! For so, within their happy bower, * They, like all other parents, thought) The creeping babe, who almost stands, Hath learned his father's step to know. At his young mother's voice to crow. And clap his dimpled hands. But, ah ! those secret foes that wait So thick around life's opening gate, Have mark'd that infant fair. And stolen the laughter from his tongue. His little, rounded Hmbs unstrung, O'er his smooth brow strange pallor flung. And woke unslumbering care. 34 THE WESTERN HOME. The father sighed each morn to leave So anxiously his door, Yet bade the mother not to grieve, But with her prayer the hope to weave That eve would health restore. Once, as the day drew near its close, Affection's piercing wail arose — " My child ! O God ! he dies !" And as the little maiden's eyes. Blinded with tears, were raised. Her shriek burst forth so loud and shrill, So wiM, and ominous of ill. The mistress turn'd amazed. There, in the door, of stature tall. Bony and gaunt, and sad withal, She saw a red-brow' d woman stand. One of that race Who, by our people scorned and banned, Were hunted fi'om their native land. Like outcasts base. Hung on her arm, an ample store, A scrip replete with herbs she bore, And drawing near, with aspect wild THE WESTERN HOME. 36 Fastened her dark eye on the child, And felt his rigid hand, Then, hasting toward the fire, she shred In water pure the leafy gem, And groined root, and veined stem, In which the health-stream slumbered : She bathed the spasmed limbs and head, And gently through the shut teeth sped Reviving drops, and gave with care. To lungs collapsed, the vital air. So, though with fear and hatred wild. Still cried the httle maid aloud, "Please, do not let her touch the child !" Yet, with a spirit bowed. The mother's yearning heart was still, Yielding to that strange woman's skill ; For, as she fan^ed the flame. And, kneeling down, the caldron stirred, A whispered prayer for aid she heard. In the Redeemer's name. And then, as if a mighty spell On that worn watcher's bosom fell, She meekly strove, without a moan, To make God's holy will her own. 36 THE WESTERN HOME. So at her side, by night and day, Their charge that Indian doctress tended. Till round his lip those smiles did play, Which told their anxious watch was ended ; And then she rose, her way to take. But fervently the father spake : *' !N'o, stay ! Ilowe'er our God hath made These differing brows of varj^ing shade. His love our hearts hath blent. And He hath given you grace to bear. From Death's dread gate our darling fair Back, to our soul's content, So let us make your life our care. And be our pleasant home your own." Then answered, in a trembling tone, She, who to that stern race belonged, "Who, when astonished, pleased, or wronged, Aim not by outward sign to show The emotions in their breasts that glow. " A lodge I have by streamlet lone, Far from invading foe ; For my few wants these hands provide, And better 'tis I there should bide. In my poor Lidian ways. But still to you, so free from pride. THE WESTERN HOME. 37 This heart its tribute pays ; And if by stern disease you're tried, I'll stand a sentry at your side, Wliile through these veins the vital tide In crimson current strays." So, when that well-remembered form Was sometimes seen, at gathering storm Or nightfell, drawing near, They hailed her as an honoured guest, The shelter of their roof-tree prest, And gave her welcome cheer. And once, when full of health and glee, The bantling sate upon her knee. And mid her dark locks played, She with their earnest wish complied, Oft made before, yet oft denied, The story of her earlier state Or nation's history to relate. And simply thus she said :— "My roving people, well you know, Subsist by barbed hook and bow; But of my tribe a favoured few The arts of agriculture knew — 38 THE WESTERN HOME. Keclaimed from savage life, by kind control And holiest ministry, Pupils of one who loved the soul, "Whate'er the brow might be. Zeizberger,* blessed saint! how sweet His tones at Sabbath-morn, "Would the dear Sa^iour's words repeat From whence our hope was born. In humble church, where so we joyed to meet, Or by our hearth-stones rude, Methought, his hffced eye of prayer, His mild, serene, angelic air Prevailed to win the mercies rare That still for us he sued. With patient hand and tireless thought. The arts of industry he taught : Through him the instructed Indian drew The sweet blood from the maple tree, And smiled the laden bough to see Where ruddy apples grew. * A village of Christian Indians in Ohio was destroyed, in 1782, by Col, Williamson and his soldiers. It was of the Moravian persuasion, and the grave of its faithful missionary, Zeizberger, is still seen near Zanesville ; its inscription stating that he attained the venerable age of 87 years. THE WESTERN HOME. 39 The household wheel in music turning round, The busy loom witli jarriug sound, The flying needle's skill, Wrought out our clothes, while cultured field Garden and herd, their comforts yield Obedient to our will. The rifle that to anguish stirr'd The flying deer and nestling bird, Gave place to sickle and to spade, And harvest-song of youth and maid : So thus we dwelt, a thriving village fair. Like children well content to heed a flither's care. *'Eumours of war were in the land, And the pale faces frowned Whene'er the forest-sons they scanned Roam o'er their ancient ground ; Yet still Zeizberger's flock was kept In peace where gentle w^aters crept Mid pastures green, from tumult free. The corn of spring was in its leaf, The flax-flower waxing blue, And o'er the fresh buck^vheat the bee A merry reaper flew— 40 THE WESTERN HOME. In ripples o'er its rocky bod The Tuscarawas murmured, But not of fear or grief, For, like a child that's tired of play, In unsuspicious dreams the quiet hamlet lay. " But as the lightning cleaves the sky When summer-suns are warm and high, The startled midnight blushed, Each cottage roof was red, From sleep their inmates rush'd, And sank among the dead ! White warriors ! sure ye found your prey All unprepared for mortal fray. With mutter' d curse and flashing sword. On the slain mother's breast were clinging infants gored, And e'er the dawning of the day. All, all, had ceased to live ; Save two or three who fled away, — Christ help us to forgive ! "Vengeance, the Eternal saith, is mine ; Yet in the red man's heart, Vengeance is strong, And liveth long. THE WESTERN HOME. 41 Where Christ's love hath no part. And ambush with its secret Hne Hath bade the white man bleed, And Crawford * was condemned to make Atonement at the torture stake, For this unrighteous deed. "My poor old sire, with temples gray, My husband, in their life-blood lay. And how I 'scaped, I cannot say, But for the baby nursling at my breast, With them I would have gone to rest. Life was the harder lot, Yet ever that reproachful eye Gazed on me when I wished to die. And chained me to the spot. 'I fear thee, babe !' I fain would sigh At night, in whispers low, To the weak thing, too young to know What speech did signify, * Col. William Crawford was taken captive, and burned by the In- dians, in Wyandot county, Ohio, in 1782. To his supplication for life, a chief who had formerly been his friend replied, that it might have been granted, but for the recent massacre by the whites under Williamson. 42 THE WESTERN HOME. 'I fear thee, babe ! Stronger than fate thou art, Stronger than woman's heart, Thou wilt not let me die !' A booth I built, of branches rude, O'ermastering cliffs the solitude Kept secret where we shrank, God fed us like his mven brood, And of the l)rook we drank. He was a noble boy and mild, I fondly watched him as he smiled. Yet could not smile on him. For sounding ever in my ear Was a great cry of death and fear, Like river rushing o'er its brim ; And o'er my brain at midnight hour Flashed the same flame of fearfal power That on our village fed, When of its life, both root and flower Were crushed among the dead. And thus we lived from day to day, Until God took my child away ; And when I laid him down in clay, I wept not o'er that bed so cool and low. But laugh'd aloud to think he was set free From man's demoniac tyranny. And ne'er their misery could know, to? THE WESTERN HOME. 43 Wlio, struggling with a mortal wound, Ai^e in their home's hot ashes diwvned. "Still, close beside that little mound, Year after year I dwell ; There doth the earliest blue-bird sing, There spreads the moth its milk-white wino;. And, cowering in its leafy cell. The arbutus sweet is found. I drive away the screaming owl, . And all unsightly beasts that prowl My baby's couch beside. friends ! your tears are falling fast. Heaven shield ye from the m-ecking blast That sweeps life's ocean cold ; God give ye, when its billows moan, The pity you to me have shown — Christ keep ye in his fold ! Yet deem not, though my sky be dark, !N"o star benignant cheers ; Though thwarting tides may check the bark, It toward its haven steers. The skill that with our tribes doth dwell, Each holy plant of health to tell, Lends solace to my path of wo. 44 THE WESTERN HOME. Where hide those precious roots I know, Where sleep their germs 'neath trackless snow ; And at what starry node or sign To make them in their vigour mine. In mine own lodge those stores I lay ; And when it pleaseth God to say That by their aid the pains that fall On his frail children of the clay I may assuage or heal, Roused at the blessed call, No more my loneliness I feel, No more at sorrow I repine. They all have fled away. "Yea, and I thank Him that his hand Ilatli left me desolate and lone ; Like sparrow to the house-top flown I spy a better land. My soul, where earth's last hope is dim. And quenched all love and pride, Springs up, and takes strong hold on Him, And will not be denied." No tear-drop glittered in her eye. Those burning orbs were red and dr}^, And on her bosom l^owed her head, When the sad tale of wo was said. THE WESTERN HOME. 45 Years held their course ^dth cloudless mien, And still the olive branch serene Our youthful country bore ; While population, closing round, Sprinkled with homes the cultured ground. On fair Ohio's shore. And well had Walter's patient hand. That broke the glebe and tilled the land. Been by its fruits repaid, 'Nor yet had Mary's prudent care E'er failed its fitting part to bear ; Hence rose a mansion large and fair. As wealth and numbers bade. There too, in simple guise and free, Eeigned heartfelt hospitality — The Genius of the Yf est, Such as, perchance, in Mamre's tent Its patriarchal welcome lent ; Though not, alas ! too often blest. In modern times, with angel-guest. The shelter of his roof to claim, Once, to St. Clair a stranger came ; Of stature small, yet port of pride, Sjmimetrical and dignified ; 46 THE WESTERN HOME. With martial air and fluent speech, And manners such as courts might teach, And such a piercing eye. So hlack, so keen, so deeply set, I deem, whoe'er that glance had met, Lost not its memory. "With legends old, of classic store. And his own nation's fresher lore, He ruled the attentive ear ; Nor spared the gloss of fl.attery To the young group that gathered nigh. What mother's heart that leaps not high Her children's praise to hear ? One had a fairy step and air, Bright sunbeams tinged another's hair, And violets had expressed their hue To give the babe its eyes of blue. That boy in camp or court might rule. And this surpass his mates at school, While from one noble brow there shone The Fabian glance of Washington. Yet still strange mystery wrapped him round. And day by day, as arm in arm THE WESTERN UOME. 47 He paced with Walter o'er his gi^oimd, And heedful marked its utmost bound, He ruled him with a wizard charm. The iDlough was in its furrow stayed, The swains stood idhng in the shade, Their master's will to know ; Much wondering one so prompt to tell Each hour's allotted business well, All order should forego. But Mary soon, ^vith altered air And cold averted eye, Accorded the accustomed care Of hospitality, While for her husband's weal a prayer Ascended silently. I will not say what instinct blest Had started to her side, What shield of diamond armed her breast. And taught with woman's tact to read A clause within the tempter's creed. By others undescried. Once, as she watched alone and late, Great was her joy to hear 48 THE WESTERN HOME. The entering husband close his gate, ISTor other footstep near. But his pale brow was marked wdth care, As by her side he drew his chair, Claiming her private ear And tender sympathy. " Maiy St. Olair ! — ^know'st thou that we A fiend have harboured here ? A traitor who would burst in twain The sacred, blood-cemented chain That binds our country dear ! Canst thou believe that Aaron Burr, Conspirator and murderer, Ilath sunned him in our household smile ? Shrank not his foot the soil to tread, His victim's name that bore ?* Did not his heart in secret quake, As cried that blood, with voice of dread, From far "Weehawken's shore ? "Where fell, beneath his ruthless hand, The mightiest statesman of our land, A mart}^' to his own mistake And the assassin's wile. * That part of Ohio was in a county bearing the name of Hamil- ton. THE WESTERN HOME. 49 Fool that I was to lend an ear To words of glozing guile ; My blessed Mary, speak!" But first her fond lips dried the tear That coursed adown his cheek. "!N"aught of the treason could I know That he to you hath deigned to show, Yet was I oft constrained to see That false in principle was he, ^N'or bound by God's most holy fear. Husband ! we'll name his name no more, Save when devotion's flame decays, And we would wake a warmer praise To our Protector, strong and dear, Who broke the snare, the victory gained, And left the spirit's wing unstained." Whoe'er hath stemmed Ohio's flood. Where infant Marietta stood. And gazed, from helm or prow, On lavish ^N'ature's show. Might start to view, on emerald isle, A lofty, castellated pile, With tower and turret rising high. In feudal pride and blazonry ; 6 50 THE WESTERN HOME. Or, landing mid the flower-decked sod, Miglit deem Calypso's realm he trod, For Blennerhasset's gold Had, with magician's wand, upreared A palace in the wold. What graceful form on noble steed Is seen where parting groves recede ? Whose scarlet robes, bedight with gold, Sweep his gray flank in ample fold ; While, as the fresher zephyrs blow. Her ostrich plumes float forth like snow ? 'Scaped from her hat, her flaxen hair, Her ivory throat and forehead bare, Shun not to meet the buxom air, Some high-born lady sure is she, For whom the soul of chivalry Miffht lift the lance or bend the knee. So fearlessly she wields the rein. That, as her courser skims the plain, She seems of him a part ; Yet not by feats of grace alone Her best accomplishments are shown ; That higher, holier charm she bears, By which a wife and mother's cares Attract and mould the heart. THE WESTERN HOME. 51 And Blennertiasset scarce can hide The promptings of a husband's pride, As one so fair and young Hangs o'er the classic page sublime, Or pours the speech of many a clime Mellifluent from her tongue. Who sitteth in yon courtly hall, Where taste refined holds festival, Admiring, and admired of all ? He of slight form and martial grace, And eye so piercing bright, Its wondrous ray illumes the place With strange, unearthly light ? Methinks he seems some hidden snare To spread with fascinating care, Both day and night. Lord of the Isle ! beware ! beware ! A fiend beside thee lurks ; And by thy cold, abstracted air. Thy scorn of beauty's gentle care, I fear the poison works. To prayer ! Hast thou no Friend above To snatch thee from the snare ? 52 THE WESTERN HOME. Alas ! he prays not ! Deaf to love, Alone he roams, through bower and grove. Two cherub boys, so late his pride, Are fain to linger near his side, With mournful mien ; Their voice he heeds not, save to chide, Nor sleeps he, save with sudden start. And muttered cry of pain or guilt ; Ambition in his noble heart Hath found a flaw, and, entering, built A nest for birds unclean. Oh ! summon science to thine aid. For thou hast loved her well ; And she hath made thy sylvan shade Her favoured citadel. Haste ! raise thy tube and scan the stars. Turn History's tome of woes and wars, Recall Hibernia, seamed with scars, Thine own dear native isle ! But patriot warmth and classic lore, Cherished so long, are prized no more ; Pure love, with angel smile. Melts not ambition's frost — The spell is clenched, the man is lost. THE WESTERN HOME. 53 'Twere long to tell, and sore to tread, Where Burr his hoodwinked victim led, From risk to risk, from loss to loss, A dynasty to found. Which, like a castle in the air. When winds and waves their banners toss, Sank baseless to the ground. All burdens still his dupe must bear. Till, like a bark on breakers tost. His honour and his wealth were lost. Conspiracy and treason stored Grave charges 'gainst the island lord ; Unnumbered ills his steps await. The felon's bar, the exile's fate — Dark contrast to his high estate. And as the doom vindictive falls. His princely home lies desolate ; Soldiers are quartered in its halls. And scathing fires deface its walls ; The trampled shrubs and riven flowers Expire around the rifled bowers. While, wandering from his loved domain, He turns to realms beyond the sea. Appealing for redress in vain From his betrayer's perfidy. 54 THE WESTERN HOME. Still, that true wife is by his side, Not o'er lost Paradise to sigh, But share his lot, whate'er betide. With woman's deathless constancy. Yet who shall lift with pity pale. From future years the incumbent veil ? Yon widowed form, — to penuiy left, Of every earthly hope bereft, Wlio sinks unaided mid the strife, — Can that be Blennerhasset's wife ? — ^At her low grave by stranger hands Obscurely made, one mourner stands, A man* oppress' d by want and care, A prey to sickness and despair. Can that be Blennerhasset's heir? — Alas ! that bitter streams should spread So wide, from one dark fountain-head. Oh Aaron Burr ! — with talents proud To dazzle or control the crowd. Whose dauntless courage never quailed. Though dangers frowned, or foes prevailed, * Herman Blennerhasset, the last remnant of an unfortunate and once happy family, is said still to reside in New York, the victim of disease and poverty. THE WESTERN HOME. I saw tliee, when thy sun drew low, And fourscore winters dimmed thy brow, And state and wealth and friends had fled. And all of kindred blood were dead, Yet flashed that eye, unquenehed and bright. Forth from the loneliness of night And frost of age. — Say, was its light Wliat heaven on its own planets turneth ? — Or from the pit that ever burneth ? — — But thou art gone, nor would we tread Thine ashes with too stern a blame. For thou dost teach us from the dead A lesson that all pride should tame ; That genius high and morals base Mar the great Giver's plan, And, like a comet's flaming race, Make visible the deep disgrace Of His best gifts to man. Still in those cares, remote from strife That marked the happy farmer's life "Walter St. Clair and Mary dwelt. And still their genial influence felt. High health was theirs and cheerful thought, Sweet sleep that knows nor spasm nor cry Of undigested luxury, 5G THE WESTERN HOME. Fond Love, unswerving and unbouglit, For which in vain the heart must sigh That, moved by calculation cold, Its holiest vows hath bartering sold For fashion, or for thirst of gold. The venal hand may diamonds link. In velvet piled the foot may sink, The lips from jewelled chalice drink, Yet eveiy nerve to joy be dead. And all the life of feeling fled In the heart's palsied atrophy. Like the unfoldings of a dream In transmutation strange, A swollen, unquelled, unebbing stream, Swept on the tide of change : For where, of old, from copse and brake The lonely owl discordant spake. Or wolf and panther sprang. Where round the settler's cabin low The prowling Indian bent his bow Or savage war-whoop rang. The warehouse peers, the merchants throng. The costly chariot rolls along, Tall spires like guardian angels bless, O'ei-floAvino; schools their lore impress, THE WESTERN HOME. 57 Wliile tlirough the streets, in ceaseless tide, A hundred thousand people glide. Walter and Mary, side by side The magic drama viewed. Filled with a patriot's glowing pride, A Christian's gratitude ; And e'er their sun of life went down To its unclouded rest, Had Cincinnati won her crown Queen of the "West. And they had aided, heart and hand The weal of that adopted land, Each in their own blest way, Of order, he, and honest trust And manly virtues, pure and just, Foundation firm to lay, — And she, in woman's quiet sphere. The plants of household good to rear. And light on ignorance to shed. N'or other rights she coveted Than to such sphere belong. Perchance, at first, with critic eye Her course was scanned suspiciously, Yet still in meekness strong 58 THE WESTERN HOME. She shared with want her daily bread, Like angel watched the sufferer's bed Till in her steps the grateful trod, And praise for her went up to God. . As strikes its root 'neath tropic sky The blessed banian's canopy, ISTor rests until its stems have made Deep continuity of shade. And its impervious foliage wove For man a bower, for birds a grove, So stretched their life in truth and grace, A blessing to their numerous race, Wliile its sweet seeds without a thorn Sprang up to blossom for the unborn. But when his active years had fled. And those of rest drew nigh. Such form erect, elastic tread, And clear, observant eye, St. Clair retained, that those who met The pressure of his fiiendly hand. And smile of welcome cheer, Heard ^^dth a skeptic ear That full fourscore their seal had set Upon his features bland. THE WESTERN HOME. 59 Dewed was liis grave with many a tear That mourned the honored x^ioneer, Who with a chain of bright good mil had clasped his young country dear. Oh ! let such links be multiplied, And mth their heart-wove net- work wide Bind north to south, and east to west : — ^or aught thy unity molest. My Land ! around whose cradle-bed The glorious fathers prayed and bled, And mingled with their battle-cry The watch-word, — God and Liberty. — Awhile beyond her life's best friend Did Mary's pilgrimage extend. Darkened, but not dismayed ; For on an Arm divinely strong Leaning in faith, she passed along The solitary shade ; And beautiful it was to see What tender, filial ministiy Her faithful cares repaid. There are, who deem that age must be Ever unlovely to the sight. That when the locks grow thin and white ISTo charm can light the face. 60 THE WESTERN HOME. Yet every season hath its grace To the meek eye that skills to trace And read God's works aright. Young childi'cn clustering round her chair, Iler wealth of storied lore to share, Believed that beauty still was there ; And youth who lingered at her side, Seeking her wisdom for their guide, Beheld, mth reverent air, That holy smile of calm content, The twilight of a life well spent, — Kindness no diifering creed could hound^ "Warm sympathy for all around, — While still her beaming eye confest The joy of making others blest. So, when in hope serene She changed this earthly scene Love's tear upon her pillow lay. And hallowed memories from the burial clay Sprang up in fadeless green. MEMORY. The past slie ruleth. At lier touch Its temple valves unfold, And from their gorgeous slirines descend The mighty men of old. At her deep voice the dead reply, Dry bones are clothed and live. Long-perished garlands bloom anew, And buried joys revive. When o'er ihQ future many a shade Of saddening twilight steals. Or the dimmed present to the soul Its emptiness reveals. She opes her casket, and a cloud Of cheering perfume streams. Till with a lifted heart we tread The pleasant land of dreams. 61 62 MEMORY. Make friends of potent Memory, O young man, in tliy prime ; And with her jewels bright and rare, Enrich the hoard of Time, For, if thou mockest her \vith weeds, A trifler mid her bowers. She'll send a poison through thy veins, In life's disastrous hours. Make friends of potent Memory, O maiden, in thy bloom ; And bind her to thine inmost heart, Before the days of gloom. For sorrow softeneth into joy Beneath her wand sublime, And she immortal robes can weave From the frail threads of Time. THE MOHAWK WAEEIOR. Stretched on Ms bed of skins, tlie Panther lay, The warrior of the Mohawks. Low and dark Was his lone cabin, near the Ijrawling stream, While o'er its walls the hunter's shaggy spoils Profusely hung. In the stone chimney rude, The flame went crackling up. But there he lay, That gray-haired chieftain, to arise no more. His son, the sole companion of the lodge, Was by his side. Immovable he stood, Like a tall bronzed statue, sculptured bold, In massive strength. Symmetrical was he. That warlike sire, whose frame had scorned to bend 'Keath ninety winters, and whose deep-set eye Flashed in its struggle with an unseen foe, Plucking his heart-strings. 63 64 THE MOHAWK WARRIOR. Painfully he spake : '' Son of the Fawn ! the Tanther leaps no more ; Ills teeth no more are terrible. Time was" — On his chill lip the laboured accents died. Still o'er him swept the past, the battle-cry, The forest-hunt, the midnight council-fire. " Time was'' — In vain he strove, a smothered groan O'ercame his utterance. Yet the anguish passed. And he, whose strength had never quailed before. Exhausted, slumbered like a helpless child. He woke, and by him stood that statued son. Watching the spoiler's progress o'er his brow, With a red, restless eye. ''Air! air!'' he cried. With a \^dld gasp. Upon its utmost hinge The rough door swung. The lungs, collapsing, caught That blessed draught, and light to heart and eye Spontaneous sprang. Once more the sufferer marked The brook contending with the fitful winds. While the full autumn-moon, through parted boughs. Silvered the flashing waters, as they plunged O'er a steep ledge. On the fair sight he fed. THE MOHAWK WARRIOR. 65 "With mstfal glance, as one wlio takes his leave, IN'e'er to return. His long and toil-worn life Seemed as a span, while a sharp lance's point Traced hurrying scenes on memory's shrivelled scroll. "I sing no death song. War, that once I loved, Fades in its own foul smoke. But, she is there — There, by that stream's green edge. Just so the moon Looked down upon us, when she first was mine. Child of the Fawn ! her eye was like its beam On yonder troubled waters. When I came Wearied from hunting, or the strife of men, Such was it in my soul. She waits me still — She, whom alone I loved. She waits me there. In yon bright forests, where our unquelled sires Eoam as of old. I'll tell her in her ear. That thou dost linger, by the river's biink So, to this cabin we'll together come, And talk with thee." Breath failed him, for he spake Eapid and fervent. He who ne'er had known A dear Eedeemer's dying love, or heard The angel's song, ''peace and good-will to men," Turned to the one lone day-star of his course, GQ THE MOHAWK WARRIOR. And the pure passion of his heart's first love Shed light on death's grim face. "I made her grave By the great western lake. Deep, deep and dark ! The mound i's high above it. The blue waves Break round its feet. Thy mother slumbers there. I'll go and see that grave before I die." Half from his bed he sprang. The giant limbs Which like the oak that braves a century's wrath, Had never failed, grew rigid. Back, he fell. Dashing the water from the hand that fain His parching lips would lave, and with glazed eyes Gibbered and murmured, as delirium claimed Tyrannic service from a stiffening tongue. Then, mid a labyrinth of sighs and smiles, And moans, and snatches of unuttered words, And shivering spasms, to which the worn-out nen^es Scarce gave sensation, or response of pain, Death came and did his work, and the dark clay Lay still, before him. And that lonely lodge Of the fierce Panther of the Mohawks, heard Naught save the loud lamenting of his son ; For pride no lo igcr chocked the filial flood, THE MOHAWK WARRIOR. 67 Wnen none were near to say, " Our chieftain weej)9." So there he stood, an emblem of his race Whose glory had departed. There he drooped, And moaned, till dawn had sped on pinions gray. And day came freshly forth. But then he strode, "With steadfast step, and eye that told no tale Of the heart's secret grief, and spake unmoved The summons to his tribe, who mournful came Flocking with heads declined, to lay the bones Of their old warrior in an honoured tomb. THE SPRING CONCERT. Come, come to the concert of gladness and glee, The programme is ricli, and the tickets are free. In a grand vaulted hall, where's there's room, and to spare. With no gas-lights to eat up the oxygen there. The musicians are skilled in their wonderful art, Tliey have compass of voice, and the gamut by heart. They travelled abroad in the "svinter recess. And sang to great crowds with unbounded success. And now 'tis a favour and privilege rare Their arrival to hail, and their melodies share : These exquisite minstrels a fashion have set, Which they hope you'll comply with, and will not regret — They don't keep late hours, for they've always been told 'T would injure their voices, and make them look old ; But invite you to come, if you have a fine ear, To the garden or grove, their rehearsals to hear. THE SPRING CONCERT. 69 Their chorus is full ere the sunbeam is born, Their music is sweetest at breaking of morn ; 'Twas learned at Heaven's gate, with its rapturous lays^ And may teach you, perchance, its own spirit of praise. THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. Spirit of beauty,— who dost love to dwell In tlie pure chalice of yon new-born flower, That unrepining shares my wdntiy cell, And from my hand receives the mimic shower ; Spirit, — w^ho hoverest o'er the babe's repose. Where guardian angels bend with viewless kiss, Counting the innocence no guile that knows A faint reflection of their higher bliss ; Spirit, — who on the humblest lip doth rest. That uttereth words of Idndness, — and art seen In the calm sunshine of the lowly breast, Garnering its treasure in a clime serene ; Spirit, — who, mid the smile of holy age. Closing its course in hope, dost make abode, Though Time hath ploughed the brow wdth tjTantrage, And scattered snows where sunny tresses flowed ; THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 71 Sweet Spirit, trembling through the loneliest star That the storm-driven mariner descries, And from the rush-light, when its beam afar Eye of his cot — the way-worn peasant spies : Blest Spirit, touch our hearts, and as the child, Wlio toward his parents' home doth singing hie, Espies some wanderer, shivering on the wild. And leads him onward with a pitying eje, So, point us to our Father ! — He who bade Thee in this wilderness his way prepare. And by thy pure, refining influence aid Upward to Him, — First perfect and First fair. GETHSEMANE. There was a garden near Jerusalem, Where Jesus went to pray ; not the fair breast Of OHvet, beloved by Kidron's wave, But wrapped in denser shades, and deeper veiled, For the soul's secrecy. Thither he went. With his disciples, when his course on earth Drew near a close. It was a moonless night, And heavily he drooped, as one who bears An inward burden. Drear Gethsemane Gave him no welcome, when his weary feet Paused at its portal. Almost it might seem That Nature, with prophetic eye, foresaw The sufferings of her Lord. With its rough cones, The terebinth did tremble, and the buds That Spring had early wakened, hid their heads Again in their turf cradles, tearfully. 72 GETHSEMANE. 73 A horror of great darkness fell on Him "Wlio wrondit the world's salvation. Unto tliose, Who at His call had left the fisher's coat, And the receipt of custom, and had shared His daily bread, He turned ; for in the hour Of bitter anguish, sympathy is dear, Even from the humblest. Unto them He turned, But they were gone, — gone ! and He searching found That heavy-eyed and self-indulgent band Stretched out, in sleep supine. They took their rest, While He, who for their sakes had toiled and taught, And healed their sickness and supplied their need, And walked at midnight on the raging sea. Strove with the powers of darkness. Eising tides Of grieved, untiring, unrequited Love Mixed with the question from those lips divine, " Could ye not watch one liourT' Then, He withdrew Again, and prayed. The mournful olives bent, Weaving their branches round him tenderly, And sighed and thrilled, through all theu' listening leaves. Paler than marble was the brow that pressed 7 74 GETHSEMANE. The matted grass, leaving the blood-print there, Yea, the red blood-print. Oh, Gethsemane ! Draw closer thy dark veil. I would not see My Saviour's agony. Yet not alone Passed that dread hour, though His disciples slept, There was a pitying spirit of the skies Who wept and wondered, and from odorous ^vings Shed balm ambrosial on the sufferer's head. "Would that I knew Ms name, who thus did stand Near our Kedeemer, when both earth and heaven Forsook his fainting soul. There was a sound Like rushing pinions of a seraph host ; But wildering awe and unsolved mystery Enchained them in mid-air, and only one Came down to comfort Him. Thou who didst bear Unuttered pangs for an ungrateful race, Eemember us, when desolate, and lone. In our Gethsemanes, we agonize, Imploring God to take the cup away. And shrinking, in our poverty of faith. To add the words, that make His will, our own. GETHSEMANE. 75 Thou, who amid Heaven's bhss, forgettest not The weakness of the claj Thou once didst wear, Nor how the shafts of pain do trouble it, Send us a strengthening angel, in our need,— Oh ! be Thyself that angel. WILD FLOWEKS. Flowers of God's planting ! — Man doth call ye wild, Though in your breasts a gentle nature lies, And timidly ye meet the breezes^ mild, Paying their love-kiss with your perfumed sighs. Still, with unuttered speech, More true philosophy ye teach, Than they, your rich-robed relatives, who share The florist's tender care. And shrink with jfretted nerves from the too buxom air. Methinks their polished petals hide Some thrill of vanity or pride. As the admiring throng Through the rich green-house press along, Where still they claim, in proud magnificence, A warmer smile than Heaven's own healthful skies dispense, 76 UNCULTURED FLOWERS. 77 Or lulled on beauty's breast To a brief dream of rapturous rest, Too soon — with pale, regretful eye Fulfil their envied destiny, and die. But ye, in humble cell, Cloven nook or grassy dell, Or by the brooklet's shaded brim, Turn in your trustful innocence to Him, "Who wisely metes the sun-beam and the rain ; Or else the plough-share's fatal pain, Or even the crushing foot repay With a forgiving fragrance — and beneath The same loved skies that gave you birth, On prairie broad, or purple heath, Pass willingly away From your slight hold on earth. Perchance, with longer date Gladdening the field-bee, at her work elate, Ye nurse your buds, and give your winged seeds Unto the winnowing winds, to sow them as they fly In fertile soil, or mid the choking weeds Or desert sands, where the rank serpent feeds ; Then, not of death afraid. All unreluctantly ye fade, 78 UNCULTURED FLOWERS. Meek as ye bloomed at first, in glen, or forest-glade, Bequeathing a sweet memoiy Unto the scented turf, where erst ye grew, And garnered in your souls the heaven-distiUing dew. Oh, fair, uncultured flowers ! The charm of childhood's roving hours, Who seek no praise of man — ^have ye not caught The spirit of His \ovAj thought, Wlio loved the frail field-lily — and the bird By whom its breast was stirred ? And on his mountain-shrine With eloquence divine From its unfolded leaves, as from a text book, taught ? Yes — still ye show, in lessons undefiled. The Christian life and death, though man doth call ye wild. DEATH OF CAEDINAL MAZARIN. Tivo months, the questioned healer said, And turned liim from the place, Wliile every tint of colour fled That dark Italian face, — Heart-struck was he, whom France obeyed, Peasant, and prince, and peer, And with the clank of fetters made Rich music for his ear. Proud Ann of Austria lowest bent With subjugated soul. And Ludovicus Magnus scarce . ♦ Withstood his stern control, Wliile distant nations feared the man Wlio ruled in court and bower ; Yet those slight words dissolved the spell Of all his pomp and power. 80 DEATH OF CARDINAL MAZARIN. Before liim passed his portioned line, Mancini's haugtity race, Jewels and coronets they wore, "With cold and thankless grace ; And for a payment poor as this, Had he his conscience grieved ? And marred with perjured hand the cross His priestly vow received ? Beside him strode a spectral form, Still whispering in his ear, "•Make restitution!'' fearful sound. That none besides might hear ; ''Make restitution r' But the spoil From earth and ocean wrung, By countless chains and wreathed hands, Around his spirit clung. '' Two months ! two months !'' these frightful words Could all his peace destroy. And poison the enamelled cup Where sparkled every joy. They met him in the courtly hall, They silenced song and tale. Like those dead fingers on the. wall That 1 limed Belshazzar pale. DEATH OF CARDINAL MAZARIN. 81 Once in his velvet chair he dreamed. But rocking to and fro, His restless foiTii and heaving breast Betrayed a rankling wo : ^''Two months! two months P' he murmured deep, Those fatal words were there, To grave upon his broken sleep The image of despair. Uncounted wealth his coffers told, From rifled king and clime, His flashing gems might empires buy. But not an hour of time, No ! not a moment. Inch by inch. Where'er he bent his way, That grim pursuer steadfast gained Upon the shrinking prey. His pulseless hand a casket clutched. Though Death was near his side, And 'neath the pillow lurked a scroll He might no longer hide ; While buried heaps of hoarded gain In rust and darkness laid, Bore witness to the Omniscient Eye Like an accusino* shade. 82 DEATH OF CARDINAL MAZARIN. But on the Kiiisc of Terrors came With stroDg, relentless hold, And shook the shuddering miser loose From all his idol gold, And poorer than the peasant hind That humhly ploughs the sod, Went forth that disembodied mind To stand before its God. FALLEN .FORESTS. Man's warfare on the trees is terrible. He lifts his rude hut in the wilderness, And, lo ! the loftiest trunks, that age on age Were nurtured to nobility, and bore Their summer coronets so gloriously, Fall with a thunder sound to rise no more. He toucheth flame unto them, and they lie A blackened wreck, their tracery and wealth Of sky-fed emerald, madly spent, to feed An arch of brilliance for a single night, And scaring thence the wild deer, and the fox. And the lithe squirrel from the nut-strewn home. So long enjoyed. He lifts his puny arm. And every echo of the axe doth hew The iron heart of centuries away. He entereth boldly to the solemn groves On whose green altar tops, since time was young 84 FALLEN FORESTS. The winged birds have poured their incense stream Of praise and love, within whose mighty nave The wearied cattle from a thousand hills Have found their shelter mid the heat of day ; Perchance in their mute worship pleasing Him "Who careth for the meanest He hath made. I said, he entereth to the sacred groves Where nature in her beauty bows to God, And, lo ! their temple arch is desecrate. Sinks the sweet hymn, the ancient ritual fades, And uptorn roots and prostrate columns mark The invader's footsteps. Silent years roll on. His babes are men. His ant-heap dwelling grows Too narrow — for his hand hath gotten wealth. He builds a stately mansion, but it stands Unblessed by trees. He smote them recklessly "When their green arms w^ere round him, as a guard Of tutelary deities, and feels Their maledictions, now the burning noon Maketh his spirit faint. With anxious care, He casteth acorns in the earth, and woos Sunbeam and rain ; he planteth the young shoot. And props it from the storm ; but neither he, Nor yet his chikben's children, shall behold What he hath sw^ept away. FALLEN FORESTS. 85 Methinks, 'twere well Kot as a spoiler or a tliief to prey On E"ature's bosom, that sweet, gentle nurse "Wlio lovetli us, and spreads a sheltering couch "When our brief task is o'er. O'er that green mound Affection's hand may set the willow tree, Or train the cypress, and let none profane Her pious care. Oh, Father ! grant us grace In all life's toils, so, with a steadfast hand Evil and good to poise, as not to pave Our way with ^vi^ecks, nor leave our blackened name A beacon to the way-worn mariner. VIRGINIA DARE. [ The first-born child of English parents in the Western World was the granddaughter of GoTernor White, who planted a short-lived colony at Roanoke, Virginia, in the year 1587.] 'TwAS lovely in tlie deep greenwood Of old Yirginia's glade, Ere tlie sharp axe amid its boughs A fearful chasm had made ; Long spikes of rich catalpa flowers Hung pendent from the tree, And the magnolia's ample cup O'ei-flowed mth fragrance free : And through the shades the antlered deer Like faiiy visions flew, And mighty vines from tree to tree Their wealth of clusters threw, While winged odours from the hills Reviving welcome bore, To greet the stranger bands that came From Albion's distant shore. VIRGINIA DARE. Up rose their roofs in copse and dell, Outpealed the labourer's horn, And gra<3eM through the broken mould Peered forth their tasseled corn. While from one rose-encircled bower, Hid in the nested gi'ove. Came, blending with the robin's lay, The lullaby of love. There sang a mother to her babe — A mother young and fair — "JSTo flower like thee adorns the vale, O sweet Virginia Dare ! Thou art the lily of our love. The forest's sylph-like queen. The first-born bud from Saxon stem That this I^ew "World hath seen ! "Thy father's axe in thicket rings, To fell the kingly tree ; Thy grandsire sails o'er ocean-brine — A gallant man is he ! And when once more, from England's realm, He comes with bounty rare, A thousand gifts to thee he'll bring, Mine own Virginia Dare !" 88 VIRGINIA DARE. As sweet that mother's loving tones Thcu- warbled music shed, As though in proud baronial hall, O'er silken cradle-bed, ISTo more the pomj^s and gauds of life Maintained their strong control, For holy love's new gift had shed Fresh greenness o'er her soul. • And when the husband from his toil Returned at closing day. How dear to him the lowly home Where all his treasures lay. " O, Ellinor ! 'tis naught to me, The hardship or the storm, While thus thy blessed smile I see, And clasp our infant's form." No secret sigh o'er pleasures lost Convulsed their tranquil breast. For where the pure affections dwell The heart hath perfect rest. So fled the Summer's balmy prime, The Autumn's golden wing, And Winter laid his hoary head Upon the lap of Spring. VIRGINIA DARE. 89 Yet oft, with wily, wary step, The red-browed Indian crept Close round his pale-faced neighbour's home, And listened while they slept ; But fierce "Wingina, lofty chief. Aloof, their movements eyed, Nor courteous bowed his plumed head, Kor checked his haughty stride. John White leaped from his vessel's prow. He had braved the boisterous sea. And boldly rode the mountain-wave — A stalwart man was he. John White leaped from his vessel's prow, And joy was in his eye ; For his daughter's smile had lured him on Amid the stormiest sky. WTiere were the roofs that flecked the green ? The smoke-wreaths curling high ? He calls — he shouts — the cherished names, But Echo makes reply. "Where art thou, Ellinor ! my child ! And sweet Virginia Dare ! 0, silver cloud, that cleaves the blue Like angel's wing — say where! 90 VIRGINIA DARE. "AYliere is tlie glorious Saxon vine We set so strong and fair?" The stern gray rocks in mockery smiled, And coldly answered, ^' where!'' "Ho ! flitting savage ! stay tliy step. And tell — " but light as air He vanished, and the falling stream Responsive murmured — " ivliere /" So, o'er the ruined palisade. The blackened threshold-stone. The funeral of colonial hope, That old man wept — alone ! And mournful rose his wild lament, In accents of despair, For the lost daughter of his love. And young Virginia Dare. MICAH AND THE LEYITE. Judges, 17th and 18th Chapters. "Mother! the lioarded silver, at whose loss Thou cursedest bitterly, behold ! 'tis here ! — I took it" Thus unhumbled Micah spake — Nor she reproved, but blessed him, and well pleased With her recovered pelf, exulting cried, " The treasure all was dedicate, my son, Unto a sacred purpose. I had vowed To make a graven and a molten god. That we might have our household deities Always beside us." So, she counted out The shekels in his hand, and he, unmoved At her idolatry, with impious zeal An epliod and a teraphim prepared. And then, a wandering Levite — strange to say — For hireling gain, consented to conduct The mingled ntes, to image, and to God, Idolatrous and vain. For in those days 92 MIOAII AND THE LEVITE. There was no king in Israel. Every man Lived as he listed, doing what was right In his own eyes. Forth from the tribe of Dan, A lawless multitude, intent on spoil, Marauding o'er the country, in a glen Of cedar-wrapped Mount Ephraim, found the abode Of Micah, and upon his cherished gods Laid sacrilegious hands. "What dost thou here, Thou son of Levi?" arrogantly asked The renegado leader. "Here I dwell. Even as a priest, and father to mine host — Cared for, and paid by him, and ^^^ell content To worship at his altar." "Hold thy peace — Lay hand upon thy mouth, and come with us — For whether it is better thus to serve A solitary house, or be the priest O'er a whole tribe of Israel, thou canst judge As well as we." With dull and earth-bowed eye The plodding man considered. On one side Were his ten yearly shekels, robes, and bread At Micah's table. On the other seemed MICAII AND THE LEVITE. 93 J^aught save a roaming life, 'mid warrior horde — Perhaps no sacrificial lamb — not even A mess of pottage, rich with lentiles brown, Savory and well beloved. His stupid brow Long m-ought with struggles of unwonted thought, And longer still had wrought, by doubt perplexed, Had not ambition, which may find a place Even with ignoble natures, thrown its bait, Secret and sure — the i^riestliood of a tribe — And tithe of victor-spoih. Quick, upward flew In lightened scale, the fii^eside and the board. All grateful memories — all uttered vows. That bound him to his patrons and their shrine. So with the stolen goods he went his way, Unquestioned still by conscience, if, indeed, Such monitor he had. In swift pursuit. With gathered neighbors, sudden roused to arms, Indignant Micah came. To his sharp words. Upbraiding bitterly, the Danite chief Laconic spake, as sworded men are wont, "Who have the power : ''Let not thy voice be heard Among us here, lest angiy fellows rush On thee, and on thy kindred, and the end Be worse than the beginning." 94 MICAH AND THE LEVITE. With a curse Of vengeful hatred on the recreant priest, Who, shrinking in the centre of the host, Scarce raised a cowering glance, chafed Micah turned Back to his mother, the contempt and loss Bearing, as best he might. Such were the times In Israel, when each man did what seemed right In his own eyes. HI fares it with a land Where lust of gold, and wajsvard passions fill The place of righteous law. May om- own realm, By Heaven's blest page instructed, give its aid To order, and authority, and peace, And heartfelt worship of the God from whom All blessings flow. NATURE'S TRUE FRIENDS. The insect tribes go wandering by, Each for Mmself, the bee's keen eye Scans where the honied nectaries he ; The butterfly coquetteth free With zephyr, sunbeam, shrub and tree. The banker Ant, his gains doth hoard. With forethought, for his winter board. The plodding beetle onward wends. The locust hath his private ends. And rears the warlike wasp with care His architecture rude and rare. So, with the birds, careering high. Some straw to build their nest they spy. Nor spare to steal the tissues fine With tapestry its couch to line. Then close in secret nook they bide. Their dearest joys from us to hide, 96 nature's true friends. Or soariug, taunt oui' earth-born care With happiness we may not share, Save that we gather from the air Snatches of melody, that tell Of higher climes, where angels dwell, Or echoes of their heaven-taught lay To warn us of a brighter day. But ye, meek flowers, with love so true, Unselfish, constant, ever new, For us alone, from prisoning dust, To beauty and to bloom ye burst, To us ye give, on hill and i^lain Your all, requiring nought again; With lavish trust, your noblest powers. Blush, odour, solace, life, are ours, Reserving nought, save one sweet sigh That breathes at last, that lesson high How innocence and peace can die. QUEEN PHILIPPA. Edward was fired with. rage. — "Bring forth," he said, " The hostages, and let their death instruct This contumacious city." Forth they came — The rope about their necks — those patriot men, Who nobly chose an ignominious doom To save their country's blood. Famine and toil, And the long siege, had worn them to the bone. Yet from their eye spoke that heroic soul Wliich scorns the body's ill. Father and son Stood side by side, and youthful forms were there, By kindred linked — for whom the sky of life Was bright with love — yet no repining sigh Darkened their hour of fate. Well had they taxed The midnight thougbt, and nerved the wearied arm, While months and seasons thinn'd their wasted ranks. 08 QUEEN PIIILIPPA. The harvest failed— the joy of vintage ceased, Vine-dresser and grape-treader manned the walls ; And when they sank with hunger, others came, Of cheek more pale, perchance, but strong at heart. Yet still those spectres poured their arrow-flight. Or hurled the deadly stone, while at the gates. The Conqueror of Cressy sued in vain. "Lead them to die!" he bade. In noble hearts There was a throb of pity for the foe So fallen, and so unblenching ; yet none dared Meet that fierce temper with the word, forgive ! Wlio comes with hasty step, and flowing robe. And hair so slightly bound? The Queen! The Queen! An earnest pity on her lifted brow. Tears in her azure eye like drops of light. What seeks she, with such fervid eloquence ? — Life for the lost ! and ever as she fears Her suit in vain, more wildly heaves her breast. In secrecy of prayer, to save her lord From cruelty so dire, and from the pangs Of late remorse. At first, the strong resolve Curled on his lip, and raised his haughty head, While every firm-set muscle, prouder swelled To iron rigour. Then, his flashing eye QUEEN PIIILIPPA. 99 JRested upon her, till its softened glance Confessed conta^on from her tenderness, As with a manly and chivalrous grace The boon he gave. — Oh, Woman ! — ever seek A victory like this ; with heavenly warmth Still melt the icy purpose, and preserve From error's path the heart that thou dost fold Close in thine own pure love. Yes, ever be The advocate of sorrow, and the friend Of those whom all forsake : so may thy prayer In thine adversity, be heard of Him Who loveth to show mercy. THE DESTROYER. There is a ceaseless skaft tliat speeds Unerring tlirougli the air, A sleepless archer all unseen, Yet active everywhere. Close on me steps of busy life He like a shadow glides, Mysterious checks the bosom's strife, And chills its purple tides. The strongly armed and watchful guard, Who keep the palace gate. Saw not the entering foe that smote Their monarch in his state. The lonely cot's unlifted latch ^NTo roaming robber fears. Yet there he lurks, — beneath the tliatch,- Ye know it — by the tears. 100 THE DESTROYED. ; ^ T '; ' ; '> '^ JX)1 And though he loves a lofty mark, The great, the good, the fair, Still, mid the humhlest things that breathe, Look ! — for you'll find him there. The deer, that feels the hunter's sting, And struggles on the plain, — The bird, that fain with broken wing Would reach its nest again, — The moth, that flutters round the flower, — The worm, ^vithin that coils, — He scorneth not his bow to bend, And glean these lowly spoils. The mountain strives beneath the cloud Its hoary head to hide. The combing billows fain would shroud The sea's unfathomed pride, — It may not be, — the hardiest pin That clothes the Alpine steep. The mightiest monsters of the brine That lash the foaming deep. 102 TilE DESTROYER. Confess his power, — tlie wounded whale "With crimson stains the tide, The radiant dolpliin waxeth pale, As though a rainhow died, — The sea-horse on the whelming surge Floats by, without a moan, The coral insect builds its tomb. And hardens into stone. He scans the forest, dark with years, The palm, the banyan's shade, The iron oak which centuries spared. And at his frown they fade. Yet sometimes in his withering path A lowly plant doth spring. From seed of immortality That mocks his victor-sting. In earth, in air, in ocean caves, All deprecate his ^vrath. He crusheth thrones, yet fears to mow That balm-flower in his path. THE DESTROYER. 103 The balm-flower that behind him grows, Wet with the mourner's tear, That springs to staunch the bleeding heart, A Saviour standing near. Strong faith, deep love, unfading trust. That deck the Christian's tomb. Heaven's guerdon to the born of dust, — He dares not blight their bloom. A TALK WITH THE BKOOKS. The voice of brooks spake to me, as I walked At winter noon-day. Up, tlirough icy veils, Cold and transparent, glanced their sparkling eyes, "WTiile ever and anon, as some brief plunge Gave them advantage o'er the softening banks. They brake their fetters. " Why have ye come forth Thus, ere your time, to touch with trembling green The taper grass-blades, and the tiny plants That on your margin grow?" " They slept so long," The brooklets said, "we feared they would forget The mighty Quickener's name, who ever decks This earth with beauty. So we gently waked Theu^ cradle-dream, bidding them learn of us The Maker's praise, which, murmuring, we repeat." A TALK WITH THE BROOKS. 105 "Make haste on your sweet errand, tuneful brooks ! Tint these young lips with life w^hile yet ye may, For, lo ! stern Winter weaves a stronger chain To bind ye, hand and foot. Methinks, I hear Even now, his purpose, on the rising blast." "Then," they replied, "our lesson is for man: When God shall shut the storm-cloud o'er his joys, And quell his song, let him bear on like us, In meekness, and in hope." AN OLD STORY. Says Tom to Jem, as forth they went To walk one evening fine, " I wish the sky a great green field, And all that pasture mine." "And I," says Jem, "wish yonder stars, That there so idly shine. Were every one a good fat ox, And all those oxen mine." " Wliere would your herd of cattle graze ?" " Wliy, in your pasture fair." " They should not, that's a fact," said Tom ; "They shall not, I declare!" With that they frowned, and struck, and fought, And fiercely stood at hay, And for a foolish fancy cast Their old regard away. 106 AN OLD STORY. 107 And many a war, on broader scale, Hath stained the earth with gore, For castles in the air, that fell Before the strife was o'er. THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. A PICTURE BY GEORGE FLAGG. At prayer ! — at prayer, upon the snow-clad rock, The cold, bleak slvy above them. Holy man, — Heart on thy lips, and Bible in thy hand, Pour foi-th, as far as feeble speech may do, The intense emotion of the gathered throng. Eest on thy sword, thou man of blood,* and muse, Thy fading Rose beside thee. Bow and ask Strength for new warfare, when the savage foe Shall plant his ambush, and the secret shaft Ring through the forest, while the war-whoop wakes The frighted infant, on its mother's breast. Prithee, John Alden, say thy prayers with zeal, Forgetful of thy comeliness, and her Who Cupid's subtle snare shall weave for thee, When, here and there, the settler's roofs shall mix With the fresh verdure of this stranger soil. * Miles Standish. 108 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 100 Oh, noble Carver ! boundless is thy wealth, In the pure heart that thus cloth cling to thine, With all the trustfulness of woman's love. And all its firm endurance. He who boasts Such comforter shall find the barren heath Thick sown with flowers of Eden. Pale, and sweet, Ah ! suffering bride of Winslow, 'tis in vain That thus he fondly clasps thy fragile hand : He may not guard thee from the ghastly foe That on thy forehead stamps the seal of doom. He cannot keep thee, lady. Snows may chill Thy foot, that England's richest carpets prest, A little while, and then the soul that sits Bright on thine upraised eye, shall heavenward soar. Oh lone and tiny May-Flower ! ark that touched Our Ararat, without a herald-dove Or greeting leaf of olive,— speed thy course Homeward in hope. For henceforth shalt thou be Eemembered through all time. Thou, who hast been Seed-bearer for a nation, shalt be held Right blessed for thy deed, and on the lip Of each succeeding race, shalt freshly dwell "With holy memories of those pilgrim sires Who taught ISTew England's wilds Jehovah's name. 10 THE PKAYER ON BUNKER HILL. During the battle of Bunker Ilill, a venerable clergyman knelt on the field, with hands upraised, and gray head uncorered, and while the bullets whistled around him, prayed for the success of his compatriots, and the deliverance of his country. It was an hour of fear and dread — High rose the battle-cry, And round, in heavy volumes, spread The war-cloud to the sky ; 'Twas not, as when in rival strength Contending nations meet. Or love of conquest madly hurls A monarch from his seat. Yet one was there unused to tread The path of mortal strife, Who but the Sa\dour's flock had fed Beside the fount of life ; He knelt him where the black smoke wreathed. His head was bowed and bare, "While for an infant land he breathed The agony of prayer. A PRAYER ON BUNKER JIILL. Ill The column, reel with early morn, May tower o'er Bunker's height, And proudly tell a race unborn Their patriot fathers' might ; But thou, O patriarch old and gray ! • The prophet of the free. Who knelt among the dead that day — What fame shall rise to thee ? It is not meet that brass or stone, Which feel the touch of time. Should keep the record of a faith That makes thy deed sublime ; We trace it on a tablet fair, Which glows when stars wax pale — A promise that the good man's prayer Shall with his God prevail. POWERS'S STATUE OF THE GEEEK SLAVE. Be silent ! breatlie not ! lest ye break the trance ; She thinketh of hei- Attic home ; the leaves Of its green olives stir within her soul, And Love is sweeping o'er its deexDest chords So mournfully. All ! who can weigh the wo Or wealth of memory in that breast sublime ! Yet errs he not who calleth thee a slave, Thou Christian maiden ? Gyves are on thy ^vi-ists; But in thy soul a might of sanctity That foils the oppressor, making to itself A hiding-place from the sore ills of time. "What is the chain to thee, who hast the power To bind in admiration all who gaze Upon thine eloquent brow and matchless form? We are ourselves thy slaves, most Beautiful ! 112 APRIL. Month of the smile and tear ! Thou dost inherit A losing gift from thy precursor's hand, An unquenched feud, sustained with lion spirit Against stern Winter, and his ruffian band ; The stormy March, whose quarrels shook the land. Left but sad legacy to thee, I ween. Who, like a girl, all moved to laughter bland, Must gird thy tender limbs in armour sheen. And battle for thy rights upon the changefal green. And hark ! the northern winds, thine angry foes Sweep from their mountain-towers, like barons bold, While, in their secret nooks, the cunning snows Intrench themselves, resolved with durance cold Possession for their exiled king to hold ; But the slant sunbeams waste them day by day. And through their breasts, with arrogance untold The wily brooklets mine their murmuring way. And 'neath the fretted arcli, a thousand gambols play. 10* 113 114 APRIL. Yet doth thy soft hand claim the victory, Month of the smile and tear ! for here and there, The infant grass-blades peering toward the sky Win that green tint which maketh earth so fair. And many a bulb, that l)y the florist's care Found pillow warm beneath the sheltering ground. And many a hardy bud, the blasts that dare. Have heard God's voice amid the garden's bound. And from their cradles looked and listened to the sound. They listen, they unfold, to life they spring, The pallid snow-drop at the violet's feet, — The young arbutus, with its glossy wing Shadowing its forehead, — on her queenly seat. The hyacinth, dispensing perfume sweet, The fairy crocus, all in haste arrayed. The simple daisy, with the cowslip sweet. Have heard God's voice amid the garden glade. Yet not, like Eden's pair, with conscious guilt afraid. Month of the smile and tear! Thy mild behest A countless band of choristers await : The soaring lark unloads his warbling breast. The thrush melodious woos his gentle mate. The chirping robin at the cottage-gate Partakes his crumbs, and with a song repays; APRIL. 115 Up goes the oriole, bright in kingly state : God's voice they hear, with true responsive lays, 'Nov like our ingrate hearts, forego the debt of praise. Nature, all beauteous in the garb of Spring, Thou, as a goddess to her temple-shrine, With budding wreaths and chant of birds dost bring ; And there, with breathing eloquence divine. Whether in hymns, where woods and w^aters join, Or solemn sounds, when sky-crowned forests nod Or spirit-voices, low at eve's decline, Wlien the lone lily trembleth on the sod, She doth announce herself a Teacher sent from God. The world hath other lessons, other charms, To stir the selfish passions. Lust of fame Goads the stern warrior on to deeds of arms ; Wealth o'er the crowd maintains a golden claim; The mournful odour of a mangled nam^ Lures Slander's harpies, posting on the wind : Even cloistered Learning feeds Contention's flame ; But Nature — holy nurse of human kind — Back to its Glorious Sire doth lead the ethereal mind. DIVINE WISDOM. Temporal afflictions sometimes hide those eternal blessings to which they lead ; as temporal enjoyments cover those eternal evils which they too often procure." Pascal. God's will, God's will, my soul ! and not tliine own, [N'o, not thine own ! Thou hadst an earnest choice To look on pleasant things beneath the sun. Sweet flowers and fruitful vines ; but most of all To taste that love which bindeth heart to heart. In close communion. But thy choice was made In darkness, and thou know'st not what was best: He knoweth, — the Eternal ! They who hoard Metallic heaps, say, what will that avail When from their death-struck hands the gold shall fall, O'er selfish, thankless, or estranged hearts. While they, amid the tossings of disease. Part to return no more ? DIVINE WISDOM. 117 And they who make Ambition master, and his bidding do, Upon the war-cloud, trampling fiercely down All loves, all charities, all bonds of right, And bringing plagues upon the souls of men. That they may swell in greatness, — is their gain A blessing, or a pang, when they shall tread That lone St. Helena, which conscience makes. And wrestle with the death-pang, unsustained" By breath of treacherous fame ? Even they, who reap The fulness of their hope in earthly love. Finding each sorrow lulled by sympathy, Each joy reflected from the mirror-plate Of a quick, answering heart, do they repose Too fondly on their idols ? — Do they claim Firm property in that which is but dust, And so complain, when on the winged winds, Uplifted lightly, it doth fleet away ? Doth Heaven's rich bounty make the erring heart Shrink from the travel of eternity ? It may be so — and therefore He who knows Our frame hath gathered round this banquet-board The hyssop branch and taste of bitter herbs. And where we grasp a rose-wreath, as we think, — Gives us a thorn to kiss. 118 DIVINE WISDOM. Yea, and He sends Deep voices to us, from the Spirit-Land, Breathed from the lips that once on earth were dear, And tenderly they teach us how to strike The key-note of that never ending song, Which through the arch of heaven's high temple swells, " God's will, not ours !— God's praise forever more !" THE LAST JOUKNEY OF HENEY CLAY. He passeth on his way, The man to senates dear, The silver-voiced, whom gathered throngs Still held their breath to hear. He hath no warrior's crown, No laurel on his breast, But Peace her drooping olive binds Amid his stainless crest. He shrank not at his post Till the spoiler grasped his hand. And sternly chained the silver tongue Whose music charmed the land. Mid Summer's glorious pride With the tramp of an iron steed, He sweepeth on, o'er the realm he loved — But his closed eye takes no heed. 119 120 THE LAST JOURNEY OF HENRY CLAY. Our cities veiled theii' heads As through their gates he passed, And the mournful voice of tolling bells Wailed out upon the blast : And forth our noblest came To guard their sacred trust, And weeping woman cast her wreath Upon his honoured dust. He passeth on his way In more than kingly state, And silent children press to gaze Upon the fallen great ; While from the ramparts proud, Where his country's banners fly. The booming cannon speaks his praise- But he deigneth no reply. There's sorrow on the wave As the cofl3.ned dead they bring — The passing ships their pennons furl, Like an eagle's broken wing; And as the rippling streams That precious burden bore, The murmuring rivers tell their grief To eveiy shrouded shore. THE LAST JOURNr.Y OF HENRY CLAY. 121 He passe til on his way, To liis own cultured lawn — The shadow of his planted trees That bloom when he is gone : And agonizing love Beholds with stifled moan, A nation's tear upon the bier, That mingles with her own. Bow down in reverent wo Beside his sable pall, The friend of man, who fearless sought The brotherhood of all ! Strong in a Saviour's strength When life's frail web was riven, The Truth and Peace he loved on earth Made him at home in Heaven. 11 FRIENDSHIP WITH NATURE. Benighted wanderer o'er tlie lonely wild, For wliom no lieartli-stone blazes, no fond eye Watches tlirougli gathering mist — no voice of love Prepares the welcome greeting — droop not thus, Disquieted and desolate. Look up ! Orion holds his golden lamp for thee ; And see, from highest heaven, the kingly orb Of Sirius doth thee honour with its beam. Yea, even the fair-robed queenly moon doth bow Upon her silver throne, to guide thy feet Mid thorns and pitfalls. Dost thou mourn to feel Forgotten here, upon this little point Of one small planet? Lo ! majestic worlds, That turning on their glowing axles, hide The mysteries of their myriad habitants, Smile on thee, full of friendly offices. Making night's vault for thee most beautiful 122 FRIENDSHIP WITH NATURE. 123 With their bright tokens. And the glorious sun, Chief of God's creatures in our universe, Shall wake to give thee light, as cheerily As to the proudest king. So, be not sad ! If mortals scorn thee, fly to ITature's arms And ever open breast. For he who lives Nearest to her, is never far from God. Yes, make of ITature an enduring friend. That when grim Age shall lay his hand on thee. Plucking thee bare of all the cherished plumes Of youth and fancy, every wild- winged bird Cleaving the air, or brooding o'er its nest With soul-born music, every bud that lifts Its infant chalice, full of morning dew. May touch the fountains of remembered joy. Making thee young again. And when at last The dark death-angel cometh, earth shall ope Her mourning matron breast, more tenderly. More full of grief, than when the haughty chief. With blood-stained laurels and proud funeral train, Lies down to be forgotten. She shall make Thy chamber in the dust, and spread thy couch. And bid the grass-flower and the violet 124 FRIENDSHIP WITH NATURE. Embroider its greeii turf, as daintily As though the clarion-cry of wealth and fame Had proudly heralded thy pilgrimage. Eegard not Time's brief tyranny, oh, man ! Made in God's image — but uplift thy brow, And by the glory of the inward light Which falls on Nature's dial night and day, Mark out thy journey to the realm of love. "I STILL LIVE." THE LAST WORDS OF DANIEL WEBSTER. " Still I live /" The leaves were falling Eound tlie mansion wliere lie lay, And autumnal voices calling, Warned tlie summer's pride away, While the sighing surge of ocean, In its crested beauty ran. Breaking with a ceaseless motion, Like the fleeting hopes of man. " Still I live /" Oh, strong and glorious Were those prophet words of cheer ; For where'er in truth victorious, - Greatness hath its worship here. Patriot power its high ovation. Eloquence its lofty birth. He shall win from every nation, An nndving name on earth. n* 125 126 "l STILL LIVE." " Still I live r Tlie flesh was failing, All in vain the healer's skill, Light in that deep eye was paling, And the mighty heart grew still : — Yet the soul, its God adoring. Clad in armour firm and bright, O'er the body's ruin soaring. Mingled with the Infinite. "WHiere he sleeps, that man of glory, Marshfield's mournful shades can say, And his weeping country's story Darkened on that funeral day ; But the love that deepest listened, Caught such balm as Heaven can give, For an angel's pinion glistened At the echo-—" Still I live /" GOD SAVE THE PLOUGH See, — how the shining share Maketh earth's bosom fair, Crowning her brow, — Bread in its furrow springs, Health and repose it brings. Treasures unknown to kings, God save the plough ! Look to the warrior's blade. While o'er the tented glade, Hate breathes his vow, — Strife its unsheathing wakes, Love at its lightning quakes, Weeping and wo it makes, God save the plough ! Ships o'er the deep may ride. Storms wreck their banner' d pride. Waves whelm their prow, 127 128 GOD SAVE THE PLOUGH. But tlic well-loaded wain Garnereth tlie golden grain, Gladdening the household train, God save the plough ! Who are the truly great ? Minions of pomp and state, Where the crowd bow ? Give us hard hands and free, Culturers of field and tree. Best friends of liberty — God save the plough ! THE TEACHER. To teach the young, and walk at shining morn, Mid the pure air, and Nature's harmonies Of bird or stream, unto the work that gives The light of knowledge to the grateful mind, And, at the close of day, to homeward turn For the sweet rest that diligence deserves, And self-approval cheers, is less a toil Than privilege. But the intenser care That hath no interval, of him who shares His roof-tree with his pupils, and beholds, Both at uprising and retiring hours. At board and fireside, their observant glance Ever upon him, needeth full supplies Of grace divine. Yea, almost might he ask An angel's wisdom, lest infirmity 130 THE TEACnER. Or inadvertence, in those household hours Wlien men unhend, should mar authority. — Still, if in tenderness of heart he strives To view them as his children, and to bear "With martjT's patience, and to extii-j^iate As conscience prompts, and to hope on when hope Seems dead, yet not for lucre's sake alone But "ever in the Great Taskmaster's eye," — Doubtless he'll reap a harvest, either here Or in the better land. Let such be praised, And held in honour. For they do the work Deputed to the parent, unsutained By that rich filial love, whose sweetness makes All burdens light. And I have seen such care Crowned with enduring gratitude, though oft The boy, unskilled to read the motive right That curbs a wayward impulse, doth mistake Justice for tyi-anny, and so revolt, Darkening the promise of his early years. Yet many a germ of tenderness hath birth From this familiar intercourse, that bears In young and generous natures, blessed fruit Of friendship for the Teacher, such as time And hoary hairs impair not. THE TEACHER. 131 Once I saw A nursery for the mind, 'mid rural shades Pleasantly T\Tapped, remote from tempting snares, Or interrupting sounds of city life. Within its walls a spacious garden spread, Where each a little space might call his own, And stock as best he pleased, with fruit or flower, Berry or salad. From an orchard near The ripening apples told of luscious treat At lengthened eve, which all should freely share. Forest and dale around gave fitting room For summer ramble, and the icy pool Responsive rang beneath the skater's heel. These were for hours of sport, but 'neath the roof Study and discipline, with earnest sway Enforced their claims. One morn, a fair-haired lad Brought to the master's desk a folded note, Of neat chu'ography, in ardent phrase Asking a holiday. The wintry storm Had long been raging, smiting, night and day. The moaning evergreens ; but now the sun Cast o'er the clear cold vault of sparkling blue A compensating smile. Thus inly cheered And strengthened by the coming of a guest 132 THE TEACHER. Honoured by all, who to the master paid Brief visit, they adventured their request, TJnamimously signed. The teacher's heart Yearned to indulge them. But with features grave And policy of pausing speech, he asked Each how his lessons fared, intent to make, If possible, the favour a reward ; Or else demurring conscience satisfy With promises of better things to come, Which many a young and fervent lip pronounced • Bight heartily. So, with paternal smile The boon he granted. Wlio the joy can tell, Unless the boyish nature he partake. That with electric flash, from heart to heart Thrilled at that lauded word. With buoyant step The glad group gathered. Some their rout disclosed To a bold mount, whose palisaded head Mixed in dim distance with a silvery cloud, Intent to glean its ciystals, and enrich Their cabinets with fossils. Some, alas ! With gun or belted quiver, told too plain Their hostile purpose 'gainst the sylvan spoil. THE TEACHER. 133 To them the observant dog delighted hung, And at each summons frisked with wilder zeal. Some to the saddle sprang, while others sped The rolling wheel to reach the neighbouring town, And make the heart of friend or parent leap At their bright, brief '^good-morrow," Here and there Amid the brisk pedestrian throng were seen The osier basket, ominous of good, AYell by the matron's liberal kindness stored; While ruddy fruit, from pocket peeping forth, Bespoke wise forethought for the coming meal. Even humbler creatures seemed to share the joy, And quick from perch to perch the imprisoned bird Flitted with outspread mng, while shriller tones Grave vent to its impassioned melody. Then, at the chosen leader's bugle call. The exploring troop set forth, as full of glee As sport, and the elastic play of limbs, And the free spirit of the woods could make The healthful heart. Would that the pensive eye Of many a distant mother now might glance Upon her graceful and glad-hearted boy 12 134 THE TEACHER. For whom so oft it guslietli in tlie prayer That hath no words. Oh teacher ! it is well To mingle sunbeams with the seed that sows The immoi-tal mind. Damp sorrow's moody mist Doth quell the aspiring thought, and steal away Childhood's young wealth of happiness, that God Gave as its birthright. Strive to blend the glow Of gladness with thy discipline, and urge Duty by love. Eemember how the blood Coursed through thine own quick veins, when life was new, I^or make the isthmus 'tween the boy and man A bridge of sighs. THE PLANT AT SEA. Hold up thy head, thou timid voyager ! Vexed by the storm-clouds as they darkly roll, And by those fiercely tossing waves that stir Thy slender root, and try thy trembling soul. Sad change from that sweet garden, where the dew Each morning glistened in thy grateful eye, And where the roughest guest thy bosom knew Was earnest bee, or gadding butterfly. It grieves me sore to see thy leaflets fade, Wearing the plague-spot of the chilling spray, And know what trouble I for thee have made : Yet still bear on, meek partner of my way. For in thy tender life I hold the chain Of home and its delights, here on the lonely main. 135 MORNING, IN EURAL AND CITY LIFE. <' God made the country, and man made the town." — Cowper. Morn breaketh on tlie mountains. Their gray peaks Catch its first tint, and through the mist that veils Their rugged foreheads, smile, as when the stars Together sang, at young Creation's birth. ^Fresh gales awake, and the tall pines bow down To their soft visit, and the umbrageous oaks Spread their broad banner, while each leaf doth lift Itself, as for a blessing. Through the boughs Of the cool poplars, steals a sighing sound, The leaping rills make music, and the groves Pour, from their cloistered nests, a warbling hymn. — While earth, and air, and ITature's varied voice, Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills. Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn. Morn Cometh to the cottage. Through its door Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth awakes, The fair, young milk-maid o'er the threshold trips, MORNING IN RURAL AND CITY LIFE. 137 The shepherd's dog goes forth, the lamb sports gay, And the swain dips liis glittering scythe in dew, "Which, like bright tears, the new shorn grass hath shed. Joy breathes around, while Health, with glowing lips And cheek embrowned, and Industry with song Of jocund chorus, hail the King of Day. Morn is upon the city. See, how slow Its ponderous limbs unfold. On arid sands Thus the gorged boa, from some dire repast, ^Uncoils his length. Heaven smileth on those spires ; Yet their loud -bells, and organ pipes, and hymns Of high response, are silent. Flame hath fallen Wlierewith to kindle incense ; still man locks His bosom's altar, and doth sell for sleep, What Esau sold for pottage. Lordly domes And marble columns proudly greet the sun, But not, like Memnon's statue, utter forth A gratulating tone. Aurora comes Lightly pavilioned on a purple cloud ; — Sworn worshippers of beauty — where are ye ? Look! — Egypt's queen came not so daintily, When on the Cydnus her resplendent barge Left golden traces. But your eyes, perchance, 12* 138 MORNING IN RURAL AND CITY LIFE. Are dim with splendors of some midnight hall, And plunged in down, forego this glorious sight. Hark ! life doth stir itself. The dray-horse strikes His clattering hoof, eyeing with quivering limb The tyrant-lash. And there are wakeful eyes That watched for dawn, where sickness holds its sway, Marking with groans the dial-face of Time. — Half-famished Penury from its vigil creeps, The money-seeker to his labour goes, Gaunt Avarice prowls — but where are AVealth and Power — The much-indebted, and the high-endowed ? Count they heaven's gifts so carelessly, that Morn With glowing blush, may claim no gratitude ? Lo ! from their plenitude Disease hath sprung — The dire disease that ossifies the heart. And Luxury enchains them, when the soul With her fresh, waking pulse should worship God. GKEGORY BRANDON. [Gregory Brandon, the executioner of Charles the First, did not long survive him, and pined in his last sickness for want of the forgiveness of his sovereign.] " "What irks thee, father ? — in thy sleep I see thee toss and start, While sometimes deep and fearful groans Burst from thy labouring heart, And often, since this fever came, I hear thee mldly say. Amid the conflict of thy dream, ' Turn, turn those eyes away.' " "My life hath been a life of blood," The sick man said mth pain, " And monsters from its curdling flood Creep out and haunt my brain : But, daughter, such hath been thy love, That I will tell thee true." He paused, and o'er his forehead came The start! no- drops, like dew. 139 140 GP.EGOr.Y BRANDON. *^ When civil war, witli countless ills, Our suffering land dismayed, I still was reckless of her woe, Nor loathed the headman's trade. Full many a proud and gallant head My axe hath slired away, And merry was I in my cups, Though I had need to pray. *' Once, on a bitter, wintry day. Five weeks from Christmas tide, Wlien in Rosemar}^ Lane we lived. Ere your poor mother died, Stout Axtel drew me from my home, Stern man he was, and grim. And, with a heavy, silver bribe Lured me to go with him. " A butcher's coat, a sable mask. Did form and face enshrine, And well such hideous garb beseemed So dire a deed as mine, To Whitehall's stately dome he led. And by that palace fair. Strange guest !— a scaffold rudely framed. And block, and axe, were there. GREaORY BRANDON. 141 " Then, from that fair and princely hall, Where oft the feast was spread, He came, — who bare the anointing oil Upon his royal head. As noble was his beaming brow. As clear his dauntless tone. As when a sceptred hand he raised, *" And filled a nation's throne. " None, save a prelate bathed in tears, A servant true and tried, A soldier with uncovered head, Stood firmly by his side ;* Wliile all around, a countless throng Like blackening clouds did lower. That erst with peans loud and long Would hail his day of power. " The hour had come, I bowed me down There, on that fatal spot, To win his pardon for my crime ; Yet he forgave me not. * Bishop Juxon, Sir Thomas Herbert, and Col. Tomlinson, accom- panied Charles the First to the scaffold. 142 GREGORY BRANDON. But turned his large and lustrous eyes With such a mournful ray, That never from my inmost soul Their glance hath fled away. " The hour had come. The prelate spake Like one with anguish riven : ' One stage alone, my king, remains, One step from earth to heaven.' Calm was the sufferer's voice, 'A clime From all disturbance free, A heavenly and immortal crown A good exchange shall be.' " He murmured low, in prayer profound, Beside the block he knelt ; But ah ! once more those searching eyes Did make my spirit melt. And scarcely knowing what I did, I struck ! — with hollow sound Methought the moaning earth replied, — And all was dark around. " I saw not, when that head they raised ; Yet on the scaffold dire, GREGORY BRANDOX. 143 The trickling drops of sacred blood Did scatlie my soul like fire, Wliile from the people's grieving heart Rose such a groan of pain,* As never more this English realm I trust shall hear again. " Then fiercely through the mourning ranks The armdd horsemen rode. Rudely enforcing every man To seek his own abode ; But there in mine, my glittering hoard, My thirty pounds well toldj * The biographer of the Rev. Philip Henry, a pious and excellent non-conformist divine, thus remarks : *' He was at Whitehall, Janu- ary 30th, 1648, when the king was beheaded, and with a sad heart saw that tragical blow given. Two things he used to speak of, which I know not whether any of the historians mention. One was, that, at the instant when the blow was given, there was such a dismal, universal groan among the many thousands of people, as he never heard before, and desired he might never hear the like again. The other was, that, immediately after the stroke was struck, there was, according to order, one troop marching from Charing Cross towards King-street, and another from King-street to Charing Cross, pur- posely to disperse and scatter the people, and divert the dismal thoughts that they could not but be filled with, by driving them to shift every one for his own safety,'* 144 GREGORY BRANIX>N. Seemed as the traitor Judas' hire, For which his hope was sold." <' father ! father ! fret not so," The pitying maiden said, *' It was your lot, and not your will. To do this work of dread. Grim men were those, and hard of heart. Who bore the rule that day ; And had you spared the precious blood. Most sure your own would pay." " They might have torn me limb from limb, Or crushed me to the tomb, But thus to linger slow away Doth seem a harder doom, — To moulder piecemeal here, my child, And night and day to see Those solemn and reproachful eyes For ever fixed on me. " In health, or youthful prime, our sins Lie on the conscience light ; But in the dark and evil time, With scorpion lash they smite. GREGORY BRANDON. 145 daugliter ! who with duteous feet Life's dangerous path dost tread, Keep clean thy hands, keep pure thy heart, And hide the har of dread." Once, at the chill and shadoAvy dawn, "With noiseless step she crept Beside the sick man's bed to see If peacefully he slept. The straining eyes were open wide, , The lips asunder set. And closely clenched the w^asted hands. As if some foe he met. But in those orbs there was no light. Upon those lips no breath. And every rigid feature wore The torture stamp of death. And ever as she onward fared. Through change and chance of life, Or wrote new titles on its scroll. Of mother and of wife, — Oft, o'er her weary couch of rest. The dying sire would seem 13 146 GREGORY BRANDON. With fixed and glazing eyes to give Strange horror to her dream. And as the sinful wail arose Of one who shunned to pray, She shuddered at the spirit-cry,^ " Turn, turn those eyes away.'* THE DEPARTED YEAR. Silent and solemn pass the bannered liours, As to a chieftain's funeral. With sad brow, And arms reversed, they hush their muffled tread, "Waiting the last toll of the midnight clock, Then lift him from his hearse and lay him down In the dark grave with such a mournful dirge, Mid the red torches' glare, that he who heard Shall ne'er forget again. Departed year ! Thou hast had fitting obsequy, as one Worthy to be remembered ; yet what hand Can wiite thine epitaph ? Thou hast induced Changes on this, our little, restless ball Of dust and ashes, that grave History Starts as she chronicles. They who could put Their voice into men's souls and stir them up 147 148 THE DEPzVKTED YEAR. Till nations trembled, have fallen down to sleep, Weak as the smitten bahe. I^ew thrones have sprung Forth from the seething ruins of the past, "With blood and fire around them. O'er the floods Men speed like winds, and o'er the earth like flames. And launch their errands on the lightening' s wing. Making its shaft a spear-point, at their will To pierce the dinted target w^here old Time Notched his slow victories. Thou hast achieved Much ere thy course was run. But thou art gone "With buried ages to hold festival In the dim, shadowy halls, where ghostly things "Wait the slow verdict of posterity. Men, fallible, and girt with prejudice. Pass sentence as they list ; but as for us, "Whom on our journey to a land unknown Thou didst set forward duly, night and day, We shall have righteous judgment from high Heaven Concerninor all our intercourse vnth thee. MONODY TO DANIEL WADSWORTII. Thou, of an honoured name, That gave in days of old, Shepherds to Zion's fold, And chiefs of power and fame. When "Washington, in times of peril drew Forth in their country's cause, the valiant and the true. Thou, who so many a lowly home didst cheer, Counting thy wealth a sacred trast. With shuddering heart the knell we hear That tells us, thou art dust. Friend ! we have let thee fall Into the grave and have not gathered all The wisdom thou didst love to pour From a rich mind's exhaustless store ; Ah ! we were slow of heart To reap the ripened moments ere their flight, Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art Heaven's gifts to use aright ; Amid infirmity and pain Timc'ri golden sands to save; 13s 149 150 MONODY TO DANIEL WADSWORTII. With steadfast lieart tlic triitli maintaiii ; To frown on ills tlio life that stain, Making the soul their slave ; To joy in all things beautiful, and trace The slightest smile or shade, that mantled nature's face. Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed To see thee still at evening-tide "With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth beside. When to thy clearer sight there gleamed The beckoning hand, the waiting eye, The smile of welcome from the sky, Of Her who w^as thine Angel here below, And unto whom 'twas meet that thou shouldst long to go. Friend ! thou didst give command To him who dealt thy soul its heavenly bread. As l)y thy suffering bed He took his faithful stand, Not to pronounce thy praise, when thou wert dead ; So, though impulsive promptings came Warm o'er his lips, like rushing flame. He struggled, and o'ercame ; Even when in sad array From thy lone home, where summer roses t\^dned. The weepers listened ere they took their way MONODY TO DANIEL WADSWORTII. 151 In funeral ranks, thy sable licarse beliind, And 'neath the hallowed dome, where thou so long Hadst meekly worshipped with the Sabbath throng. Thy venerated form was laid. While mournful dirges rose and solemn prayers were made. Oh Friend ! thou didst o'ermastcr well The pride of wealth, and multiply Good deeds, not done for the good word of men But for the Master's Eye, And Heaven's recording pen. For thou didst wisely weigh Earth's loud applause and Fame's exulting swell. Like bubble dancing on the noon-tide ray, A sigh upon the grave. Scarce stirring the frail flowers that o'er its surface wave. Yet deem not. Friend revered ! Oblivion o'er thy name shall sweep, For the fair halls that thou hast reared Thy cherished image keep ; Yon fairy cottage, in its robe of flowers ; Those classic turrets* where the stranger strays Mid works of pictured art, and scrolls of ancient days ; * The AYaclswortli Atbencum at Hartford, Connecticut. 152 MONODY TO DANIEL WADSWORTH. And that gray tower, on Monto Vidies crest, Where mid Elysian haunts and bowers, Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest; These chronicle thy name. And still, in many a darkened cot Where penury holds its sway, Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame That may not quickly pass aw^ay, Or lightly be forgot. Yet, were all dumb beside, The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou didst guide From early youth, w^ith fostering care, Inciting still, to do, or bear, As God's good-will might be ; These, may not in cold silence bide, For Avere it so, the stones on which we tread Would find a tongue to chide Ingratitude so dread: — IsTo ! till the last, faint gleam of memors-'s fires On the worn altar of the heart expires. Leave thou, the much indebted free To speak what truth inspires, And deeply mourn for tliee. THE MOTHER OF WOLFE. A wniTE sail reached the Ocean Isle, That awes the subject sea, And with electric touch awoke Wild shouts of victory. " Quebec is ours ! — Montcalm is down !- The lilied flag is low ! The Plains of Abraham all are strewn ■ With the defeated foe, " There lie the men of France beside Their Indian allies base ; Our colonists like lions fought. And proved their Saxon race." But ah ! the sequel of the tale ! — Must the sad truth be said, That Wolfe, Britannia's hero brave, Is with the silent dead ? 153 154 THE MOTHER OF WOLFE. In tones of iimriuiired grief tliey tell How wound on wound lie bore, Yet dauntless ruled the buttle tide On tlitit far, rocky shore. Until the fatal shaft was sped, That sealed his ardent eye, And, mid the trance of death, he caught The sound,—'- They fly ! they fly !" " Who fly r'—" The French /"—a glorious light His pallid brow o'erspread : " I die content ;" — the heart grew still, And he was of the dead. Red bonfires blazed from cliff to vale, Glad bells their greeting gave ; The loud Te Deum richl}'^ swelled From many a hallowed nave, "Willie to St. Paul's the exulting king With long procession hied. And Pitt, the lofty statesman, drank The cup of patriot pride. THE MOTHER OF WOLFE. 155 Yet iu cue Kentish town alone 'No jocund peal was rung, And sad the fallen victim's name Was breathed from every tongue. For there a lonely woman bent O'er her last earthly trust, And wept as only mothers weep "^^Hien what they love is dust Her thoughts were of the infant head That in her breast would hide, The boy's bright brow, the clustering curls, Her early matron pride. The youthful smile, the sparkling eye, Her pulse to joy that stirred, The manly arm that never more Her feeble form must gird, The flowing blood, the shuddering pang, She might not staunch or share ; And all his laurels were foro-ot In that intense despair. 156 THE MOTHER OF WOLFE. For her, even hardest hearts confessed Soft pity's tender tide, And that poor widowed mother's grief Allayed a nation's pride. THE MUSE. They say that the cell of the poet should be Like the breast of the shell that remembers the sea, Quiet and still, save a murmuring sigh Of the far-rolling wave to the summer-lit sky ; Tasteful and polished, as coralline bowers, Remote from intrusion, and fragrant with flowers. 'Twould be beautiful, surely, but as for me, !N"othing like this I expect to see. For I've written my poetry, sooth to say, In the oddest of places, by night or by day, Line by line, with a broken chain. Interrupted, and joined again. I, if paper were wanting, or pencils had fled, Some niche in the brain, spread a storehouse instead. And Memory preserved, in her casket of thought. The embryo rhymes, till the tablets were brought : 14 157 158 THE MUSE. At home or abroad, on the land or the sea, — Wherever it came, it was welcome to me. When first it would steal o'er my infantine hour, With a buz or a song, like a bee in a flower. With its ringing rh}i:hm, and its measured line, What it was I could scarce divine, Calling so oft, from my sports and play, To some nook in the garden, away, away, To a mound of turf which the daisies crown. Or a vine-wreathed summer-house, old and brown, On a lilac's green leaf, with a pin, to grave The tinkling chime of the words it gave. At dewy morn, when to school I hied, Methought like a sister it went by my side, Well pleased o'er the fresh lanes to gambol and stray, Or gather the violets that grew by the way, Or turn my lessons to rhyme, and bask In a rose, 'till I finished my needle's task. When Winter in frost did the landscape enfold, And my own little study was cheerless and cold, A humble resource from the exigence rose. And a barn was my favounte place to compose ; THE MUSE. 159 For there I could stow myself snugly away, With my pencil and slate, on a nice mow of hay ; While with motherly face peeping out from her rack, The cow munched her food, with a calf at her back ; And the fancies that there in that solitude wrought, Were as chainless and bright as the palace-born thought. When school years were o'er, and the tremulous ray Of the young dawn of life took the tinting of day, With ardour and pride I delighted to share. By the side of my mother, her sweet household care. My callisthenics followed each morning, with zeal, Were the duster and broom, and the great spinning- wheel ; IS'o curve of the spine in that region was feared. And of nervous diseases we seldom had heard. So, singing along, with a buoyant tread I drew out a line, as I drew out a thread. Bees and bluebirds the casement flew by, Yet none were so busy or happy as I ; The voice of my wheel, like a harp in my ear. And the Muse keeping time with her melody clear, And the joy of my heart overflowing the lay, And my parent's approval each toil to repay. 160 THE MUSE. A season there was wlien the viol^ew sweet, And the maze of the dance was a charm to mj feet, For Youth and Joy, with their measures gay, Beckoned me onward both night and day ; Yet oft in the soul was a secret tone Winning away to my chamber lone, And, lingering there, was a form serene With a mild reproof on her pensive mien ; And though I feigned from her sway to staii;, Having music enough in my own merry heart, Yet her quiet tear on my brow that fell, Was more dear than the dance or the viol's swell. When life's mantling pleasures their climax attained, And the sphere of a wife and a mother was gained, Wlien that transport awoke, which no language may speak. As the breath of my first-born stole soft o'er my cheek, Wliile she slept on my breast, in the nursery fair, A smothered lyre would arrest me there. Half complaining of deep neglect, Half demanding its old respect ; And if I mingled its cadence mild With the tuneful tones of the rosy child, Methought 'twas no folly such garlands to twine, As could brighten life's cares, and its pleasures refine. THE MUSE. 161 And now, though my life from its zenith doth wane, And the wreaths of its morning grow scentless and vain. And many a friend who its pilgrimage blest. Have fallen from my heart and gone down to their rest. Yet still by my side, nnforgetful and true, Is the being that walked with me all the way through. She doth cling to the High Rock wherein is my trust. Let her chant to my soul when I go to the dust ; Hand in hand with the faith that my Saviour hath given Let her kneel at His feet mid the anthems of Heaven. 14* LISTEN. Wilt be a listener ? — not to tramp and shriek Of the great iron steed that roams the world, l^or to the jingle of the envied gold That rules it, — these thou needst must hear perforce, But wilt thou list to cadences that dwell In hermit places and in noiseless hearts ? Nature hath secret lore for those w^ho lean Upon her breast, with leisure in their soul To hear her voice. Birdlings and blossoms speak Words understood by all, but unto him Who puts the clamor of the crowd aside, Weeds, and the rudest rocks give utterance To melody and truth. Yea, the wide earth Unfolds itself to his inquiring glance, And to its humblest agents lends a voice Of wisdom. Even the feeblest wave that breaks, Casting the frailest sliell upon the shore, 1G2 LISTEN. 163 Ilatli pearls for liim. lie sees tlie spooiilike leaf That thrusts itself from out the tropic plant, Catch a bright rain-drop to make glad its root, And win the mother-blessing. The pale flower Braving the Alpine cliff, doth tell his soul Of the kind angel that did nourish it. Lo ! occult Science, with her midnight lamp. Demands the silence of a listening mind, Refusing to be wooed by those who pour Love songs to fancy, and shun solitude. Inklings and guessings will not do for her, My gay young student. She demandeth facts "Well followed out, and toils that give the mind Sinew and muscle. From the mount she comes Like Moses, with strange brightness on his face, And in his hand the tablets of the skies. Graven on stone, which in his wrath he brake, To find a dancing people mad with mirth Before their molten calf, who should have knelt In awe-struck silence of humility, To read the law by God's own finger traced. "Wilt listen to the heart ? ' It hath a sigh That the world heeds not, an inwoven mesh Of hidden harp-strings. If thou'lt hold thy breath, And with a meek and noiseless footstep, glide 164 LISTEN. Down the sad pathways of humanit^^ Then shalt thou hear, from every passing breeze, The sigh of souls that have no comforter, Soft, echoed joys, as from a grass-bird's nest, And broken strains of subhmary hope. Till feeling in thyself the quickening tide Of sympathy for all whom God hath made. Thou lovest the Hand that rules these harmonies. So listen, that the monotone of self May die away, and with Creation's song. Of many parts, thine own sweet praise ascend, Until thou join the harpers round the throne. THE THIRD DAY AT SEA. Three days at sea ! The great-souled waves Have borne us on their crest, And shrill-voiced winds from Eol's cave, Have piped us to our rest, And as our ship, with foot of fire. Doth tread the surges cold, And leave behind a glittering scroll, Like banner-staff unroll'd, The mighty monsters of the main Pause in their boisterous play ; Or, glancing through the window'd brine, With terror haste away. Three days at sea ! I little thought 'Twould be so hard to say Farewell to home and cherished ones, And boldly launch away ; 165 166 THE TIIIUD DAY AT SEA. For from my cliildhood I had longed Through classic climes to rove, "Where yellow Tiber proudly rolls, Or Sappho sang of love, Or where, o'er Snowden's forehead gushed, The Cambrian harp, — ^but tears That round my hearth-stone rained that morn, Made dim the hope of 3'ears. Three days ! As long as he of old, The recreant prophet, staid In living casket strangely sealed. Amid the sea-weed's shade ; — He, who from crime-stained Mneveh, Withheld the warning cry, And in a ship of Tarshish thought To 'scape the all-seeing Eye, And then, beside his smitten gourd, Spake out with murmuring breath, To vindicate his bitter right Of an2:er unto death. " On the third day He rose,'' Who rose? My spirit's strength and stay ; Unto whose blessed skirts I'll cling Till life is rent away. THE THIRD DAY AT SEA. 167 It matters not, though death draw nigh In curtained chamber fair, Or on the deep, 'mid wrecking blasts, If He be with us there : And may my ransomed soul at last, Time's storm-tried voyage o'er. Sit down, like Mary, at his feet. And listen evermore. ORISKA. Far in the west, where still the red man held His rights unrifled, dwelt an aged chief, With his young daughter. Joyous as a bird, She found her pastime mid the forest shades, Or with a graceful vigour urged her skiflf O'er the bright waters. The bold warriors mark'd Her opening charms, but deem'd her still a child, Or fear'd from their grave kingly chief to ask The darling of his age. A stranger came To traffic with the people, and amass Those costly furs which in his native clime Transmute so well to gold. The blood of France Was in his veins, and on his lips the wile That wins the guileless heart. Ofttimes at eve He sought the chieftain's dwelling, and allured 168 OKlSlvA, 109 Tlie gentle girl to listen to liis talc, Well framed and eloquent. With practised glance He saw the love-flush on her olive cheek Make answer to him, though the half-hid brow Droop'd mid its wealth of tresses. "Ah! I know That thou dost love to please me. Thou hast put Thy splendid coronet of feathers on. How its rich crimson dazzles mid thy locks, Black as the raven's wing ! Thy bracelets, too ! Who told thee thou wert bea^utiful ? Hast seen Thy queenly features in yon mirror' d lake ? Bird of the Sioux ! let my nest be thine. And I will sing thee melodies that make Midnight like morn." With many a spell he charm'd Her trusting innocence ; the dance, the song, The legend, and the lay of other lands ; And patient taught his pupil's lip to wind The maze of words with which his native tongue Refines the thought. The hoary chieftain frown'd; But when the smooth Canadian press'd his suit To be adopted by the tribe, and dwell Among them, as a brother and a son, — And when the indulgent sire observant read The timid pleading of Oriska's eye, — ' 170 ORISKA. He gave lier tenderly, -nitli sacred rites, In marriage to the stranger. Their sweet bower Rose like a gem amid the rural scene, O'er-canopied with trees, where countless birds Carol'd unwearied, the gay squirrel leap'd, And the wild-bee went singing to his work, Satiate with luxury. Through matted grass, With silver foot, a frolic fountain stole. Still track' d by deepening greenness, while afar The mighty prairie met the bending skies, — A sea at rest, whose sleeping waves were flowers. Nor lack'd their lowly dwelling such device Of comfort, or adornment, as the hand Of gentle woman, sedulous to please, Creates for him she loves. For she had hung Attentive on his lips, while he described The household policy of prouder climes ; And with such varied and inventive skill Caught the suggestions of his taste refined, That the red people, wondering as they gazed On curtain'd window and on flower-crown'd vase. Carpet and cushion' d chair, and board arranged With care unwonted, call'd her home the court Of their French princess. ORISKA. 171 A rich clustering vine Crept o'er their porch, and 'neath its fragrant shade Oriska sang her evening melodies, Tuneful and clear and deep, the echoed truth Of her soul's happiness. Her highest care And dearest pleasure was to make his lot Delightful to her lord ; and he, well pleased With the simplicity of fervent love, And the high honour paid a chieftain's son, Roam'd with the hunters at his will, or brought Birdlings of brilliant plume, as trophies home To his young bride. Months fled, and with them change Stole o'er his love. And when Oriska mark'd The shadow darkening on his brow, she fear'd The rudeness of her nation, or perchance Her ignorance had err'd, and strove to do His will more perfectly. And though his moods Of harshness or disdain chill'd every joy, She blamed him not, for unto her he seem'd A higher being of a nobler race ; And she was proud and happy, might she bathe His temples in some fit of transient pain, Or by a menial's toil advance the feast Which still she shared not. When his step was heard, She bade her beating heart be still, and smooth'd 172 ORISKA. The shining tresses he was wont to praise, And fondly hasting, raised her babe to meet His father's eye, contented if the smile That once was hers might beam upon his child: — But that last solace fail'd, and the cold glance Contemptuously repress' d her toil of love. And then he came no more. But as she watch' d Night after night, and question' d every hour. How bitterly those weeks and years were notch'd Upon the broken tablet of the soul. By that forsaken wife. Calm moonlight touch' d A fair Canadian landscape. Roof and spire, And broad umbrageous tree, were saturate With liquid lustre. O'er a lordly dome. Whose halls had late with bridal pomp been gay, The silvery curtains of the summer night Were folded quietly. A music-sound Broke forth abruptly from its threshold stone. Shrill and unearthly — not the serenade. That thrills on beauty's ear, but a bold strain, Loud even to dissonance, and oft prolonged In low, deep cadence, wonderfully sad, — The wild song of the Sioux. He who first ORISKA. 173 Awaking, caught that mournful melody, Shudder' d with icy terror, as he threw His mantle o'er him, and rush'd madly forth Into the midnight air. " Hence ! Leave my door ! I know thee not, dark Tvoman ! Hence away I" "Ah ! let me hear that voice ! How sweet its tones Fall on my ear, although the words are stern. Say ! know'st thou not this boy ? Whose eyes are these ? Those chestnut clusters round the lifted brow, — Said'st thou not in his cradle they were thine?" "How cam'st thou here, Oriska?" "We have trod A weary way. My father and his men Came on the business of their tribe, and I, Unto whose soul the midnight and the morn Have been alike for years, roam'd restlessly A wanderer in their train, leading our boy. My highest hope was but to hear, perchance, That thou didst live ; and lo ! a blessed guide Hath shown me to thy home." ^'Oriska, go ! I have a bride. Thou canst not enter here — I'll come to thee to-morrow." 174 oiirt^KA. " Wilt tliou come ? The wliitc-liair'd cliicf, I fear me, fades away Unto the Spirit-land!" "I bid thee hence, To thine abode. Have I not said to thee I'll come to-morrow ?" With a heavy heart, Through silent streets, the sad-brow' d v>-oman went, Leading her child. Morn came, and day declined, Yet still he came not. By her sire she watch'd, O'er whose dull eye a filmy shadow stole. While to her troubled question no reply Rose from his palsied lip. Nature and age Slept wearily and long. The second eve Darken' d the skies, when lo ! a well-known step — He stood before her. *'Was it kind of thee, Oriska, thus to break my bridal hour With thy strange, savage music?" "Was thy wife Angry at the poor Indian ? Not to speak Harsh words I came : I would not think of thee A thought of blame. But oh ! mine aged sire. Thou see'st him dying in this stranger-land, Far from his fathers' graves. Be thou a friend ORISKA. IT. When he is gone and I am desohite. Make me a household servant to thy wife. I'll bring her water from the purest spring, And plant the corn, and plj the flying oar, And never be impatient or require Payment from her, nor kind regard from thee. I will not call thee husband, — though thou taught'st My stammering lip that word when love was young, — Nor ask one pitying look or favouring tone, Or aught, except to serve and pray for thee To the G-reat Spirit. And this boy shall do Her will, and thine." The pale face turn'd away With well-dissembled anger, though remorse Gnaw'd at his callous bosom ! " Urge me not ! It cannot be !" Even more he might have said, Basely and bitterly, but lo ! the chief Cast off the ice of death, and on his bed, With clenched hand and quivering lip, uprose : — "-His curse be on thee ! He, who knoweth where The lightnings hide !" Around the old man's neck Fond arms were wildly throvfn. '' Oh, curse him not ! 170 (JRISKA. The father of my boy." And blinding tears Fell down so fast, she mark'd not with what haste The white-brow'd recreant fled. "I tell thee, child, The cold black gall-drop in a traitor's soul Doth make a curse. And though I curse him not, The sun shall hate him, and the waters turn To poison in his veins. But light grows dim. Go back to thine own people. Look no more On him whom I have cursed,, and lay my bones Where my dead fathers sleep." A hollow groan, Wrung by extremest agony, broke forth From the old chieftain's breast. "Daughter, I go To the Great Spirit." O'er that breathless clay Bow'd down the desolate woman. No complaint, No sigh of grief burst forth. The tear went back To its deep fountain. Lip and fringed lid Trembled no more than in the statued bronze. Nor shrank one truant nerve, as o'er her pass'd The asphyxia of the heart. Day after day, O'er wild and tangled forest, moved a train, ORISKA. 177 Bearing "with smitten hearts their fallen chief; And next the bier a silent woman trod, A child's young hand forever clasp'd in hers, And on her lip no sound. Long was the way. Ere the low roof-trees of their tribe they saw Sprinkling the green ; and loud the funeral wail Rose for the honour'd dead, who, in his youth, Their battles led, and in his wintry years Had won that deeper reverence, which so well The forest-sons might teach our wiser race To pay to hoary age. Beneath the mounds, Where slept his ancient sires, they laid him down ; And there the gather' d nation mourn' d their sire, In the wild passion of untutor'd grief; Then smoothed the pillow'd turf, and went their way. Who is yon woman, in her dark canoe. Who strangely towards Niagara's fearful gulf Floats on unmoved ? Firm and erect she stands, Clad in such bridal costume as befits The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge Of her embroider'd mantle, fleck'd with gold, Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast, 178 ORISKA. As though the spirit of that dread abyss, In terrible ^blimity, had quell'd All thought of earthly things. Fast by her side Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lip, Blanching with terror, steals the frequent cry Of "Mother! Mother!" But she answereth not. She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild. The death-song of her people. High it rose Above the tumult of the tide that bore The victims to their doom. The boy beheld The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye, And held his breath for awe. Her song grew faint, — And as the rapids raised their whitening heads. Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide. She raised him in her arms, and clasp 'd him close. Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove Down toward the unfathom'd gulf, while chilling spray Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him. With a low, stifled sob. And thus they took Their awful pathway to eternity. — ORISKA. 179 One ripple on the mighty river's brink, Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge, And at the foot of that most dire abyss One gleam of flitting robe and raven tress And feathery coronet— and all was o'er, Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge Sounding their epitaph ! THE EETUEN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA. Ho ! City of the gay ! Paris ! what festal rite Doth call thy thronging million forth, All eager for the sight ? Thy soldiers line the streets In fix'd and stern array, With buckled helm and bayonet, As on the battle-day. By square, and fountain side, Heads in dense masses rise, And tower and battlement and tree Are studded thick with eyes. Comes there some conqueror home In trium2:)h from the fight. With spoil and captives in his train, The trophies of his might ? RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 181 The "Arc de Triomphe" glows! A martial host are nigh, France pours in long succession forth Her pomp of chivalry. No clarion marks their way, No victor trump is blown ; Why march they on so silently, Told by their tread alone ? Behold ! in glittering show, A gorgeous car of state ! The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold, Bow down beneath its weight ; And the noble war-horse, led Caparison' d along, Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, As his red eye scans the throng. Who rideth on yon car ? The incense flameth high, — Comes there some demi-god of old ? No answer ! — No reply ! Who rideth on yon car ? — No shout his minions raise, But by a lofty chapel dome The muffled hero stays. 16 182 RETURN OF NAPOLEON. A king is standing there, And with uncover'd head Receives him in the name of France : Receiveth whom? — The dead! Was he not buried deep In island-cavern drear; Girt by the sounding ocean surge ? How came that sleeper here ? Was there no rest for him Beneath a peaceful pall, That thus he brake his stony tomb. Ere the strong angel's call ? Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! An echo, never to be heard By mortal ear again. A requiem for the chief. Whose fiat millions slew, The soaring eagle of the Alps, The crush' d at Waterloo: — The banish' d who return' d. The dead who rose again. And rode in his shroud the billows proud To the sunny banks of Seine. RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 1§3 They laid him there in state, That warrior strong and bold, The imperial crown, with jewels bright, Upon his ashes cold, While round those columns proud The blazon'd banners wave, That on a hundred fields he won, With the heart's-blood of the brave; And sternly there kept guard His veterans scarr'd and old, Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge Or purple Leipsic told. Yes, there, with arms reversed, Slow pacing, night and day. Close watch beside the coffin kept Those veterans grim and gray. A cloud is on their brow, — Is it sorrow for the dead ? Or memory of the fearful strife Where their country's legions fled ? Of Borodino's blood ? Of Beresina's wail ? The horrors of that dire retreat. Which turn'd old History pale ? 181 RETUKX OF XAPOLKOX. A cloud is on their brow, — Is it sorrow for tlie dead ? Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft By Russian tempests sped ? "Where countless mounds of snow Mark'd the poor conscripts' grave, And, pierced by frost and famine, sank The bravest of the brave. A thousand trembling lamps The gather'd darkness mock, And velvet drapes his hearse, who died On bare Helena's rock; And from the altar near, A never-ceasing hymn Is lifted by the chanting priests Beside the taper dim. Mysterious one, and proud ! In the land where shadows reign, Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those Who at thy nod were slain ? Oh, when the cry of that spectral host Like a rushing blast shall be. What will thine answer be to them ? And what thy God's to thee ? Paris, Tuesday, Dec. 15, 1S40. UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. Language is slow. The mastery of wants Doth teach it to the infant, drop by drop, As brooklets gather. Years of studious toil Unfold its classic labyrinths to the boy ; Perchance its idioms and its sequences May wear the shadow of the lifted rod. And every rule of syntax leave its tear For jy^emory's tablet. He who would acquire The speech of many lands, must make the lamp His friend at midnight, while his fellows sleep. Bartering to dusty lexicons and tomes The hour-glass of his life. Yet, there's a lore, Simple and sure, that asks no discipline Of weary years, — the language of the soul, Told through the eye. The mother speaks it well 16* 185 180 UNSPOKKN LANGUAGE. To tlie unfolding spirit of lier babe, The lover to the ladj of his heart, At the soft twilight hour, the parting soul Unto the angels hovering o'er its couch. With Heaven's high welcome. Oft the stammering lip Marreth the perfect thought, and the dull ear Doth err in its more tortuous embassy; But the heart's lightning hath no obstacle ; Quick glances, like the thrilling wires, transfuse The telegraphic thought. The wily tongue. To achieve its purpose, may disguise itself. Oft, 'neath a glozing mask ; and written speech Invoke the pomp of numbers to enrich ^ Its dialect; but this ambassador From soul to sense may wear the plainest suit, — Ebon or hazel, azure-tint or gray, It matters not : the signet-ring of truth Doth give him credence. — Once, old Ocean raged; And a vex'd ship, by maddening waves impell'd, Rush'd on the breakers. Mid the wild turmoil Of rock and wave, the trumpet-clang, and tramp Of hurrying seamen, and the fearful shock With which the all-astonish' d mind resigns UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. IbT The hope of life, a mother with her babe Sate in the cabin. He was all to her, The sole companion of her watery way, And nestling towards her bosom, raised his face Upward to hers. Her raven hair fell down In masses o'er her shoulders, while her eyes Fix'd with such deep intensity, that his Absorb'd their rays of thought, and seem'd to draw The soul mature, with all its burdening cares. Its wondrous knowledge, and mysterious strength, Into his baby-bosom. Word nor sound Pass'd 'tween that mother and her youngling child, — Too young to syllable the simplest name, — And yet, methought, they interchanged a vow Calmly beneath the unfathomable deep Together to go down, and that her arm Should closely clasp him mid its coral caves. The peril pass'd; but the deep eloquence Of that communion might not be forgot. A youth and maiden, on the banks of Tweed, Roved, mid the vernal flowers. At distance rose The towers of Abbotsford, among the trees, 1S8 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. "VYhicli lie, the great magician, "wlio at Avill Could summon "spirits from the vasty deep," Had loved to plant. Methought of him they spake, Disporting in the fields of old romance With Ivanhoe, or the proud knight who fell At Flodden-field. Then, as the sun drew low, They sate them down, where the fresh heather grew, Listing, perchance, the descant of the birds, Or ripple of the stream. The hazel eye Of the young dweller 'neath the Eildon-Hills Perused the fair one's brow, till o'er it stole A deeper colouring than the rose-leaf tinge. — Speech there was none, nor gesture, yet the depth Of some unutter'd dialect did seem Well understood by them. And so they rose, And went their way. There was a crowded kirk, But not for Sabbath worship. With the train Was more of mirth than might, perchance, beseem Such sacred place. Wreaths too there were, and knots Of marriage-favour, and a group that prest Before the altar. And the trembling lip Of that young white-robed bride, murmuring the vow To love till death should part, interpreted UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 181) That strong and voiceless language of the eye Upon the banks of Tweed. — I had a friend Beloved in halcyon days, whom stern disease Smote ere her prime. In curtain'd room she dwelt, A lingerer, while each waning moon convey'd Some treasured leaflet of our hope away. The power that with the tissued lungs doth dwell, Sweetly to wake the modulating lip. Was broken, — but the violet-tinctured eye Acquired new pathos. When the life-tide crept Cold through its channels, o'er her couch I bent. There was no sound. But in the upraised glance Her loving heart held converse, as with forms Not of this outer world. Unearthly smiles Gave earnest beauty to the pallid brow ; While ever and anon the emaciate hand Spread its white fingers, as it fain would clasp Some object hovering near. The last faint tone Was a fond sister's name, one o'er whose grave The turf of years had gather'd. Was she there, — That disembodied dear one ? Did she give inO UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. The kiss of welcome to the occupant Of her own infant cradle ? So 'twould seem. But that fix'd eye no further answer deign' d, Its earthly mission o'er. Henceforth it spake The spirit-lore of immortality. NO CONCEALMENT. 'There is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.'* St. BIatthew. Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little stream ! That through the lowly vale dost wind thy way, Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide Of woven branches, blent with hillocks gray ? The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy course Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green Tingeth thy marge, and the white flocks that haste At summer-noon, to drink thy crystal sheen, Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day ; And then thy smiling answer to the moon. Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep, Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon. How couldst thou hope, in such a world as this, To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of bliss ? . 191 102 NO CONCEALMENT. Think'st thou to be conceal' d, thou little seed ! That in the bosom of the earth art cast, And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st awhile, Unmoved bj trampling storm, or thunder blast ? Thou bidest thy time, for herald spring shall come And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art, Unhood thine eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath, And stir the languid pulses of thy heart. The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews Weep o'er thy bed, till, ere thou art aware. Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem. The trembling bud, the flower that scents the air; And soon, to all, thy ripen' d fruitage tells The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells. Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought I That in the curtain' d chamber of the soul Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do A hidden work ? Look to the hues that roll O'er the changed brow, the moving lip behold, Linking thee unto sound, the feet that run Upon thine errands, and the deeds that stamp Thy likeness plain before the noonday sun. Look to the pen that writes thy history down In those tremendous books that ne'er unclose NO CONCEALMENT. 19o Until the Day of Doom ; and blusli to see How vain thy trust in darkness to repose, Where all things tend to judgment. So beware, Oh erring human heart, what thoughts thou lodgest there. 17 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. What hast tliou seen, ^vith tliy sliining eye, Thou Keedle, so subtle and keen ? — ^'I have been in Paradise, stainless and fair, And fitted the apron of fig-leaves there, To the form of its fallen queen. " The mantles and wimples, the hoods and veils, That the belles of Judah wore, When their haughty mien and their glance of fire Enkindled the eloquent prophet's ire, I help'd to fashion of yore. *' The beaded belt of the Indian maid I have deck'd with as true a zeal As the gorgeous ruff of the knight of old. Or the monarch's mantle of purple and gold, Or the satrap's broider'd heel. I have lent to Beauty new power to reign, At bridal and courtly hall, 19-i NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 195 Or wedded to Fashion, have help'd to bind Those gossamer links, that the strongest mind Have sometimes hekl in thrall. " I have drawn a blood-drop, round and red, From the finger small and white Of the startled child, as she strove with care Her doll to deck with some gewgaw rare, But wept at my puncture bright. " I have gazed on the mother's patient brow, As my utmost speed she plied, To shield from winter her children dear, And the knell of midnight smote her ear, While they slumber' d at her side. " I have heard in the hut of the pining poor The shivering inmate's sigh. When faded the warmth of her last, faint brand, As slow from her cold and clammy hand She let me drop, — to die!'' What dost thou know, thou gray goose-quill ? — And methought, with a spasm of pride, It sprang from the inkstand, and flutter'd in vaiu, 190 NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. Its nib to free from the ebon stain, As it fervently replied : " What do I hioiv ! — Let the lover tell When into his secret scroll He poureth the breath of a magic lyre, And traceth those mystical lines of fire That move the maiden's soul. *' What do I know ! — The wife can say, As the leaden seasons move, And over the ocean's wildest sway, A blessed missive doth wend its way, Inspired by a husband's love. " Do ye doubt my power ? Of the statesman as! Who buffets ambition's blast, — Of the convict, who shrinks in his cell of care, A flourish of mine hath sent him there. And lock'd his fetters fast ; " And a flourish of mine can his prison ope, From the gallows its victim save, Break off the treaty that kings have bound, Make the oath of a nation an empty sound, And to liberty lead the slave. NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 19' " Say, what were History, so wise and old, And Science that reads the sky ? Or how couhl Music its sweetness store. Or Fancy and Fiction their treasures pour, Or what were Poesy's heaven-taught lore, Should the pen its aid deny ? " Oh, doubt if ye will, that the rose is fair, That the planets pursue their way, Go, question the fires of the noontide sun, Or the countless streams that to ocean run, But ask no more what the Pen hath done." And it scornfully turn'd away. What are thy deeds, thou fearful thing By the lordly warrior's side ? And the Sword answer'd, stern and slow, " The hearth-stone lone and the orphan know. And the pale and widow'd bride. " The shriek and the shroud of the battle-cloud, And the field that doth reek below. The wolf that laps where the gash is red. And the vulture that tears ere the life hath fled, •17* 198 NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. And the prowling robber that strips the dead, And the foul hyena know. *' The rusted plough, and the seed unsown, And the grass that doth rankly grow O'er the rotting limb, and the blood-pool dark, Gaunt Famine that quenches life's lingering spark, And the black-wing' d Pestilence know. "Death with the rush of his harpy-brood, Sad Earth in her pang and throe. Demons that riot in slaughter and crime, And the throng of the souls sent, before their time, To the bar of the judgment — know." Then the terrible Sword to its sheath return'd, While the Needle sped on in peace. But the Pen traced out from a Book sublime The promise and pledge of that better time When the warfare of earth shall cease. FEUITFUL AUTUMN. Autumn grows pallid, and his bounteous course Draws near its close, while with a feeble hand He languidly divides to those around The last love-tokens. A few brilliant wreaths — Woodbine and dahlia, tinged with berries red And twined with night-shade, and those snowy orbs That cluster mournful round their naked stems. He gives the children, and to older friends Pointeth the rich bequests of better days. Full granaries teeming with the golden ear, And o'er the fields the abundant stacks, where throng The quiet flocks and herds. Art satisfied. Thou of the plough and spade ? Full heir of all The year's perfected bounty, dost forget The bounteous season at whose voice the wain !00 FRUITFUL AUTUMN. PtoU'd heavy from the harvest ? Earth attests His benefactions. But hehold lie dies ! Winds sing his dirge, and the bro-^n leaves bestrew His pathway to the tomb. Mourning, they say, "Remember how he clothed us in bright robes, Crimson and gold, even as that Jewish king, Who fell at Gilboa, dcck'd with gorgeous pride Fair Israel's daughters." Then the grass-blades breathed A lowly sound, which he who bow'd his ear To their crisp foreheads, caught: — " He spared us long, Holding the frost-king back, that we might cheer Man with our simple beauty. Not in wrath. Like some who went before him, did he tread Upon our frailty. So we give him thanks." Then the glad birds, from their migration held By his warm smile, pour'd forth their grateful strain: "He gave us food, and with no stinted hand Scatter'd the seeds that pleased our callow young. And chained, the howling blasts that ere the time Were wont to drive us from our nests away. For this we love him." And the bees replied : — FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 201 "We love him also, for he spared the flowers." And the brisk squirrel mid his hoarded nuts, And the light cricket in its evening song. Yea, the poor gadding house-fly on the wall Pronounced him pitiful and kind to them. So, genial autumn, in thy grave with tears, As when a good man dies, we la}^ thee down, Covering thee with the verdure thou hast spared, Fresh sods and lingering flowers. Thou didst not trust Thy purposed goodness to another's hand. Cheating thy soul of the sweet bliss that flows From pure philanthropy, but day by day Aroused the labourer to his harvest-song. Gladdening the gleaner's heart, and o'er the board Of the poor man pouring such fruits as make His meagre children happy. Thus like thine, Friend whom we praise, may our own course be found, Not coldly trusting to a future race Our plans of charity to execute, When we are gone ; but marking every hour With some new deed of mercy, may we pass, Bland, blessed Autumn ! to our grave like thee, Mid the green memories of unnumber'd hearts TO-MORROW. OxcE when the traveller's coach o'er England's vales Paused at its destined goal, an aged crone Came from a neighbouring cottage, with such speed As weary years might make, and with red eye Scanning each passenger, in hurried tones Demanded, ''Has he come?'' "No, not to-day; To-morrow," was the answer. So, she turn'd, Raising her shrivel' d finger, with a look Half-credulous, half-reproachful, murmuring low, " To-morrow,'' and went homeward. A sad tale Was hers, they said. She and her husband shared, From early days, a life of honest toil. Content, though poor. One only son they had. Healthful and bright, and to their simple thought Both wise and fair. The father was a man Austere and passionate, who loved his boy With pride that could not bear to brook his faults 202 TO-MORROW. 203 Nor patiently to mend tlicm. As he grew Toward man's estate, the mother's readier tact Discern'd the change of character that meets With chafing neck the yoke of discipline, And humour' d it ; while to the sire he seem'd Still but a child, and so he treated him. When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge O'er brow and cheek, the father, at some fault Born more of rashness than of turpitude, Struck him in wrath, and turn'd him from his door With bitter words. The youth, who shared too deep The fiery temper of his father's blood, Vow'd to return no more. The mother wept, And wildly pray'd her husband to forgive, And call him back. But he, with aspect stern, Bade her be silent, adding that the boy Was by her folly and indulgence spoil' d Beyond reclaim. And so she shuddering took The tear and prayer back to her inmost soul, And waited till the passion-storm should slack, And die away. Long was that night of wo, Yet mid its dreary watch, she thank' d her God When, after hours of tossing, blessed sleep Stole o'er the moody man. With quiet morn Relentings came, and that ill-smother' d pang 204 TO-MORROW. AVith \\liich an unruled spirit takes the lash Of keen remorse. Awhile with shame he strove, And then he bade the woman seek her son, If so she will'd. Alas ! it was too late. He was a listed soldier for a land Beyond the seas, nor w^ould their little all Suffice to buy him back. 'Twere long to tell How pain and loneliness and sorrow took Their Shylock-payment for that passion-gust. Or how the father, when his hour had come. Said, with a trembling lip and hollow voice, "Would that our boy were here !" or how the wife. In tenderest ministrations round his bed. And in her widow' d mourning, echoed still His dying words, " Oh ! that our boy were here." Years sped, and oft her soldier's letters came Replete with filial love, and penitence, And promise of return. But then, her soul Was wrung by cruel tidings, that he lay Wounded and sick in foreign hospitals. A line traced faintly by his own dear hand Believed the torture. He was order'd home, Among the invalids. Joy, long unknown TO-MORROW. 205 Rusli'd through her desolate heart. To hear his voice, To gaze into his eyes, to part the locks On his pure forehead, to prepare his food, And nurse his feebleness, she ask'd no more. Again his childhood's long forsaken couch Put forth its snowy pillow, and once more. The well-saved curtain of flower'd muslin deck'd The lowly casement where he erst did love To sit and read. The cushion'd chair, that chcer'd His father's lingering sickness, should be his ; And on the little table at his side The hour-glass stood, whose ever-shifting sands Had pleased him when a boy. The appointed morn Drew slowly on. The cheerful coals were heap'd In the small grate, and ere the coach arrived She with her throbbing heart stood eager there. "Has Willie come?" Each traveller, intent On his own destination, heeded not To make reply. "Coachman! is Willie there ?" "Willie ? No ! no !" in a hoarse, hurried voice, Came the gruiF answer. " Know ye not he's dead, 18 206 TO-MORROW. Good woman ? Dead ! And buried on the coast, Four days ago." But a kind stranger mark'd How the strong surge of speechless agony Swept o'er each feature, and in pity said, ^'Perchance hell come to-morrow.'' Home she went, Struck to the soul, and wept the livelong night, Insensible to comfort, and to all Who spake the usual words of sympathy. Answering nothing. But when day return' d, And the slight hammer of the cottage-clock Announced the hour at which her absent son Had been expected, suddenly she rose, And dress' d herself and threw her mantle on. And as the coachman check' d his foaming steeda, Stood eager by his side. " Is Willie there ? My Willie? Say!" While he, by pity school'd, Answer' d, " To-morrow.''' And though years have fled. And still her limbs grow weaker, and the hairs Whiter and thinner on her wrinkled brow. Yet duly, when the shrill horn o'er the hills Preludeth the approaching traveller TO-MORROW. 207 That poor, demented woman hurries forth To speak her only question, and receive That one reply, To-morrow. And on that Fragment of hope deferr'd, doth her worn heart Feed and survive. Lull'd by those syren words, " To-morrow,'' which from childhood's trustful detwn Have lured us all. When Reason sank In the wild wreck of Grief, maternal Love Caught at that empty sound, and clasp'd it close, And grappled to it, like a broken oar, To breast the shoreless ocean of despair. EVE. For tlie first time, a lovely scene Earth saw, and smiled, — A gentle form with pallid mien Bending o'er a new-born child: The pang, the anguish, and the wo That speech hath never told, ■ Fled, as the sun with noontide glow Dissolves the snow-wreath cold, Leaving the bliss that none but mothers know ; While he, the partner of her heaven-taught joy, Knelt in adoring praise beside his beauteous boy. She, first of all our mortal race, Learn'd the ecstasy to trace The expanding form of infant grace From her own life-spring fed ; To mark, each radiant hour, Heaven's sculpture still more perfect growing. More full of power ; EVE. 209 The little foot's elastic tread, The rounded cheek, like rose-bud glowing, The fringed eye with- gladness flowing, As the pure, blue fountains roll; And then those lisping sounds to hear, Unfolding to her thrilling ear The strange, mysterious, never-dying soul, And with delight intense To watch the angel-smile of sleeping innocence. No more she mourn' d lost Eden's joy, Or wept her cherish' d flowers, In their primeval bowers By wrecking tempests riven ; The thorn and thistle of the exile's lot She heeded not, So all-absorbing was her sweet employ To rear the incipient man,* the gift her God had given. And when his boyhood bold A richer beauty caught. Her kindling glance of pleasure told The incense of her idol-thought : * " I have gotten a man from the Lord." Gen. iv. 1. 18* 210 EVE. Not for the born of clay Is pride's exulting thrill, Dark herald of the downward way, And ominous of ill. Even his cradled brother's smile The haughty first-born jealously survey 'd. And envy mark'd the brow with hate and guile. In God's own image made. At the still twilight hour, When saddest images have power, Musing Eve her fears exprest; — " He loves me not ; no more with fondness free His clear eye looks on me; Dark passions rankle there, and moody hate Predicts some adverse fate. Ah ! is this he, whose waking eye. Whose faint, imploring cry, With new and unimagined rapture blest ? Alas ! alas ! the throes his life that bought. Were naught to this wild agony of thought That racks my boding breast.'* So mourn'd our mother, in her secret heart, With presage all too true ; EVE. 211 And often from the midnight dream would start, Her forehead bathed in dew; But say, what harp shall dare, Unless by hand immortal strung, What pencil touch the hue, Of that intense despair Her inmost soul that wrung ! For Cain was wroth, and in the pastures green, Where Abel led his flock, mid waters cool and sheen, With fratricidal hand, that blameless shepherd slew. Earth learn'd strong lessons in her morning prime. More strange than Chaos taught. When o'er contending elements the darkest veil was wrought; The poison of the tempter's glozing tongue, Man's disobedience and expulsion dire. The terror of the sword of fire At Eden's portal hung. Inferior creatures filled with savage hate, No more at peace, no more subordinate; Man's birth in agony, man's death by crime, The taste of life-blood, brother-spilt ; But that red stain of guilt Sent through her inmost heart such sickening pain. That in her path o'er ether's plain She hid her head and mourn'd. amid the planet-train. BELL OF THE WRECK. The bell of the steamer Atlantic, lost in Long-Island Sound, Nov. 25th, 1846, being supported by portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued to toll, swept by wind and surge, the requiem of the dead. Toll, toll, toll, Thou bell by billows swung. And night and day thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue ! Toll for the queenly boat, Wreck'd on yon rocky shore; , Sea-weed is in her palace-halls, She rides the surge no more ! Toll for the master bold. The high-soul'd and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave ! Toll for the hardy crew. Sons of the storm and blast. Who long the tyrant Ocean dared, But it vanquish 'd them at last ! BELL OF THE WRECK. 213 Toll for the man of God, Whose hallow'cl voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair ! How precious were those tones On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain-billows' strife ! Toll for the lover lost To the summon 'd bridal train ! Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath the unfathom'd main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea; He Cometh not, pale maiden, His heart is cold to thee ! Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad expecting group, Fond wife, and children dear ! They heap the blazing hearth. The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate : Room for the slieeted dead ! 214 BELL OF THE WRECK. Toll for the loved and fair, The whelm' d beneath the tide, The broken harps around Avhose strings The dull sea-monsters glide ! Mother and nursling sweet. Reft from the household throng ; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breath' d their soul of song. Toll for the hearts that bleed '^eath misery's furrowing trace ! Toll for the hapless orphan left The last of all his race ! Yea, with thy heaviest knell From surge to rocky shore. Toll for the living, not the dead. Whose mortal woes are o'er ! Toll, toll, toll, O'er breeze and billow free, And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea ; Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep. And bid him build his hopes on high, Lone Teacher of the deep ! WINTER AND AGE. Gray Winter loveth silence. He is old, And liketh not tlie sporting of the lambs, Nor the shrill song of birds. It irketh him To hear the forest melodies, though still He giveth license to the ruffian winds, That, with black foreheads and distended cheeks, Mutter hoarse thunders on their wrecking path. He lays his finger on the lip of streams. And they are ice ; and stays the m^ry foot Of the slight runlet, as it leapeth down. Terrace by terrace, from the mountain's head. He silenceth the purling of the brook. That told its tale in gentle summer's ear All the day long reproachless, and doth bid Sharp frosts chastise and chain it, till it shrink Abash' d away. He sits with wrinkled face. Like some old grandsire, ill at ease, who shuts 21S 216 WINTER AND AGE. Tlie noisy trooping of the children out, And drawing nearer to the pleasant fire, Doth settle on his head the velvet cap, And bless his stars for quiet once again. Stern winter drives the truant fountain back To the dark caverns of the imprisoning earth, And deadeneth with his drifted snows the sound Of wheel and foot-tramp. Thus it is with man, When the chill winter of his life draws on. The ear doth loathe the sounds that erst it loved, Or, like some moodj hermit, bar the door. Though sweetest tones solicit it in vain. The eye grows weary of the tarnish'd scenes And old wind-shaken tapestries of time, While all the languid senses antedate The Sabbath of the tomb. The echoing round Of giddy pleasures, where his heart in youth Disported eagerly, the rushing tread Of the great, gorgeous world, are nought to him, Who, as he journey eth to a clime unknown, Would to the skirts of holy silence cling. And let all sounds and symphonies of earth Fall like a faded vestment from the soul. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. November came on, with an eye severe, And his stormy language was hoarse to hear. And the glittering garland of gold and red, Which was wreath' d for a while round the forest's head, With sudden anger he rent away. And all was cheerless and hare and gray. Then the houseless grasshopper told his woes, And the humming-bird sent forth a wail for the rose, And the spider, that weaver of cunning so deep, Roll'd himself up in a ball to sleep ; And the cricket his merry horn laid by On the shelf, with the pipe of the dragon-fly. Soon the birds were heard, at the morning prime. Consulting of flight to a warmer clime : " Let us go ! let us go !" said the bright- wing'd jay ; And his gay spouse sang from a rocking spray, 19 217 218 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. " I am tired to death of this humdrum tree ; I'll go, if 'tis only the world to see !" "Will you go?" ask'd the robin, "my only love?" And a tender strain from the leafless grove Responded, " Wherever your lot is cast, Mid summer skies or the northern blast, I am still at your side all your wanderings to cheer, Though dear is our nest in the thicket here." " I am ready to go," cried the querulous wren, " From the wind-swept homes of these northern men ; My throat is sore, and my feet are blue ; I fear I have caught the consumption too." And the oriole told, with a flashing eye. How his plumage was dimm'd by this frosty sky. Then up went the thrush with a trumpet call, And the martins came forth from their cells on the wall, And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower. And the swallows conversed on the old church-tower, And the council of blackbirds was long and loud. Chattering and flying from tree to cloud. "The dahlia is dead on her thi'one," said they, "And we saw the butterfly cold as clay; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 219 Not a berry is found on the russet plains, Not a kernel of ripen' d maize remains ; Every worm is hid — shall we longer stay To be wasted with famine ? Away ! away !" But what a strange clamour on elm and oak From a bevy of brown-coated mocking-birds broke ; The theme of each separate speaker they told, In a shrill report, with such mimicry bold. That the eloquent orators started to hear Their own true echo, so wild and clear. Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair, Swept off through the fathomless depths of air. Who marketh their course to the tropics bright ? Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight ? Who guideth that caravan's trackless way, By the star at night and the cloud by day ? Some spread o'er the waters a daring wing. In the isles of the southern sea to sing, Or where the minaret, towering high, Pierces the blue of the Moslem sky. Or mid the harem's haunts of fear, Their lodgings to build, and their nurslings rear. 20 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. The Indian fig, with its arching screen, Welcomes them in to its vistas green, And the breathing buds of the spicy tree Thrill at the burst of their melody, And the bulbul starts, mid his carol clear, Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. Oh wild wood-wanderers ! how far away Trom your rural homes in our vales ye stray ; But when they are waked by the touch of Spring, Shall we see you again with your glancing wing, Your nests mid our household trees to raise. And fill our hearts with oui' Maker's praise ? AARON ON MOUNT HOR. The summer-day declined o'er Edom's vales, As on, through rugged paths of lone Mount Hor, Three men went travelling slow. One, whose white beard O'erswept his reverend breast, moved painful on, And ever, as the ascent steeper grew. More wearily did lean on those who lent Their kindly aid. I see the mitred brow Of the High Priest of Israel, and anon, As the slant sun sends forth some brighter beam Through the sparse boughs and cones of terebinth, His dazzling breastplate like a rainbow gleams. He muses o'er the distant Past, and calls The buried years. Each, like unwilling ghost, Comes up with its dark scroll and glides away. Again the moan of Egypt meets his ear, As when her first-born died ; the sounding surge 19* 221 222 AARON OX MOUNT IIOR. Of tlic divided sea, enforced to leave Its ancient channels; the aflfrighted cry Of Israel at red Sinai's awful base ; Their murmurings and their mockings and their strife ; The sin at Meribah; the desert-graves Fed with a rebel race, — all rise anew, And, like the imagery of troubled dreams, Enwrap the spirit. With what earnest eye And mournful, from the topmost cliff he gazed. There, stretching round its base, like sprinkled snow Were Israel's tents, where lay in brief repose The desert-wearied tribes. Through distant haze Gleam'd Edom's roofs, with shadowy palm-trees blent ; While farther still, like a black Stygian pool, The lone Dead Sea its sullen waters roll'd. He turn'd, and lo ! Mount Seir with frowning brow Confronted him. All solemn and severe Was its uncover' d forehead. Did it rise Like witness stern, to stir with vengeful hand The sleeping memories of forgotten things. That probe the conscience ? Once again he bent To mark the tents of Jacob. Fair they seem'd, AARON ON MOUNT IIOR. :l'-2 Amid ligu-aloes and the cedars tall That God had planted ; — fairer than to him, That recreant prophet, who was yet to spy The chosen people, resting on their way, And by fierce Balak's side, from Poor's top Take up his parable, changing the curse Into a blessing. But to Aaron's eye, The haunts his feet must ne'er revisit more Put on new beauty. ' For the parting hour Unveils the love that like a stranger hides In the heart's depths. Was that his own sweet home, Its curtains floating, as the southern breeze Woo'd its white folds ? He pass'd his arm around His brother's shoulder, leaning heavily, And lower o'er his bosom droop'd his head. In that long, farewell look, which by no sound Reveal' d its import to the mortal ear. Anon his features wear a brightening tinge, And o'er his high anointed brow breaks forth A gleam of joy. Caught he a glorious view Of that eternal Canaan, fair with light, J: AARON ON MOUNT HOR. And water'd by the river of his God, Where was his heritage ? Or stole a strain From Miriam's timbrel, o'er the flood of death Urging him onward, through the last faint steps Of toil-worn life ? And now they reach the spot Where he had come to die. Strange heaviness Settled around his spirit. Then he knew That death's dark angel stretch' d a sable wing 'Tween him and earth. The altar, and the ark, The unutter'd mysteries seen within the vail. Those deep-set traces of his inmost soul. Grew dim and vanish'd. So, with trembling hand, He hasted to unclasp the priestly robe And cast it o'er his son, and on his head The mitre place : while, with a feeble voice, He bless' d, and bade him keep his garments pure From blood of souls. But then, as Moses raised The mystic breastplate, and that dying eye -Caught the last radiance of those precious stones, By whose oracular and fearful light Jehovah had so oft his will reveal' d Unto the chosen tribes, whom Aaron loved, In all their wanderings — but whose promised land AAHOi; ON MOUNT IIOR. 225 He might not look upon — he sacllj Laid His head upon the mountain's turfy breast, And with one prayer, half wrapp'd in stifled groans, Gave up the ghost. Steadfast beside the dead, With folded arms and face uplift to heaven The prophet Moses stood, as if by faith Following the sainted soul. No sigh of grief Nor sign of earthly passion mark'd the man Who once on Sinai's top had talked with God. — But the young priest knelt down, with quivering lip, And press'd his forehead on the pulseless breast, And, mid the gifts of sacerdotal power And dignity intrusted to his hand. Remembering but the father that he loved, Long with his filial tears bedew'd the clay. ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. Lost ! lost ! lost ! A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock, And graved in Paradise; Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones. All changeful as the light. Lost — where the thoughtless throng In fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth folly's song, Leaving a sting behind; Yet to my hand 'twas given A golden harp to buy, Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. LOST DAY. 227 Lost! lost! lost! I feel all search is vain ; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again ; I offer no reward, Por till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-intrusted gift Is reft away for ever. But when the sea and land Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand Who judgeth quick and dead ; And when of scath and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there ? STOEM-SAILS. Out with thy storm-sails, for the blast is loud, And seas and skies commingle. Pleasant smiles, Fond cheering hopes, delightful sympathies, Story and song, the needle's varied skill. The shaded lamp, the glowing grate at eve, The page made vocal by a taste refined. Imparted memories, plans for others' good, These are a woman's storm-sails. Fain we'd keep Each one in readiness, whene'er the cloud Maketh our home our fortress, and debars Egress abroad. So, choose ye which to spread, My fair young lady. For the foot of youth Is nimblest mid the shrouds of social life, And readiest should its fairy hand unfurl The household banner of true happiness. What has thy brow to do with frowns ? thy heart With selfish lore ? as yet, so little school'd 228 STORM SAILS. 229 In the world's venal traffic. Make thine eye A cheering light-house to the voyager Wearied and worn. Shed blessed hope on all, Parent, fraternal group, or transient guest ; Nor let the toiling servant be forgot, "Who in the casket of remembrance stores Each word of praise. Mother, when tempests rage. Draw thy young children nearer. Let them share The intercourse that, while it soothes, instructs. And elevates the soul. Implant some germ Of truth, or tenderness, or holy faith. And trust the rain of heaven to water it. So shall those sweet, unfolding blossoms blend In future years thine image with the storm, Like the pure rainbow, with its glorious scroll Teaching of God. Scholar, and child of rhyme, This is thy holiday. No vexing fear Of interruption, and no idler's foot Shall mar thy revery. And while the flame Of blissful impulse nerves thy flying pen. Write on thy storm-sails deathless thoughts to guide Thy wind-swept brother to the port of peace. THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. As hasting night o'er Scotia's plains Its murky mantle flung, And on its skirts with ruffian wrath A threatening tempest hung, Beside a farm-house door, a voice Rose o'er the howling blast, "Ah ! give us shelter from the storm, The darkness gathers fast. " We are not vagrants, God forbid ! A dark and evil day, That made so many looms stand stiU, Hath taken our bread away. *'And now, to Inverary's vales, In search of work we go, And thrice the setting sun hath seen Our way-worn course, and slow. SCOTTISH WEAVER. "My wife a nursing infant bears, Three younglings at her side, Weary and cold,"— but churlish tones The earnest suit denied. "The humblest shed is all we ask, Your food we will not crave, And blessings on your head shall rest E'en till we find a grave. "Ah! for our dear Redeemer's sake, ^Let us till morning stay," The harsh key grated in its ward, — The suppliant turn'd away. He held his hand before his face To bar the blinding sleet. And sorrow'd for those hearts that soon Such dread repulse must meet. 231 "0 husband, you have linger'd long 'Tis lonesome on the wold; Up, bairnies, to yon bonny house, And shield ye from the cold." 232 SCOTTISH \yeaver. The wretched man bent shuddering down, Scarce kcnn'd he what to say, He could not find it in liis heart To take her hope away. Yet o'er the moor, for many a league, All desolate and drear. He knew no other dwelling rose, The traveller's sight to cheer. ** Jeanie, my poor and patient wife, God give thee strength to bear ; 'Neath yonder roof we may not bide, There is no mercy there." The weary woman groan'd aloud: "Not for myself I cry. But for the babe that feebly pines, Methinks its death is nigh." The little children sobb'd and wept, And, clinging round her, said, " mother ! mother ! 'tis so long Since you have given us bread." SCOTTISH WEAVER. 233 The pitying f\itlier liusli'd their grief, And drew thefia to his side, Till sleep, the angel, on their cheeks The trickling sorrow dried; Then spread his mantle o'er their breasts, Scant though it was and poor. And there mid driving snows thej cower'd, Upon the dreary moor. Wild throbb'd his aching head, and wide His starting eyeballs strain, While through the darkness, lurid fires Seem'd flashing from his brain: Strange phantom-forms went gibbering by, And woke to fearful strife The thoughts that nerve the reckless hand Against the traveller's life. A new and dauntless strength he felt, Like giant in his prime, Such strength as drives the madden'd wretch To judgment ere his time. 234 SCOTTISH WEAVER. But from the fountain of his soul Uprose a contrite prayer, That Heaven wouki crush tlie seeds of crime, And break the tempter's snare. Kind tones the awful reverj broke, A human form drew near, An humble serving-man who mark'd Their misery severe ; One who the stern denial heard That check' d the plaint of need, And ventured to an outhouse rude The hapless group to lead. Oh poor man, who thyself hast quaked 'Neath hunger-pang, and cold, Or felt the lashing of the winds Through garments thin and old; Far better canst thou feel for those Who bide misfortune's blast, Than Plenty's proud and pamper'd sons Who share the rich repast, SCOTTISH WEAVER. 235 Who, lapp'd in luxury, rejoice By fireside bright and warm. Or from their curtain 'd pillow list The howling of the storm. Rest to those wearied ones, how sweet ! E'en on that pauper-bed. The tatter'd blanket o'er them cast, The straw beneath them spread. But, at gray dawn, a piercing shriek ! Hark to that wild despair ! "My babe ! my babe ! she breathes no more !" Oh Spoiler ! art thou there ? That ghastly face the children mark'd As up from sleep they sprang. The thin blue fingers clench' d so close In the last hunger-pang. And pitiful it was to see How meagre want and care Had set the wasting seal of years On brow so small and fair. '2-}Q SCOTTK-II AVEAVEll. Loud rose the wail of childliood's wo: "Will she not wake again, Our play-mate sister ? Never more ?" Keen was that transient pain. But whosoe'er hath chanced to hear A mother's cry of dread, "Who, waking, on her bosom finds Her nursling cold and dead, — Its nerveless lip empower' d no more The fount of life to press, And gleeful smile and speaking eye Mute to the fond caress, — I say, w^hoe'er that sound hath heard Invade his lone retreat. Will keep the echo in his soul While memory holds her seat. The father started to her side, He spoke no word of wo ; Words ! — would they dare in such an hour Their poverty to show ? SCOTTISH WEAVER. E'en manly nature reel'd to meet Such sudden shock of grief, — • And drowning thought to trifles clung, In search of vain relief. The swallows, startled from their nests By pain's discordant sound. Among the rafters bare and brown Went circling round and round ; And gazing on their aimless flight, He strove, with futile care, To parry for a little space The anguish of despair. But now, e'en hardest human hearts With sympathy were fraught, For late remorse the kindness woke That pity should have taught. There lay the babe so still and cold, Crush'd 'neath affliction's weight, For whom, perchance, their earlier care Had won a longer date ; 237 238 SCOTTISH WEAVER. But in the churcliyard's grassy bound A narrow spot they gave, With tardy charity, that yields — Instead of bread — a grave. Sad tears of agonizing grief Bedew' d the darling's clay, And then that stricken-hearted group Pursued their mournful way. O'er Scotia's glens and mountains rude A toilsome path they wound, Or 'neath some cotter's lowly roof A nightly shelter found, Until, mid Inverary's vales, Once more a home they knew, And from the father's earnest hand The unresting shuttle flew. And though but scant the dole he earn'd, Yet prudence found a way To make it satisfy the needs Of each returning day. SCOTTISH WEAVER. 239 So, to her parents' heavy lot Some filial aid to lend, The eldest, Bessie, left her home, A shepherd's flock to tend. Unceasing, for her helpless ones. The industrious mother strove. And season'd still the homeliest meal With sweet maternal love. • Oft, when the quiet gloaming fell O'er heathery field and hill. And 'tween the daylight and the dark Her busier toils were still. She told them wild and stirring tales Of Scotia's old renown. And of the Bruce who bravely won, In evil times, the crown; Or sang, to rouse their patriot zeal, Some high, heroic stave ; Or whisper'd, through her swelling tears, Of their lost sister's grave ; 240 SCOTTISH weaver. Or bade them duly, night and morn, Whene'er they knelt in prayer, To supplicate for Bessie dear Their God's protecting care. Yet joyous was the hour when they, With shout and gambol fleet, Went bounding from the cottage door The approaching sire to greet, Who twice a month, from distant scenes Of weary toil and care, Walk'd three times three long Scottish miles To spend his Sabbath there. And when, like lone and glimmering star, Across the heath he spied The rush-light in the window placed His homeward steps to guide, Methought a spirit's wing was his, From all obstruction free, Till by his Jeanie's side he sate. The wee things on his knee. SCOTTISH WEAVER. There, wliile the humble fire of peat A flickering radiance threw, The oatmeal parritch had a zest The unloving never knew. And from the poor man's thrilling heart Such grateful praise arose, As they have never learn' d to breathe Who never shared his woes. Once, when the hallow' d day of rest Had pass'd serenely by. And evening with its sober vail Encompass' d earth and sky, Their cottage worship duly paid, While from the pallet near, The little sleepers' breathing fell Like music on their ear, The faithful pair with kind discourse Beguiled the gathering shade. As fitful o'er the darken' d wall The blinking ingle play'd. 241 212 SCOTTISH WEAVER. Then Jeanie many a soothing word To Willie's heart address'd, Her head upon his shoulder laid. His arm around her press'd. Much of their bairnies' weal she spake, And with confiding air Incited for their tender years A father's watchful care, With tearful eye and trembling tone, As one about to trust Fond treasures to another's hand, And slumber in the dust. Her heavenly hopes, she said, were bright. But mortal life was frail. And something, whispering, warn'd her soul That soon her strength might fail. " Oh, Willie dearest ! ne'er before I've stay'd thy lingering tread, For well I know 'tis hard to take The time that earns our bread. SCOTTISH WEAVER. 243 " But now one single day I ask, For then, the weight that how'd My spirit with its presage dire, May prove an April cloud." He stay'd, to mark the fearful pang That hath not yet heen told, To see the livid hues of death The rigid brow unfold. He stay'd, to find all help was vain, Ere the next evening-tide, And then to lay her in the grave, Her new-born babe beside. Her new-born babe ! With her it died, And in the white shroud's fold, Fast by her marble breast 'twas seen, A blossom crush' d and cold. Oh wounded and forsaken man ! Whom mocking Hope doth flee. The lingering luxury of grief Is not for such as thee. 244 SCOTTISH WEAVER. Stern Toil doth summon thee away, And thou the call must hear, As the lone Arab strikes his tent To roam the desert drear. He closed the pleasant room where late His cheerful hearth had burn'd, And to the waiting landlord's hand The household key return' d. And to a pitying neighbour's door His youngest nursling led, Too weak to try the weary road It was his lot to tread, — With earnest words bespoke her care, Which he would well repay. Then bless'd the poor, unconscious boy, And sadly turn'd aWay. With wondering eyes, the stranger-child The unwonted scene survey'd. And to the darkest corner shrank, Bewilder' d and afraid. SCOTTISH V.EAVER. 245 From thence, escaping to his home With bosom swelling high, Uplifted, as he fled away, A loud and bitter cry ; And wildly call'd his mother's name, And press'd the unyielding door, And breathless listen' d for the voice That he must hear no more. And, then, the holy hymn she taught He lisp'd with simple wile, As if that talisman were sure To win her favouring smile. But when all efforts fruitless proved, Exhausted with his moan. The orphan sobb'd himself to sleep Upon the threshold-stone. Even passing travellers paused to mark A boy, so young and fair. Thus slumbering on a stony bed Amid the nipping air, — 21* 246 SCOTTISH weaver. A boy, whose flaxen curls, tlic care Of matron love disclose, Though sorrow's pearl-drops sprinkled lay Upon his checks of rose. But onward, toward his lot of toil With spirit bow'd and bent, Wee Willie walking by his side, The widow' d father went. Silent they journey' d, hand in hand, While from its cloud-wrapp'd head A shower of chill and drizzling mist The bleak Benachie shed. Then, from the beaten track they turn'd A broken path to wind, The lonely spot where Bessie dwelt. In a far glen to find. They wander' d long o'er strath and brae, While blasts autumnal sweep. Before their own poor girl they spied Tending her snowy sheep. SCOTTISH WEAVER. 247 Up toward the mountain side she gazed, Intent, yet sad of cheer, Expecting still, from hour to hour, To greet her mother dear. Alas! this was the appointed day On which that tender friend Had promised with her loving child A little time to spend. Warm stockings, that her hand would knit From fleecy wool, to bring ; Perchance, a broader plaid, to shield From coming winter's sting. As bounds the glad and nimble deer, She flew, their steps to meet ; ** Father. ! and Willie ! welcome here ! But Where's my mother sweet ?" " Speak to her, Willie ! Kiss her cheek ! That grows so pale and whit6 ; Fain would I turn away awhile, I cannot bear the sight. 248 SCOTTISH WEAVER. " sol) not so, my precious son 1 Speak kindly words, and say Why your lost mother does not come, And how she sleeps in clay." So, clasp' d within each other's arms, Upon the heather dry, Beside a clear and rippling brook That crept unheeded by, They told their tale of wo, and found In sympathy relief; But he, the deeper mourner, sank, In solitary grief. And nought escaped his utterance there, While kneeling on the sod. Save her loved name, his poor lost wife, And broken cries to God. Nor long the kindred tear to pour That smitten group might stay, For meagre Want with tyi-ant frown Were beckoning them away. SCOTTISH WEAVER. 249 "Oh, put your trust in God, my child," The parting father said, Then kiss'd his daughter's trembling lips, And on his journey sped. And sometimes, when her task bore hard, It seem'd a mother's sigh, "Oh, put your trust in God, my child," Came breathing from the sky. Oh ye, who see the suffering poor With countless ills opprest. Yet on in lordly chariots roll. Nor heed their sad request ; — Who mark the unrequited toil That with its mountain weight Doth crush them hopeless to the dust, Yet leave them to their fate ; Think of the hour, when forth, like theirs, Your uncloth'd soul must fleet. Its last and dread account to bide Before the Judge's seat. 250 SCOTTISH WEAVER. And if to feed tlie hungering poor, And be the orphan's stay, Shall be remember'd mid the ire Of that terrific day. Haste ! ope the hand to mercy's deed, The heart to sorrow's prayer, And bid your lovdj brother plead For your forgiveness there. NOTE. "Strange to say, on first becoming aware of the bereavements of that terrible night, [ sate for some minutes gazing upward at the fluttering and wheeling movements of a partj' of swallows, our fellow-loagers, that had been disturbed by our \inearthly outcry."— Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver. This poem is almost a literal version of circumstances related in a book, with the above title, published in England recently, and written by William Thom, a Scotch weaver and poet. " Its object," says the author, '• is to impart to one portion of the community ghmpses of what is going" on in another." In our own happy land, the labouring poor have no idea of the distress which he thus simply yet forcibly depicts. It occurred soon after six thousand looms were stopped in the region of Dundee, and just before William Thom, with his wife and four little ones, left their home at Newlyte, in search of the means of subsistence at luverary, as related in the pre- ceding stanzas. " It had been a stiff winter and an unkindly spring ; but I will not expatiate on six human lives maintained on five shillings weekly, on babies prematurely thoughtful, on comely faces withering, on desponding youth, and too quickly declining age. I will describe one morning of modified starvation at Newlyte, and then pass on. " Imagine a cold, dreary forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows none of the signs of that time of day. The four children are still asleep. There is a bed-cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible. The mother sits beside the bed of her children, to lull them back to sleep, when either shall show any in- clination to wake. For this there is a cause. Our weekly five shillings have not come as was expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I wore conversing in sunken whispers about making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, when the youngest chUd awoke, beyond the mother's power to h ush it again to sleep. It finally broke out into a steady scream, which, of course, rendered it impossible to keep the rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprang up, each little one exclaiming, '0 mother! mother! give me a piece.' How weak a word is sorrow, to ai;i>ly to the feelings r.f myself and my wife on that dreary day!" 260 THE INDIAN SUMMER. When was the red man's summer ? When the rose Hung its first banner out ? When the gray rock, Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed? Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks Started to see the proud lobelia glow Like living flame ? When through the forest gleam'd The rhododendron ? or the fragrant breath Of the magnolia swept deliciously O'er the half laden nerve ? No. When the groves In fleeting colours wrote their own decay, And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, Heavy of wing and fearful ; when, with heart Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd The signs of coming winter ; then began 251 252 INDIAN SUMMER. The Indian's joyous season.* Then the haze, Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. The quiet rivers, that were wont to hide 'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray' d By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept. While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged In the same element. Slowly the sun, And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved, And then it took upon its parting wing A rainbow glory. Gorgeous was the time, Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee, Our brother hunter, but to us replete With musing thoughts in melancholy train. Our joys, alas ! too oft were wo to thee. Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands, The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown. And when we would forget, repeat thy name. * An aged chief said to our ancestors, " The •white man's summer is past and gone, but that of the Indian begins when the leaves fall." THE HEEMIT OF THE FALLS. It was the leafy month of June, And joyous Nature, all in tune. With wreathing buds was drest. As toward Niagara's fearful side A youthful stranger prest. His ruddy cheek was blanch' d with awe, And scarce he seem'd his breath to draw. While, bending o'er its brim, He mark'd its strong, unfathom'd tide. And heard its thunder-hymn. His measured week too quickly fled. Another, and another sped, And soon the summer rose decay' d. The moon of autumn sank in shade. Years fill'd their circle brief and fair. Yet still the enthusiast linger' d there. 253 254 IIEIIMIT OF THE FALLS. Till Avintcr hurl'd its dart; For deeply round Lis soul ^vas ^vove A mystic cliuin of quenchless love, That ^YOuld not let him part. When darkest midnight veil'd the sky, You'd hear his hasting step go by. To gain the bridge beside the deep. That thread-like o'er the surge Shot, where the wildest torrents leap, And there, upon its awful verge. His vigil lone to keep. And when the moon, descending low, Hung on the flood that gleaming bow. Which it would seem some angel's hand With heaven's own pencil tinged and spann'd, Pure symbol of a better land. He, kneeling, poured in utterance free The eloquence of ecstasy ; Though to his words no answer came, Save that One, Everlasting Name, Which, since Creation's morning broke, Niagara's lip alone hath spoke. When wintry tempests shook the sky, And the rent pine-tree hurtled by. HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 25; Unblencliing mid the storm lie stood, And mark'd sublime the wrathful flood, While wrought the frost-king fierce and drear, His palace mid those cliffs to rear, And strike the massy buttress strong, And pile his sleet the rocks among. And wasteful deck the branches bare With icj diamonds, rich and rare. Nor lack'd the hermit's humble shed Such comforts as our natures ask To fit them for their daily task, — The cheering fire, the peaceful bed, The simple meal in season spread: While by the lone lamp's trembling light, As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright, O'er Homer's page he hung. Or Maro's martial numbers scann'd, For classic lore of many a land Flow'd smoothly o'er his tongue. Oft, with rapt eye and skill profound, He woke the entrancing viol's sound. Or touch' d the sweet guitar. For heavenly music deign'd to dwell An inmate in his. cloister' d cell. As beams the solemn star 256 HERMIT OF THE FALLS. All nii>;lit, witli meditative eyes, Where some lone rock-bouiul fountain lies. As through the groves with quiet tread, On his accustom' d haunts he sped, The mother-thrush, un startled, sung Iler descant to her callow young. And fearless o'er his threshold prest The wanderer from the sparrow's nest ; The squirrel raised a sparkling eye, Nor from his kernel cared to fly As pass'd that gentle hermit by ; No timid creature shrank to meet His pensive glance, serenely sweet ; From his own kind, alone, he sought The screen of solitary thought. Whether the world too harshly prest Its iron o'er a yielding breast. Or taught his morbid youth to prove The pang of unrequited love. We know not, for he never said Aught of the life that erst he led. On Iris isle, a summer bower He twined with branch, and vine, and flower, And there he mused, on rustic seat, Unconscious of the noonday heat. HERMIT OF THE FALLS. Or 'ncatli the crystal waters lay, Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play. Yet once, the whelming flood grew strong, And bore him like a weed along, Though, with convulsive throes of pain And heaving breast, he strove in vain ; Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide, Lone as he lived, the hermit died. On, by the rushing current swept, The lifeless corse its voyage kept. To where, in narrow gorge comprest, The whirling eddies never rest, But boil with wild tumultuous sway, The maelstrom of Niagara. And there, within that rocky bound, In swift gyrations round and round, Mysterious course it held; Now springing from the torrent hoarse. Now battling as with maniac force, To mortal strife compell'd. Right fearful 'neath the moonbeam bright, It was to see that brow so white. And mark the ghastly dead Leap upward from his torture-bed, HERMIT OF THE FALLS. As if in passion-gust, And tossing wild with agony, To mock the omnipotent decree Of dust to dust. At length, where smoother waters flow, Emerging from the gulf below. The hapless youth they gain'd, and bore Sad to his own forsaken door. There watch' d his dog with straining eye, And scarce would let the train pass by, Save that, with instinct's rushing spell, Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, And stiff and stony form, he knew The master he kad loved so well. The kitten fair, whose graceful wile So oft had won his musing smile, As at his foot she held her play, Stretch' d on his vacant pillow lay. While strew' d around, on board and chair, The last pluck' d flower, the book last read, The ready pen, the page outspread, The water-cruse, the unbroken bread, Reveal' d how sudden was the snare That swept him to the dead. HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 259^ And so lie rests in forei2;n e