UC-NRLF 
 
o* : 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 GIKT OF 
 
 T M/r& . /f cm/v\y v 
 Received" OCT 29 1892 
 
 ^/ ccessions No. 
 
 H O Q 2-^; 
 

PUBLISHERS NOTICE 
 
 TO THE NEW EDITION OF SELECT POEMS. 
 
 THE present volume, carefully revised, having re- 
 ceived the addition of several poems, and of two illus 
 trative plates, the publishers hope will be thus rendered 
 more acceptable to the public, who have regarded its 
 previous editions with favour, as evinced by the follow 
 ing opinions : 
 
 Extract from a Review in the " American Monthly Magazine," N. York. 
 
 "Mrs. Sigourney s poems are scarcely less peculiar for their straight 
 forward common sense, their pure and unobtrusive religion, and their 
 deep vein of natural tenderness, than for their correct versification, 
 their harmony, and their true poetry. Very different as she is in her 
 general style from the English Sappho, for so, not absurdly, has Mrs. 
 Hemans been styled, we conceive that there is still something kindred 
 in their spirits. Mrs. Hemans is the high-souled and delicately proud 
 poetess of an old dominion; her lays are full of the noble chivalry of a 
 etate whose associations are of aristocracy ; she is the asserter of heredi 
 tary nobility, the nobility of thought, of action, and of soul, no less than 
 of broad lands and ancient titles ; yet withal she has a thousand sweet and 
 simple songs of the cottage and the lowly hearth. Mrs. Sigourney is the 
 Hemans of a republic ; and if she rather delights to dwell in the hamlet, 
 to muse over the birth of the rustic infant, or the death of the village mo 
 ther, it is, that such is the genius of her country, the boasted associa 
 tions of her land, are simplicity and freedom; and as befit the muse of 
 such a land, so are her meditations fain to celebrate the virtues of hei 
 country s children." 
 
 From the "American Traveller," Boston. 
 
 __" No poetess in our country has taken a purer flight through the realms 
 of imagination than Mrs. Sigourney. There is a chaste dignity, a clear 
 sweetness, a devotional delicacy, pervading all her effusions. She in 
 structs while she delights, and elevates while she refines. Every page 
 breathes the life of poetry, and the purity of religion. She pleases the 
 aged and delights the young. The mourner may gather consolation from 
 her musings, the thoughtless find themes for reflection, and the inexpe 
 rienced may yield their imaginations and their hearts to her guidance, 
 without fear of being betrayed into folly, or misled into error." 
 
 Extract from the " New-Hampshire Patriot." 
 
 " We are pleased with the liberal spirit of devotion which is scattered 
 through every part of this volume. Whatever we meet with at the hand 
 of man, we are delighted to see the brows of woman adorned with the bios- 
 Eoms of piety. The voice that sows the germs of thought in our minds, 
 should be chastened by the holy influences of relision. The mild, peaceful 
 doctrines of Jesus, should be implanted, before the wild passions of youth 
 grow up. Hence, these poems are fitted for the nursery, as well as the 
 parlour. We hope every woman will peruse them over and over, untu 
 she shall imbibe a measure of that spirit which ijave them utterance." 
 
ft PUBLISHER S NOTICE. 
 
 From the " Saturday Courier," Philadelphia. 
 Not " Orient pearls at random strung," 
 
 But Western gems in casket set; 
 Words that by seraphs might be sung, 
 And flow rs by Heaven s own dew drops wet. 
 
 " There should be a double pride connected with this beautiful work a 
 pride in the distinguished authoress, that her fellow countrymen have 
 called for a. fourth edition of her lovely gems and a pride in those country 
 men that one of America s daughters possesses the soul and the genius to 
 write them. One word in commendation of Mrs. Sigourney t poems, 
 would be considered unnecessary, as many of them are as familiar as 
 household words. But the very elegant manner in which the publisher has 
 got up the book, calls for special praise. In binding, ornamenting, and 
 plates, it has every appearance of a four or six dollar annual, while in the 
 perennial and sterling character of its letter press, it is worth half a score 
 of them, and costs but about one-third, we believe, of one of them/ 
 
 From the "Presbyterian," Philadelphia. 
 
 "From the many specimens of this lady s poetry, with which we have 
 graced our columns, our readers will before this have concluded that she 
 is with us an especiij favourite. And in truth she is. Her pure taste, 
 delicate imagination, piety, and what, in our opinion, is an indispensable 
 attribute of a true poet, her good sense, have won our esteem. This 
 volume contains many beautiful gems, and moreover, they are presented 
 in a very pretty casket." 
 
 From the " United States Gazette," Philadelphia. 
 
 "The writings of Mrs. Sigourney are familiar to almost every American 
 reader, und the general expression of praise which has been so liberally 
 bestowed by the critic, the savant, and the mere general reader, is such aa 
 to warrant us in saying that she possesses more than ordinary merit, and 
 indeed superior excellence characterizes the emanations from her pen. 
 The volume which has just been published by Mr. Biddle, should be in the 
 possession of every female reader in the country its perusal cannot but 
 excite the purest emotions, and produce the happiest impressions. 
 
 "It contains poetry of a pure and elevated order, such as cannot but be 
 road with admiration. No one possessing the ordinary attributes of hu 
 manity, or whose feelings are in accordance with a healthy sensibility, 
 can peruse these poems without being forcibly struck with their excellence, 
 and reminded of every thought, sensibility and feeling of the soul, of by- 
 jrone days, of youthful aspirations, and all those varied impulses of the 
 heart, which at the time were sources of joy or grief, and in their remi 
 niscence bring to the fountain of the soul, sensations, which if even they 
 are of a saddening nature, are pleasant to the soul. " 
 
 From the " Scioto Gazette, " Chillicothe, Ohio. 
 
 No American lady has written so much, or so well, as the authoress of the 
 beautiful book now before us. None has exercised a better influence upon the 
 minds of her readers. In social life, gentle, courteous, unassuming ; warm m 
 her friendships, and wise in her benevolent and well-directed sympathies, as a 
 writer she is all the same. Her works are healthful in their character : and if 
 unmarked by any of those startling flights which seem scarcely consistent 
 with a well-balanced intellect, are yet well sustained and imbued with a pure 
 and a truthful spirit. That several editions of Mrs. Sigpurney s "Select 
 Poems" should have beon so rapidly demanded, is a gratifying indication of 
 tbo soundness of the literary tastes of our country. We hope soon to see a 
 ,-,,n.l Ictv edition of her prose and poetical works. It would form an indispen 
 sable addition to every well-selected American, library. 
 


 
 <^0> 
 w 
 
 
 . 
 
 A HART 
 
SELECT POEIS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MKS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 ELEVENTH EDITION, REVISED AND CORRECTED. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PARRY & MCMILLAN, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO A. HART, LATE CAREY & HART. 
 
 G. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by 
 
 EDWARD C. BIDDLE, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 Printed by T. K & P. Collins. 
 

 feiriyi 
 
 mr 
 
 THE Publisher of "The Select Poems" has been permitted 
 to make use of the folio-wing extracts of a communication from 
 the late lamented MARIA EDGEWORTII, a name which, on both 
 sides of the Atlantic, claims respect. She has expressed high 
 approbation of the poems of Mrs. Sigourney in general, and from 
 the yolume thus designated, selects some of her favourites. 
 
 " CONNECTICUT RIVER, page 16, is fine poetry, and contains 
 sentiments worthy of Gray s Country Church-yard, without 
 any thing like close imitation, and with touches and thoughts 
 peculiar to America. From the G8th line to the close, it is 
 strongly marked. Especially the lines, 
 
 Lo ! here they rest, who every danger braved, 
 Unmark d, untrophied, mid the soil they saved, 
 
 would serve as a fine epitaph or inscription for any burial-place 
 of New Englanders. 
 
 " THE LOST DARLING, page 150, is very touching and natu 
 ral ; and the Lines to the Memory of a Young Lady, page 
 155, are very beautiful. In the poem entitled Benevolence, 
 page 181, the passage beginning 
 
 Point out to me the forms 
 That in your treasure-chambers shall enact 
 Glad mastership, and revel where you toil d 
 Sleepless, and stern. 
 
 is worthy of Shakspeare, and might be read to the best judges 
 as Shakspeare s own. 
 
 7 
 
8 MISS EDGEWORTII S REMARKS. 
 
 " INDIAN NAMES, page 258, is very poetical. In some shape 
 or other, the Indians ought to send tokens of their gratitude to 
 Mrs. Sigourney. They surely would, could all she has written 
 of them, in eloquent strains, be interpreted to their feeling 
 hearts. 
 
 " THE MOHEGAN CHURCH, page 323, is particularly admira 
 ble, both as poetry, and for the spirit in which it is written. 
 Being recently asked for my autograph, I was glad to copy its 
 nine concluding lines, and sign my name, as a testimony of ad 
 miration. 
 
 "THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS, page 329. I should like to see the 
 picture to which it is stated that these lines were adapted. It 
 must have had great merit as a painting, to have called forth 
 such sympathy from the sister art. 
 
 "PARTING OF A MOTHER WITH HER CHILD, page 332. The 
 child s not knowing the mother is a new circumstance well 
 touched, and truly pathetic. 
 
 " Another remark has occurred to me, in reading these poems, 
 that Mrs. Sigourney appears to have the power of writing extem 
 pore, on passing subjects, and at the moment they are called 
 for. But few persons of genius, particularly of poetic genius, 
 have ever possessed this power. She must have great command 
 over her own mind, and what a celebrated physician used to 
 call voluntary attention, in which most people are lamentably 
 deficient, so that they can never write any thing well, when 
 called upon for it, or when the subject is suggested, and the 
 effect bespoken. These powers are twice valuable, that can 
 well accomplish their purpose, on demand. Certainly, as it 
 regards poetic gifts, those who give promptly, give twice. 
 
 " How few, even of professed and eminent poets have been 
 able to produce any effusion worthy of their reputation, or even 
 worth reading, on what the French call des sujets de command ; 
 and what we English describe as on the spur of the moment. 
 ADDISON could not. GRAY could not. Many more might be 
 named, who could not. MRS. SIGOURNEY S friends will doubt 
 less be ready to bear testimony that she can." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 SOME of the poems in this volume were written at an 
 early age; others, amid domestic or maternal cares. 
 The greater part were suggested by passing occasions, 
 and partake of the nature of extemporaneous produc 
 tions ; all reveal by their brevity, the short periods of 
 time allotted to their construction. 
 
 Like wild flowers among the dells, or clefts of the 
 rock, they sprang up wherever the path of life chanced 
 to lead. She who gathered, and now offers them to the 
 beloved clime of her birth, selects for their motto the 
 truthful words of an eloquent writer : 
 
 " Though I expect from them neither profit nor gene 
 ral fame, I consider myself amply repaid without either. 
 Poetry has been to me, its own exceeding great reward. 
 It possesses power to soothe affliction, to multiply and 
 refine enjoyment, to endear solitude, and to give the 
 habit of discovering the good and the beautiful, in all 
 that meets or surrounds us." 
 
 HARTFORD, Conn., Feb. 5th, 1845. 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. ....... FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 VIGNETTE TITLE . . 
 
 TACK 
 THE BRAVE BROTHER 49 
 
 THE FARMER 103 
 
 THE LOST DARLING 150 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER 200 
 
 THE FAITHFUL DOG ... . .286 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Bird 13 
 
 Sabbath Morning 14 
 
 Connecticut lliver 16 
 
 TheStars 21 
 
 To an Absent Daughter 25 
 
 The Cheerful Giver 27 
 
 Wild Flowers for a Sick Friend- 29 
 
 Death of an Infant SO 
 
 PerdidiDiem 32 
 
 To the Cactus Speciosissimus 31 
 
 Anna Boleyn 36 
 
 Evening at Home 39 
 
 The Sunday School 42 
 
 The Ark and Dove 44 
 
 Song of the Icelandic Fisherman 47 
 
 The Brave Brother 49 
 
 The Ancient Family Clock 52 
 
 To a Shred of Linen- 57 
 
 TheBubble 61 
 
 The Western Emigrant 63 
 
 On the Admission of Michigan 
 
 into the Union 67 
 
 Solitude 70 
 
 Nature s Royalty 72 
 
 TheTimetoDie 75 
 
 Forgotten Flowers to a Bride- - 77 
 
 The Fathers of New England 79 
 
 The Fall of the Rose 82 
 
 .. 84 
 
 86 
 
 Thought 
 
 School of Young Ladies- 
 
 Niagara 
 
 The Sick Child 
 
 Twilight 
 
 91 
 
 94 
 
 Funeral of Mazeen 96 
 
 The Mourning Daughter 98 
 
 PAGl 
 The Happy Farmer 103 
 
 A Cottage Scene 105 
 
 Rose to the Dead 107 
 
 Burial of Two Young Sisters, the 
 
 only Children of their Parents 110 
 
 Autumn 112 
 
 The Last Supper 115 
 
 Washington s Tomb 118 
 
 Recollections of an Aged Pastor- 120 
 
 Our Aborigines 123 
 
 The Bitterness of Death 126 
 
 The Hopia Tree 128 
 
 A Door Opened in Heaven 131 
 
 Passing Away 133 
 
 Sunset on the Alleghany 135 
 
 Contentment 138 
 
 On the Death of a Sister while 
 
 Absent at School 140 
 
 The Righteous Dead 142 
 
 Joy in Believing 144 
 
 Indian Girl s Burial 146 
 
 The Lost Darling 150 
 
 Barzillai, the Gileadite 152 
 
 To the Memory of a Young Lady 155 
 
 The War Spirit 158 
 
 Death among the Trees 160 
 
 Radiant Clouds at Sunset 162 
 
 Burmans and their Missionary- 164 
 
 The Dead Horseman 167 
 
 The Lonely Church 171 
 
 The Heart of the Bruce 173 
 
 Winter 177 
 
 Farewell to an Ancient Church- 179 
 
 Benevolence 181 
 
 Appeal of the Blind 183 
 
 11 
 
12 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Evening by the Sea Shore 185 
 
 The Mother 187 
 
 The Widow of Zarephath 189 
 
 Divine Goodness 194 
 
 "Iwas but a Babe 196 
 
 A Mother s Counsels 198 
 
 The Volunteer 200 
 
 Baptism of the First Born 203 
 
 Blessed are the Dead 205 
 
 Bernardine du Born 207 
 
 The Knell 210 
 
 The Children of Henry the First- 212 
 
 TheSeaBoy 215 
 
 Meeting of the Susquehanna and 
 
 Lackawanna 218 
 
 Napoleon at Helena 220 
 
 The Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Girl 
 
 at a Festival 225 
 
 The Tomb 230 
 
 Poetry 232 
 
 Baptism of an Infant at its Mo 
 ther s Funeral 234 
 
 The Friends of Man 236 
 
 Marriage of the Deaf and Dumb 241 
 
 To a Dying Infant 243 
 
 The Dying Philosopher 245 
 
 Death of the Emigrant 248 
 
 Filial Claims 251 
 
 The Angel s Song 253 
 
 The Consumptive Girl 255 
 
 Indian Names 258 
 
 The Martyr of Scio 261 
 
 The Corallnsect 264 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mistakes 266 
 
 Only this Once 268 
 
 Pompeii 270 
 
 Female Education for Greece 273 
 
 The Bride 277 
 
 The Gift of Apollo 280 
 
 Methuselah 282 
 
 A Father to his Motherless Chil 
 dren - 284 
 
 The Faithful Dog 286 
 
 Silent Devotion 288 
 
 The Mother of Washington 290 
 
 Christian Settlements in Africa- 293 
 
 The Mourning Lover 294 
 
 Alice 297 
 
 Dream of the Dead 301 
 
 The New Zealand Missionary 304 
 On the Death of Dr. Adam Clarke 307 
 
 Marriage Hymn = 309 
 
 Death of a Young Wife 310 
 
 The Little Hand 312 
 
 Babe Buried at Sea 315 
 
 The Benefactress 317 
 
 The Broken Vase 320 
 
 The Mohegan Church 323 
 
 The Thrush 326 
 
 The School-mistress 329 
 
 Death of the Widow s Son 331 
 
 Parting of a Mother with her 
 
 Child 302 
 
 Alpine Flowers 334 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to the 
 Body 336 
 
-* TITf^T^.^VS^ 
 
 SELECT POEMS. 
 
 THE BIRD. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL boy, with the sunny hair, 
 
 What wouldest thou do with that birdling rare ? 
 
 It belongs to the sky, it hath wings, you know, 
 
 Loosen your clasping, and let him go : 
 
 But the child replied with a laugh of glee, 
 
 " It can learn to play, it must stay with me !" 
 
 Then out spoke the sister with lute-like tone, 
 
 " In spring, when the ice from the brooks had gone, 
 
 The new-born leaves in the grove were stirred 
 
 By the sweetest music I every heard. 
 
 Brother mine, twas the song of the free, 
 
 Will the song of thy captive as tuneful be ?" 
 
 Gentle Mother, whose yearning breast 
 
 Exults o er the birds of thine own fair nest, 
 
 Methinks I see, through thy smile of care, 
 
 The quickened soul of a voiceless prayer. 
 
 G-ive it breath, give it flight, to the Gracious Ear,- - 
 
 A mother s joy hath its root in fear. 
 
 Her fondest love hath a tinge of grief, 
 Her proudest hopes are an aspen leaf; 
 
14 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 Turn to the Ark that outrides the gale, 
 Seek for the strength that can never fail, 
 That thy birds may on starry pinions soar 
 Among the trees that shall fade no more. 
 
 SABBATH 
 
 How beautiful the Sunday morn, amid 
 
 The quietude of nature. Spreading t: . 
 
 And the simplicity of rural life 
 
 Best harmonize with its divine intent ; 
 
 And more than pompous cities, or the throngs 
 
 That flow unceasing thro their crowded streets, 
 
 "Welcome its silent spirit. Here, and there, 
 
 A rustic household, toward the village church 
 
 Wind through green lanes, where still the dewy grass 
 
 Reserves its diamonds for them. Happy sire, 
 
 And peaceful grandsire, with his hoary hair, 
 
 And joyous children, their fresh, ruddy brows 
 
 Compos d to serious thought, and even the babe 
 
 In its young innocence, a wondering guest, 
 
 Wend forth, in blessed company, to pay 
 
 Their vows to Him, who heeds the pure in heart. 
 
 Heaven whispereth earth. And lo ! an answering sigh 
 Speeds from the winds, as they unfold their wings 
 Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams, 
 
SABBATH MOBXIXQ. 15 
 
 And wave the plants, while from the leafy groves 
 Steals deeper melody. 3Iethinks, the sea 
 MurmuretL in tone subdued, as if its wares 
 Paus d in their tyrant play, or cowering heard 
 That warning voice, which to the banish d man 
 In rocky Patmos, taught unuttered things, 
 And in the spirit-trance of scenes snblime, 
 Bore all of self away. 
 
 Hail, hallow* d morn ! 
 
 That binds a yoke on Vice. Drooping her head, 
 She by snch quaint hypocrisy, doth show 
 How excellent is Virtue. Eve may light 
 Her orgies up again, but at this hour, 
 She trembleth, and is stflL Humility 
 From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark 
 The girded majesty of God pass by, 
 And kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes 
 Her bitterness, and round the tear-wet urn 
 Twines simple flowers, still musing on Hi* words 
 Who on this day despoil d the conquering grave, 
 " Thy dead shall rise again." 
 
 Bat best, firm Faith 
 
 Enjoys the Sabbath. She doth lift her brow 
 And talk with angels, till the listening soul 
 That by the thraldom of the week was boVd 
 To weariness, doth like the enfranchised slave 
 Leap up, to put its glorious garments on. 
 2 
 
16 
 
 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 FAIR River ! not unknown to classic song ; 
 Which still in varying beauty rolPst along, 
 Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen, 
 A line of silver mid a fringe of green ; 
 Or where, near towering rocks thy bolder tide, 
 To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide ; 
 Or where in azure mantle pure and free 
 Thou giv st thy cool hand to the waiting sea. 
 
 Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, 
 Herculean cities, and a prouder coast, 
 Yet from the bound where hoarse St. Lawrence roars, 
 To where La Plata rocks resounding shores, 
 From where the arms of slimy Nilus shine, 
 To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine, 
 Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark, 
 Or sacred Ganges whelms her votaries dark, 
 No brighter skies the eye of day may see, 
 Nor soil more verdant, nor a race more free. 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 17 
 
 Sec ! where amid their cultured vales they stand, 
 The generous offspring of a simple land ; 
 Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, 
 King, priest, and prophet mid the homes they love 
 On equal laws their anchored hopes are stayed, 
 By all interpreted, and all obeyed ; 
 Alike the despot and the slave they hate, 
 And rise, firm columns of a happy state. 
 To them content is bliss and labour health, 
 And knowledge power, and pure religion, wealth. 
 
 The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees 
 His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, 
 His bleating flocks, the shearer s care that need, 
 His waving woods, the wintry hearth that feed, 
 His hardy steers that break the yielding soil, 
 His patient sons, who aid their father s toil, 
 The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest, 
 And the white spire, that points a world of rest. 
 
 His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear 
 An equal burden in the yoke of care, 
 With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves, 
 Or from the press the golden cheese receives : 
 Her pastime when the daily task is o er, 
 With apron clean, to seek her neighbour s door. 
 Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, 
 Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow 
 
18 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Then hale and cheerful to her home repair, 
 When Sol s slant ray renews her evening care, 
 Press the full udder for her children s meal, 
 Rock the tir d babe or wake the tuneful wheel. 
 
 See, toward yon dome where village science dwells, 
 When the church-clock its warning summons swells, 
 What tiny feet the well-known path explore, 
 And gaily gather from each rustic door. 
 The new-weaned child with murmuring tone proceeds, 
 Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads, 
 Transferred as burdens, that the housewife s care 
 May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. 
 Light-hearted group! who carol wild and high, 
 The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly, 
 Or by some traveller s wheel aroused from play, 
 The stiff* salute, with deep demureness pay, 
 Bare the curled brow, and stretch the sunburnt hand, 
 The home-taught homage of an artless land. 
 The stranger marks, amid their joyous line, 
 The little baskets whence they hope to dine. 
 And larger books, as if their dexterous art, 
 Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part : 
 Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
 To starve tne mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 
 
 Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride, 
 Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride ; 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 19 
 
 From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung, 
 Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue ; 
 Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng, 
 Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong ; 
 Inventive minds, a nation s wealth that wrought, 
 And white-haired sages, sold to studious thought ; 
 Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod ; 
 And holy men, who fed the flock of God. 
 
 Here, mid the graves by time so sacred made, 
 The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade ; 
 He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave, 
 In ancient days yon pure, cerulean wave ; 
 Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced, 
 Through darkness followed and in death embraced, 
 He sleeps an outlaw, mid his forfeit land, 
 And grasps the arrow in his mouldered hand. 
 
 Here, too, our patriot sires with honour rest. 
 In Freedom s cause who bared the valiant breast ; 
 Sprang from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry 
 Of threatened Liberty went thrilling by, 
 Looked to their God and reared, in bulwark round, 
 Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrowned, 
 And bade a monarch s thousand banners yield 
 Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field : 
 Lo ! here they rest who every danger braved, 
 Unmarked, untrophied, mid the soil they saved. 
 2* 
 
20 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Round scenes like these doth warm remembrance glide, 
 
 Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide 
 
 On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore, 
 
 Or ruder Erie s serpent-haunted shore, 
 
 Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crowned, 
 
 Or red Missouri s unfrequented bound, 
 
 The exiled man, when midnight shades invade, 
 
 Couched in his hut, or camping on the glade, 
 
 Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear, 
 
 The boatman s song that charmed his boyish ear ; 
 
 While the sad mother, mid her children s mirth 
 
 Paints with fond tears a parent s distant hearth, 
 
 Or cheats her rustic babes with tender tales 
 
 Of thee, blest River ! and thy velvet vales, 
 
 Her native cot, where luscious berries swell, 
 
 The village school, and Sabbath s tuneful bell, 
 
 And smiles to see the infant soul expand 
 
 With proud devotion for that father-land. 
 
21 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 MAKE friendship with the stars. 
 
 Go forth at night, 
 
 And talk with Aldebaran, where he flames 
 In the cold forehead of the wintry sky. 
 Turn to the sister Pleiades, and ask 
 If there be death in Heaven ? A blight to fall 
 Upon the brightness of unfrosted hair? 
 A severing of fond hearts ? A place of graves ? 
 Our sympathies are with you, stricken stars, 
 Clustering so closely round the lost one s place. 
 Too well we know the hopeless toil to hide 
 The chasm in love s fond circle. The lone seat 
 Where the meek grandsire, with his silver locks, 
 Reclined so happily j the fireside chair 
 Whence the fond mother fled ; the cradle turn d 
 Against the wall, and empty ; well we know 
 The untold anguish, when some dear one falls. 
 How oft the life-blood trickling from our hearts. 
 Reveals a kindred spirit torn away ! 
 Tears are our birth-right, gentle sister train, 
 
22 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 And more we love you, if like us ye mourn. 
 
 Ho! bold Orion, with thy lion-shield; 
 
 What tidings from the chase ? what monster slain ? 
 
 Runn st thou a tilt with Taurus ? or dost rear 
 
 Thy weapon for more stately tournament ? 
 
 T\vere better, sure, to be a son of peace 
 
 Among those quiet stars, than raise the rout 
 
 Of rebel tumult, and of wild affray, 
 
 Or feel ambition with its scorpion sting 
 
 Transfix thy heel, and like Napoleon fall. 
 
 Fair queen, Cassiopeia! is thy court 
 
 Well peopled with chivalric hearts, that pay 
 
 Due homage to thy beauty ? Thy levee, 
 
 Is it still throng d as in thy palmy youth ? 
 
 Is there no change of dynasty? No dread 
 
 Of revolution mid the titled peers 
 
 That age en age have served thee ? Teach us how 
 
 To make our sway perennial, in the hearts 
 
 Of those who love us, so that when our bloom 
 
 And spring-tide wither, they in phalanx firm : 
 
 May gird us round, and make life s evening bright. 
 
 But thou, O Sentinel, with sleepless eye, 
 
 Guarding the northern battlement of heaven, 
 
 For whom the seven pure spirits nightly burn 
 
 Their torches, marking out, with glittering spire, 
 
 Both hours and seasons on thy dial-plate, 
 
 How turns the storm-tost manner to thee! 
 
 The poor lost Indian, having nothing left 
 
THE STARS. 
 
 23 
 
 In tis own ancient realm, not even the bones 
 
 Of his dead fathers, lifts his brow to thee, 
 
 And glads his broken spirit with thy beam. 
 
 The weary caravan, with chiming bells, 
 
 Making strange music mid the desert sands, 
 
 Guides, by thy pillar d fires, its nightly march. 
 
 Reprov st thou not our faith so oft untrue 
 
 To its Great Pole Star, when some surging wave 
 
 Foams o er our feet, or thorns beset our way ? 
 
 Speak out the wisdom of thy hoary years, 
 
 Arcturus ! Patriarch ! Mentor of the train, 
 
 That gather radiance from thy golden urn. 
 
 We are of yesterday, short-sighted sons 
 
 Of this dim orb, and all our proudest lore 
 
 Is but the alphabet of ignorance : 
 
 Yet ere we trace its little round, we die. 
 
 Give us thy counsel, ere we pass away. 
 
 Lyra, sweet Lyra, sweeping on with song, 
 
 While glorious Summer decks the listening flowers, 
 
 Teach us thy melodies; for sinful cares 
 
 Make discord in our hearts. Hast thou the ear 
 
 Of the fair planets that encircle thee, 
 
 As children round the hearth-stone ? Canst thou quell 
 
 Their woes with music ? or their infant eyes 
 
 Lull to soft sleep? Do thy young daughters join 
 
 Thy evening song? Or does thine Orphean art 
 
 Touch the warn* pulses of the neighbor stars 
 
 And constellations, till they higher lift 
 
&4 THE STARS. 
 
 The pilgrim-staff to run their glorious way ? 
 Hail, mighty Sirius ! monarch of the suns, 
 Whose golden sceptre suhject worlds obey; 
 May we, in this poor planet speak to thee ? 
 Thou highest dweller, mid the highest heaven, 
 Say, art thou nearer to His Throne, whose nod 
 Doth govern all things? 
 
 Hearest thou the strong wing 
 Of the Archangel, as it broadly sweeps 
 The empyrean, to the farthest orb, 
 
 Bearing Heaven s watch-word? Knowest thou what report 
 The red-hair d Comet, on his car of flame, 
 Brings the recording seraph ? Hast thou heard 
 One whisper through the open gate of Heaven 
 When the pale stars shall fall, and yon blue vault 
 Be as a shrivell d scroll? 
 
 Thou answer st not! 
 
 Why question we with thee, Eternal Fire ? 
 We, frail, and blind, to whom our own dark moon, 
 With its few phases, is a mystery! 
 Back to the dust, most arrogant! Be still! 
 Deep silence is thy wisdom! Ask no more! 
 But let thy life be one long sigh of prayer, 
 One hymn of praise, till from the broken clay, 
 At its last gasp, the unquench d spirit rise, 
 And, unforgotten, mid unnumber d worlds, 
 Ascend to Him, from whom its essence came. 
 
25 
 
 TO AN ABSENT DAUGHTER. 
 
 WHERE art thou, bird of song? 
 
 Brightest one and dearest ? 
 Other groves among, 
 
 Other nests thou cheerest ; 
 Sweet thy warbling skill 
 
 To each ear that heard thee, 
 But twas sweetest still 
 
 To the heart that rear d thee. 
 
 Lamb, where dost thou rest? 
 
 On stranger-bosoms lying? 
 Flowers, thy path that drest, 
 
 All uncropp d are dying; 
 Streams where thou didst roam 
 
 Murmur on without thee, 
 Lov st thou still thy home ? 
 
 Can thy mother doubt thee ? 
 
 Seek thy Saviour s flock, 
 To his blest fold going, 
 
26 TO AN ABSENT DAUGHTER. 
 
 Seek that smitten rock 
 
 Whence our peace is flowing; 
 
 Still should Love rejoice, 
 Whatsoe er betide thee, 
 
 If that Shepherd s voice 
 Evermore might guide thee. 
 
27 
 
 THE CHEERFUL GIVER. 
 
 " God loveth a cheerful giver." 
 
 " WHAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme, 
 For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all ?" 
 Said a young mother, as she fondly watch d 
 Her sleeping babe. 
 
 There was an answering voice, 
 That night, in dreams. 
 
 " Thou hast a tender flower 
 Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love. 
 Give me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven." 
 
 But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep, 
 Breathless and terror-stricken, that the lip 
 Blanch d in its trance. 
 
 " Thou hast a little harp, 
 How sweetly would it swell the angel s song. 
 Lend me that harp." 
 
 Then burst a shuddering sob, 
 As if the bosom by some hidden sword 
 Was cleft in twain 
 
2S THE CIIEtiflFUL OIVEK. 
 
 Morn came. A blight liad found 
 The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud, 
 The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke, 
 And that young mother lay upon the earth 
 In childless agony. 
 
 Again the voice 
 That stirr d her vision. 
 
 "He, who askea of tnee, 
 Loveth a cheerful giver." 
 
 So she rais d 
 
 Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop dried 
 Upon its fringes, smiled. 
 
 Doubt not that smile, 
 Like Abraham s faith, was counted righteousness. 
 
29 
 
 WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR A 
 SICK FRIEND. 
 
 RISE from the dells were ye first were born, 
 From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn, 
 Rise, for the dews of the morn are bright, 
 And haste away, with your eyes of light. 
 
 Should the green-house patricians, with withering frown 
 On your simple vestments look haughtily down, 
 Shrink not, for His finger your heads hath bow d 
 Who heeds the lowly, and humbles the proud. 
 
 The tardy spring, and the chilling sky, 
 
 Hath meted your robes with a miser s eye, 
 
 And check d the blush of your blossoms free ; 
 
 With a gentler friend your home shall be ; 
 
 To a kinder ear you may tell your tale 
 
 Of the zephyr s kiss, and the scented vale : 
 
 Ye are charm d ! ye are charm d ! and your fragrant sigh 
 
 Is health to the bosom on which ye die. 
 
30 
 
 DEATH OF AN INFANT.* 
 
 DEATH found strange beauty on that polish d brow, 
 And dash d it out. There was a tint of rose 
 On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, 
 And the rose faded. 
 
 Forth from those blue eyes 
 There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
 Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
 Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
 The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
 For ever. 
 
 There had been a murmuring sound, 
 With which the babe would claim its mother s ear, 
 Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
 The seal of silence. 
 
 * This little poem has been inserted by mistake, in one of the 
 American editions of the late Mrs. Hemans. Though this is ac 
 counted by the real author, as an honor, it is still proper to state, 
 that it was originally composed at Hartford, in the winter of 1824 
 and comprised in a volume of poems, published in Boston, by S. G. 
 Goodrich, Esq., hi 1827. Should other testimony be necessary, it 
 may be mentioned that a letter from Mrs. Hemans, to a friend in 
 Miis country, pointing out some poems in that volume which pleased 
 cr, designated, among others, this " Death of an Infant." 
 
DEATH OF AN INFANT. 3] 
 
 But there beam d a smile, 
 So fix d, so holy, from that cherub brow, 
 Death gazed, and left it there. He dar d not steal 
 The signet-ring of Heaven. 
 
 3* 
 
32 
 
 PERDIDI DIEM." 
 
 The Emperor Titus, at the close of a day in which he had neither 
 gained knowledge nor conferred benefit, was accustomed to exclaim, 
 " Perdidi diem," "I have lost a day" 
 
 WHY art thou sad, thou of the sceptred hand ? 
 
 The rob d in purple, and the high in state ? 
 Rome pours her myriads forth, a vassal band, 
 
 And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate ; 
 Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate. 
 
 " Perdidi diem !" Pour the empire s treasure, 
 Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow dye ; 
 
 Unlock the fountains of a monarch s pleasure 
 To lure the lost one back. I heard a sigh, 
 
 One hour of parted time, a world is poor to buy. 
 
 " Perdidi diem." Tis a mournful story, 
 Thus in the ear of pensive eve to tell, 
 Of morning s firm resolves, the vanish d glory, 
 
33 
 
 Hope s honey left within the withering bell, 
 And plants of mercy dead, that might have bloom d so well. 
 
 I fail, self-communing Emperor, nobly wise! 
 
 There are, who thoughtless haste to life s last goal , 
 There are, who time s long squandered wealth despise , 
 
 Perdidl vitam marks their finished scroll, 
 When Death s dark angel comes to claim the startled 
 soul. 
 
34 
 
 TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS. 
 
 W jo hung thy beauty on such rugged stalk, 
 Thou glorious flower? 
 
 Who pour d the richest hues, 
 In varying radiance, o er thine ample brow, 
 And lite a mesh those tissued stamens laid 
 Upon thy crimson lip ? 
 
 Thou glorious flower ! 
 Methinks it were no sin to worship thee, 
 Such passport hast thou from thy Maker s hand, 
 To thrill the soul. Lone on thy leafless stem, 
 Thou bidd st the queenly rose with all her buds 
 Do homage, and the green-house peerage bow 
 Their rainbow coronets. 
 
 Hast thou no thought ? 
 No intellectual life ? thou who can st wake 
 Man s heart to such communings ? no sweet word 
 With which to answer him ? Twould almost seem 
 That so much beauty needs must have a soul, 
 And that such form, as tints the gazer s dream, 
 Held higher spirit than the common clod 
 On which we tread. 
 
TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS. 35 
 
 Yet while we muse, a blight 
 Steals o er thee, and thy shrinking bosom shows 
 The mournful symptoms of a wan disease. 
 I will not stay to see thy beauties fade. 
 Still must I bear away within my heart 
 Thy lesson of our own mortality, 
 The fearful withering of each blossom d bough 
 On which we lean, of every bud we fain 
 Would hide within our bosoms from the touch 
 Of the destroyer. 
 
 So instruct us, Lord ! 
 
 Thou Father of the sunbeam and the soul, 
 Even by the simple sermon of a flower, 
 To cling to Thee. 
 
36 
 
 ANNA BOLEYN 
 
 On seeing the axe with which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, still 
 preserved in the Tower of London. 
 
 STERN minister of fate severe, 
 Who, drunk with beauty s blood. 
 Defying time, dost linger here, 
 And frown with ruffian visage drear, 
 Like beacon on destruction s flood, 
 Say! when ambition s giddy dream 
 First lured thy victim s heart aside, 
 Why, like a serpent, didst thou hide, 
 Mid clustering flowers, and robes of pride, 
 
 Thy warning gleam ? 
 
 Hadst thou but once arisen in vision dread, 
 From glory s fearful cliff her startled step had fled. 
 
 Ah ! little she reck d, when St. Edward s crown 
 So heavily press d her tresses fair, 
 That, with sleepless wrath, its thorns of care 
 
 Would rankle within her couch of down ! 
 
ANNA BOLEYN. 37 
 
 To the tyrant s bower, 
 In her beauty s power, 
 She came as a lamb to the lion s lair, 
 As the light bird cleaves the fields of air, 
 And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves i* 
 snare. 
 
 Think ! what were her pangs as she traced her fate 
 On that changeful monarch s brow of hate ? 
 What were the thoughts which, at midnight hour, 
 Throng d o er her soul, in yon dungeon tower ? 
 
 Regret, with pencil keen, 
 
 Retouch d the deep ning scene : 
 Gay France, which bade with sunny skies 
 Her careless childhood s pleasures rise ; 
 Earl Percy s love, his youthful grace. 
 Her gallant brother s fond embrace ; 
 Her stately father s feudal halls, 
 Where proud heraldic annals deck d the ancient walls 
 
 Wrapt in the scaffold s gloom, 
 Brief tenant of that living tomb 
 She stands ! the life-blood chills her heart, 
 And her tender glance from earth does part; 
 But her infant daughter s image fail- 
 In the smile of innocence is there, 
 It clings to her soul mid its last despair ; 
 
38 ANNA BOLEYN. 
 
 And the desolate queen is doom d to know 
 How far a mother s grief transcends a martyr s woe. 
 
 Say ! did prophetic light 
 Illume her darkening sight, 
 Painting the future island- queen, 
 Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, 
 Bright from blood-stained ashes rising, 
 Wise, energetic, bold, serene ? 
 Ah no ! the scroll of time 
 Is sealed ; and hope sublime 
 
 Rests, but on those far heights, which mortals may not 
 climb. 
 
 The dying prayer, with trembling fervour, speeds 
 For that false monarch by whose will she bleeds; 
 For him, who, listening on that fatal morn, 
 Hears her death signal o er the distant lawn 
 
 From the deep cannon speaking, 
 Then springs to mirth and winds his bugle 
 
 And riots while her blood is reeking : 
 For him she prays, in seraph tone, 
 
 oh ! be his sins forgiven ! 
 Who raised me to an earthly throne, 
 And sends me now, from prison lone, 
 
 To be a saint in heaven." 
 
EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 LOUD roars the hoarse storm from the angry nortn 5 
 As if the wintry spirit, loth to leave 
 His wonted haunts, came rudely rushing back, 
 Fast by the steps of the defenceless Spring, 
 To hurl his frost-spear at her shrinking flowers. 
 
 Yet while the tempest o er the charms of May 
 Sweeps dominant, and with discordant tone 
 The wild blast rules without, peace smiles within ; 
 The fire burns cheerful, and the taper clear 
 Alternate aids the needle, or illumes 
 The page sublime, inciting the rapt soul 
 To soar above the warring elements. 
 My gentle kitten at my footstool sings 
 Her song monotonous, and, full of joy, 
 Close by my side my tender mother sits, 
 Industriously bent her brow still bright 
 With beams of lingering youth, while he, the sire, 
 The faithful guide, indulgently doth smile 
 4 
 
40 EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 At our discourse, or wake the tuneful hymn 
 Which best he loves. 
 
 Fountain of life and light ! 
 Father Supreme ! from whom our joys descend, 
 As streams flow from their source, and unto whom 
 All good on earth shall finally return 
 As to a natural centre, praise is due 
 To Thee from all thy works ; nor least from me, 
 Though, in thy scale of being, light and low. 
 
 From thee is shed whate er of joy or peace 
 Doth sparkle in my cup health, hope and bliss, 
 And pure parental love, beneath whose smile 
 My grateful heart forgets the lonely void 
 Of brother, and of sister, oft bewail d. 
 
 Therefore, to Thee be all the honor given, 
 Whether young morning, with her vestal lamp, 
 Warn from my couch; or sober twilight gray 
 Lead on the willing night; or summer sky 
 Spread its smooth azure; or contending storms 
 Muster their wrath ; or whether in the shade 
 Of much loved solitude, deep wove and close, 
 I rest; or gaily share the social scene ; 
 Or wander wide to twine with stranger-hearts 
 New sympathies ; or wheresoever else 
 r ky hand may place me, let my steadfast eye 
 
EVENING AT HOME. 41 
 
 Behold Thee, and my soul attune thy praise. 
 
 To Thee alone, in humble trust I come 
 
 For strength and wisdom. Leaning on thine arm 
 
 Fain would I pass this intermediate state, 
 
 This vale of discipline ; and when its mists 
 
 Shall fleet away, I trust thou wilt not leave 
 
 My soul in darkness, for thy word is truth ; 
 
 Nor are thy thoughts like the vain thoughts of man, 
 
 Nor thy ways like his ways. 
 
 Therefore I rest 
 [n hope, and sing thy praise, Father Supreme ! 
 
42 
 
 THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 
 
 GROUP after group are gathering, such as prest 
 
 Once to their Saviour s arms, and gently laid 
 Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, 
 
 Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade 
 Group after group glide on with noiseless tread 
 
 And round Jehovah s sacred altar meet, 
 Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, 
 
 And holy words their ruby lips repeat, 
 Oft with a chasten d glance, in modulation sweet. 
 
 Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 
 
 Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 
 Look up, ye sad ones! tis your Father s house, 
 
 Beneath whose consecrated dome you are; 
 More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, 
 
 And watch the gaudier forms that gaily rove, 
 And deem perchance, mistaken as you are, 
 
 The u coat of many colours" proves His love, 
 Whose sign is in the heart and whose reward above. 
 
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 43 
 
 And ye, blest laborers in this humble sphere, 
 
 To deeds of saint-like charity inclined, 
 Who from your cells of meditation dear 
 
 Come forth to guide the weak, untutorM mind 
 Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 
 
 Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain, 
 Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 
 
 The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain 
 A Sabbath without end, nid yon celestial plain 
 
THE ARK AND DOVE. 
 
 "TELL me a story please," my little girl 
 Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down 
 And told her how it rained, and rained, and rained, 
 Till all the flowers were covered, and the trees 
 Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood, 
 And people dwelt, a fearful deluge rolled ; 
 Because the world was wicked, and refused 
 To heed the words of God. But one good man, 
 Who long had warned the wicked to repent 
 Obey and live, taught by the voice of Heaven, 
 Had built an Ark ; and thither, with his wife, 
 And children, turned for safety. Two and two, 
 Of beasts and birds, and creeping things he took, 
 With food for all ; and when the tempest roared, 
 And the great fountains of the sky poured out 
 A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned, 
 They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure. 
 And so the mighty waters bare them up, 
 And o er the bosom of the deep they sailed 
 For many days. But then a gentle dove 
 
THE ARK AND DOVE. 
 
 Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread 
 
 Her lonely pinion o er that boundless wave. 
 
 All, all was desolation. Chirping nest, 
 
 Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw, 
 
 For all the people of the earth were drowned, 
 
 Because of disobedience. Nought she spied 
 
 Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky, 
 
 Nor found her weary foot a place of rest. 
 
 So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth, 
 
 Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance 
 
 Upon some wrecking billow floated by, 
 
 With drooping wing the peaceful Ark she sought. 
 
 The righteous man that wandering dove received. 
 
 And to her mate restored, who, with sad moans, 
 
 Had wondered at her absence. 
 
 Then I looked 
 
 Upon the child, to see if her young thought 
 Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye 
 Was a glad listener, and the eager breath 
 Of pleased attention curled her parted lip 
 And so I told her how the waters dried, 
 And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds 
 Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove 
 Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds 
 Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired nrk 
 Upon the breezy breast of Ararat 
 Reposed, and Noah, with glad spirit, reared 
 An altar to his God. 
 
46 THE ARK AND DOVE 
 
 Since, many a time, 
 
 When to her rest, ere evening s earliest star, 
 That little one is laid, with earnest tone, 
 And pure cheek prest to mine, she fondly asks 
 " The Ark and Dove." 
 
 Mothers can tell how oft. 
 In the heart s eloquence, the prayer goes up 
 From a sealed lip : and tenderly hath blent 
 With the warm teaching of the sacred tale 
 A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul, 
 New in the rosy mesh of infancy, 
 Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world. 
 Like that exploring dove, and find no rest, 
 A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand 
 May gently guide it to the ark of peace. 
 
47 
 
 SONG OF THE ICELANDIC FISHERMAPs 
 
 YIELD the bark to the breezes free, 
 Point her helm to the far deep sea, 
 Where Heckla s watch-fire, streaming wild, 
 Hath never the mariner s eye beguiled, 
 Where, in boiling baths, strange monsters play 
 Down to the deep sea launch away! 
 
 Gay over coral reefs we steer 
 
 Where moulder the bones of the brave, 
 
 Where the beautiful sleep on their humid bier, 
 
 And the pale pearl gleams in its quenchless sphore, 
 The lamp of their Ocean grave ; 
 
 Swift o er the crested surge we row; 
 
 Down to the fathomless sea we go. 
 
 King of Day ! to thee we turn, 
 
 May our course be blest by thee, 
 Eyes bright as thine in our homes shall burn, 
 
 When again our hearths we see ; 
 When the scaly throng, to our skill a prey 
 At the feet of our fur clad maids we iay. 
 
4S SONG OF THE ICELANDIC FISHERMAN 
 
 Thou art mighty in wrath, devouring tide ! 
 
 The strong ship loves o er thy foam to ride 7 
 
 Her banner by bending clouds carest, 
 
 The waves at her keel, and a world in her breast 
 
 Thou biddest the blast of thy billows sweep, 
 
 Her tall masts bow to the cleaving deep, 
 
 And seaPd in thy cells her proud ones sleep. 
 
 Our sails are as chaff, when the tempest raves, 
 And our boat a speck on the mountain waves : 
 Yet we pour not to thee, the imploring strain, 
 We soothe not thine anger, relentless Main ! 
 Libation we pour not, nor vow, nor prayer, 
 
 Our hope is in thee, 
 
 God of the sea ! 
 The deep is thy path, and the soul thy care. 
 
49 
 
 THE BRAVE BROTHER. 
 
 Two little brothers thro the forest roam d, 
 In old time far away.* Not then, as now, 
 The lordly mansion, and the heavenward spire 
 Chequer d the landscape, but the low-roof d hur, 
 With here and there a wigwam told the life 
 Of toil and hardship of the sires who stood 
 On Plymouth-rock. 
 
 The children wander d wide, 
 O er stream and thicket, their fresh spirits glad 
 With boyhood s liberty. Intent they sought 
 The ripening nuts, or that small, purple grape, 
 Which waiteth for the frost to clarify 
 The acid of its blood. 
 
 But their lone walk 
 
 Was all too early for such sylvan spoil ; 
 For jocund autumn still delay d to ope 
 The chestnut s thorny sheath, or to divide 
 The quarter d coat that in close armour wrapp d 
 The hickory s favourite fruit. 
 
 Hark ! a strange sound 
 
 Snarling, and hoarse : and thro the parted boughs 
 Two fiery wolf-eyes glared. 
 
50 
 
 THE BRAVE BROTHER. 
 
 The younger boy, 
 
 As the fierce, ravening beast his form reveal d 
 Transfix d with horror, fill d the echoing shades 
 With cries of anguish. But the elder felt 
 A sudden manhood thro his pulses start, 
 Prompting to guard and save the helpless one 
 Or die beside him. 
 
 Soothing with kind words 
 The frantic child, and knowing flight was vain, 
 He drew his wood-knife, and upon the sward 
 Planting his bare feet firmly, stood resolv d, 
 A better hero, in the holy warmth 
 Of deep fraternal love, than many a one 
 Who wins the world s proud laurel, with the waste 
 Of others blood, to gratify the aims 
 Of pitiless ambition. 
 
 It would seem 
 
 The wolf had cower d a moment, at the glance 
 Of that determined eye, but with fierce growl 
 And open jaws, and deadly gnashing teeth 
 Still nearer drew. 
 
 Alas ! the mother s heart, 
 Who in her lowly cabin turn d the wheel, 
 Singing, at times, low snatches of the songs 
 Brought from the Father-land, and felt no thrill 
 Premonit r, of her darlings doom. 
 A sudden, harp report! a flying shot! 
 The monster roll d in blood. 
 
THE BRAVE BROTHER. 
 
 Through rustling boughs, 
 A red-brow d hunter strode. His lofty port, 
 And plumed brow, bespoke a chieftain s pride, 
 While with a bright, approving eye he scann d 
 The noble boy. 
 
 " If the intruding race 
 
 Of pale-fac d men have bosoms brave as thine, 
 The acorn they have planted in the wild 
 Shall take deep root and spread its branches wide, 
 O er land and sea, upheld by Him who sits 
 Above the thunder." 
 
 Mid the forest-depths 
 
 Again he plung d, while to their humble home 
 The brothers hasted, in the parents soul 
 To wake the enraptur d prayer of tearful joy 
 For their deliverance. 
 
52 
 
 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 So, here thou art, old friend, 
 Ready thine aid to lend, 
 
 With honest face. 
 The gilded figures just as bright 
 
 Upon thy painted case, 
 As when I ran with young delight 
 
 Their garniture to trace, 
 
 And though forbid thy burnished robe to touch, 
 Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much. 
 
 But where is she who sate 
 Near in her elbow chair, 
 Teaching with patient care 
 Life s young beginnner, on thy dial plate 
 To count the winged minutes, fleet arid fair, 
 And mark each hour with deeds of love? 
 Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the 
 rest above. 
 
 Thrice welcome, ancient crone 
 Tis sweet to gaze on thcc, 
 
THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 53 
 
 And hear thy busy heart beat on. 
 
 Come, tell old tales to me : 
 Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity. 
 
 Thou hast good store, I trow, 
 
 For laughing and for weeping, 
 Things very strange to know, 
 
 And none the worse for keeping. 
 Soft tales have lovers told 
 
 Into the thrilling ear, 
 Till midnight s witching hour waxed old, 
 Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near, 
 
 In thy sly corner hid sublime, 
 With thy tick tick to warn how Time 
 Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine, 
 Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine. 
 
 The unuttered hopes and fears, 
 The deep drawn rapturous tears, 
 
 Of young paternity, 
 Were chronicled by thee. 
 
 The nursling s first faint cry, 
 
 Which from a bright haired girl of dance and song, 
 The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng, 
 Did make a mother, with her quenchless eyes 
 Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories ; 
 
 As Death s sharp ministry, 
 Robeth an angel, when the mortal dies. 
 
54 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 Thy quick vibrations caught 
 
 The cradled infant s ear, 
 
 And while it scann d thy face with curious fear, 
 Thou did st awake the new-born thought, 
 Peering through the humid eye, 
 Like star-beam in a misty sky ; 
 Though the nurse, standing still more near, 
 Mark d but the body s growing wealth, 
 And praised that fair machine of clay, 
 Working in mystery and health 
 Its wondrous way. 
 
 Thy voice was like a knell, 
 Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell, 
 When stranger-feet came gathering slow 
 To see the master of the mansion borne 
 To that last home, the narrow and the low, 
 From whence is no return. 
 
 A sluggard wert thou to the impatient breast, 
 
 Of watching lover, or long-parted wife, 
 Counting each moment while the day unblest, 
 Like wounded snake, its length did draw ; 
 
 And blaming thee, as if the strife 
 Of wild emotion should have been thy law, 
 When thou wert pledged in amity sublime, 
 To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time. 
 
TflE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 55 
 
 Glad signal thou hast given 
 
 For the gay bridal, when with flower- wreath d hair 
 And flushing cheek, the youthful pair 
 Stand near the priest with reverent air, 
 
 Dreaming that earth is heaven : 
 And thou hast heralded with joyance fair 
 The green-wreathed Christmas, and that other feast, 
 With which the hard lot of colonial care 
 The pilgrim-sire besprinkled ; saving well, 
 The golden pumpkin, and the fatted beast, 
 And the rich apple, with its luscious swell, 
 Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o er, 
 He greets his children at his humble door, 
 Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard, 
 
 As, gathering from their distant home, 
 To knit their gladden d hearts in love they come, 
 Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father s 
 board. 
 
 Thou hast outlived thy maker, ancient clock ! 
 
 He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels 
 
 Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock, 
 
 While o er his name oblivion steals. 
 
 O Man ! so prodigal of pride and praise, 
 
 Thy works survive thee dead machines perform 
 
 Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days 
 
 Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm 
 
 How dar st thou sport with Time, while he 
 
 5* 
 
66 THK ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 
 
 Plunges thee darkly in Eternity ? 
 Haste! ere its awful wave engulfs thy form, 
 And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the 
 storm. 
 
57 
 
 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 WOULD they swept cleaner! 
 
 Here s a littering shred 
 Of linen left behind a vile reproach 
 To all good housewifery. Right glad am I, 
 That no neat lady, train d in ancient times 
 Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work, 
 And speckless sanctity of household care, 
 Hath happened here, to spy thee. She, no doubt, 
 Keen looking through her spectacles, would say, 
 " This comes of reading looks :" or some spruce beau 
 Essenc d and lily-handed, had he chanc d 
 To scan thy slight superfices, twould be 
 " This comes of writing poetry." Well well 
 Come forth offender! hast thou aught to say? 
 Canst thou by merry thought, or quaint conceit, 
 Repay this risk, that I have run for thee ? 
 
 Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself 
 
 Into thine elements. I see the stalk 
 
 And bright, blue flower of (lax, which erst overspread 
 
 That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch d 
 
58 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom 
 Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales. 
 But, lo ! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail, 
 To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife 
 With kerchief d head, and eyes brimful of dust, 
 Thy fibrous nerves, with hatchel-tooth divides. 
 
 1 hear a voice of music and behold ! 
 
 The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel, 
 While by her side the rustic lover sits. 
 Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count 
 The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall, 
 Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought, 
 (For men have deeper minds than women sure!) 
 Is calculating what a thrifty wife 
 The maid will make ; and how his dairy shelves 
 Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese, 
 Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg 
 Ana pot of butter, to the market borne, 
 May, transmigrated, on his back appear, 
 In new thanksgiving coats. 
 
 Fain would I ask, 
 
 Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel, 
 By sofa and piano quite displaced. 
 Why dost thou banish from thy parlor-hearth 
 That old Hygeian harp, whose magic rul d 
 Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-shepherd s skill 
 Exorcis d SauPs ennui ? There was no need, 
 In those good times, of callisthenics, sure, 
 
TO A SHRED OF LINEN. /)9 
 
 And there was less of gadding, and far more 
 Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong 
 In industry, and bearing such rare fruit, 
 As wealth might never purchase. 
 
 But come back, 
 
 Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop, 
 In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost 
 The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot 
 When the rough battery of the loom had stretch d 
 And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun 
 Thy brown complexion bleach d ? 
 
 Methinks I scan 
 
 Some idiosyncrasy, that marks thee out 
 A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest, 
 To the best chamber usher d, e er admire 
 The snowy whiteness of thy freshened youth 
 Feeding thy vanity ? or some sweet babe 
 Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee ? 
 Say, hast thou listened to the sick one s moan, 
 When there was none to comfort ? or shrunk back 
 From the dire tossings of the proud man s brow ? 
 Or gather d from young beauty s restless sigh 
 A tale of untold love ? 
 
 Still, close and mute! 
 
 Wilt tell no secrets, ha ? Well then, go down, 
 With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious lore, 
 In msijosty and mystery, go down 
 Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws, 
 
00 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 
 
 Stainless and smooth, emerge. Happy shall be 
 The renovation, if on thy fair page 
 Wisdom and truth, their hallow d lineaments 
 Trace for posterity. So shall thine end 
 Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard 
 Thine apotheosis immortalise. 
 
THE BUBBLE. 
 
 OUT springs the bubble, dazzling bright, 
 With ever-changing hues of light. 
 And so amid the flowery grass 
 Our gilded years of childhood pass. 
 Yet bears not each with traitor sway, 
 Beneath its robe, some gem away ? 
 Some bud of hope, at morning born, 
 Without the memory of the thorn ? 
 Some fruit that ripen d, free from care ? 
 Where are those vanish d treasures ? where $ 
 
 Then knowledge, with her letter d lore, 
 Demands us at the nursery-door, 
 Reproves our love of vain delights, 
 And on the brow, " sub jugum," writes. 
 But the sweet joys of earliest days, 
 The buoyant spirits, wing d for praise, 
 Escape, exhale. We thought them seal d 
 For wintry days, their charm to yield. 
 
62 THE LurfBLE. 
 
 Where have they fled ? Go, ask the sky, 
 Where fleet the dews, when suns are high. 
 
 Upborne by history s arm, we tread 
 
 The crumbling soil, o er nations dead. 
 
 The buried king, the mouldering sage, 
 
 The relics of a nameless age, 
 
 We summon forth, with vain regret ; 
 
 And in that toil our heart forget : 
 
 Till, warn d, perchance, by wayward dec ds, 
 
 How much that realm a regent needs, 
 
 Renew, with pangs of contrite pain, 
 
 The study of ourselves again. 
 
 While thus we roam, the silver hair 
 Steals o er our temples here arid there, 
 And beauty starts, amaz d to see 
 . The ploughshare of an enemy. 
 
 What is that haunt, where willows wave ? 
 
 That yawning pit ? The grave ! the grave ! 
 
 The turf is set, the violets grow, 
 
 The throngs rush on, where we lie low. 
 
 Our name is lost, amid their strife, 
 
 The bubble bursts, and this is life 
 
63 
 
 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 AN axe rang sharply mid those forest shades 
 Which from creation toward the skies had tower d 
 In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm 
 Wrought a bold Emigrant, and by his side 
 His little son, with question and response. 
 Beguil d the toil. 
 
 " Boy, thou hast never seen 
 
 Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
 Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou 
 The mighty river, on whose breast we sail d, 
 So many days, on toward the setting sun ? 
 Our own Connecticut, compar d to that. 
 Was but a creeping stream." 
 
 " Father, the brook 
 
 That by our door went singing, where I launch d 
 My tiny boat, with my young playmates round 
 When school was o er, is dearer far to me, 
 Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye 
 They are as strangers. And those little trees 
 
 My mother nurtur d in the garden bound, 
 6 
 
G4 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach 
 Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, 
 Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 
 " What, ho ! my little girl," and with light step 
 A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, 
 And, setting down the basket that contain d 
 His noon s repast, look d upward to his face 
 With sweet confiding smile. 
 
 " See, dearest, see, 
 
 That bright-wing d paroquet, and hear the song 
 Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees 
 Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, 
 In far New England, such a mellow tone ?" 
 " I had a robin that did take the crumbs 
 Each night and morning, and his chirping voice 
 Did make me joyful, as I went to tend 
 My snow-drops. I was always laughing then 
 In that first home. I should be happier now 
 Methinks,if I could find among these dells 
 The same fresh violets." 
 
 Slow night drew on, 
 And round the rude hut of the Emigrant 
 The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 
 Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
 And he, with head declined, sat listening long 
 To the swoln waters of the Illinois, 
 Dashing against their shores. 
 
THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 65 
 
 Starting he spake 
 
 " Wife ! did I see thee brush away a tear ? 
 Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls 
 Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, 
 Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, 
 Befit thee better than these rugged walls 
 Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." 
 " No no. All was so still around, methought 
 Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
 Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows, 
 So tuneful peal d. But tenderly thy voice 
 Dissolv d the illusion." 
 
 And the gentle smile 
 
 Lighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth d 
 ITer waking infant, reassur d his soul 
 That, wheresoe er our best affections dwell, 
 And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
 Content, and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
 But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play 
 Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
 Their will with him. 
 
 Up rose the thronging mart 
 Of his own native city roof and spire, 
 All glittering bright, in fancy s frost-work ray. 
 The steed his boyhood nurtur d,proudly neigh d, 
 The favorite dog came frisking round his feet, 
 With shrill and joyous bark- familiar doors 
 Flew open greeting hands with his were link d 
 
66 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 In friendship s grasp he heard the keen debate 
 From congregated haunts, where mind with mind 
 Doth blend and brighten and till morning rov d 
 Mid the lov d scenery of his native land. 
 
67 
 
 ON THE ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN 
 INTO THE UNION. 
 
 COME in, little sister, so healthful and fair, 
 Come take in our father s best parlor a share, 
 You ve been kept long enough at the nurse s, I trow. 
 Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow 
 Come in, we ve a pretty large household, tis true, 
 But the twenty-five children can make room for you. 
 
 A present, I see, for our sire you have brought, 
 His dessert to embellish, how kind was the thought j 
 A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue, 
 And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too, 
 The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree, 
 What a good little sister come hither to me. 
 
 You ve a dowry besides very cunningly storM, 
 To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board, 
 Detroit, Ypsilanti Ann Arbour and more 
 For the youngest, methinks, quits a plentiful store, 
 You re a prog, I perceive it is true to the letter, 
 And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better 
 6* 
 
08 ADMISSION OF MT( IIKJAN INTO TI1K UNION 
 
 But where are your Indians so feeble and few ? 
 
 So fall n from the heights where their forefathers grew! 
 
 From the forests they fade, o er the waters that bore 
 
 The names of their baptism, they venture no more 
 
 O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar, 
 
 Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star. 
 
 Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high, 
 
 Are the stateliest dames of our family, 
 
 Your thirteen old sisters, don t treat them with scorn, 
 
 They were notable spinsters before you were born, 
 
 Many stories they know, most instructive to hear, 
 
 Go, make them a curtsy, twill please them, my dear. 
 
 They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell, 
 Who stood at the helm, when the war tempest fell, 
 They will show you the writing that gleam d to the sky 
 In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July ; 
 When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red, 
 And the blood gush d forth from the breast of the dead. 
 
 There are some who may call them both proud and old, 
 And say they usurp what they cannot hold ; 
 Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray, 
 But then, little Michy, don t hint it, I pray ; 
 For they ll give you a frown, or a box on the ear, 
 Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear. 
 
ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO THE UNION. 69 
 
 They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day, 
 But you ve as good right to your penny as they ; 
 Though the price of our freedom, they better have known. 
 Since they paid for it, out of their purses alone, 
 Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween, 
 So, hold up your head with the " Old Thirteen/* 
 
70 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell 
 Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
 While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
 Dark back-ground gainst the sky. 
 
 Thither 1 went, 
 
 And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount, 
 For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
 And fever of the world. I thought to be 
 There without witness. But the violet s eye 
 Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled, 
 And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek, 
 There were glad voices too. The garrulous brook, 
 Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
 Its history. Up came the singing breeze, 
 And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
 Responsive, every one. Even busy life 
 Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw 
 From spray to spray, the silver-tissued snare. 
 The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
 The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
 
SOLITUDE. 7] 
 
 To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
 While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
 Sang to her nurslings. 
 
 Yet I strangely thought 
 To be alone and silent in thy realm, 
 Spirit of life and love ! It might not be ! 
 There is no solitude in thy domains, 
 Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
 He locks his joy, and shuts out others grief. 
 Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
 Without a witness. Even the desert place 
 Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams 
 Are social and benevolent, and he, 
 Who holdeth converse in their language pure, 
 Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
 Shall find, like him who Eden s garden drest, 
 His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 
 
VATURE S ROYALTY. 
 
 me a king, whose high decree 
 
 By all his realm is blest, 
 Whose heaven-deputed sway shall be 
 
 Deep in his subjects breast." 
 And lo ! a radiant throne was nigh, 
 
 A gorgeous purple robe, 
 A lofty form, an eagle eye, 
 
 That aimed to rule the globe. 
 
 Peers at his bidding came and went, 
 
 Proud hosts to battle trod ; 
 Even high-soiil d Genius humbly bent 
 
 And hailed him as a god. 
 Wealth spread her treasures to his sight, 
 
 Fame bade her clarion roll ; 
 But yet his sceptre seemed to blight 
 
 The freedom of the soul. 
 
 And deep within his bosom lay 
 The poisonM shaft of care, 
 
NATURE S ROYALTY. 73 
 
 Nor ermined pomp, nor regal sway 
 
 Forbade its rankling there. 
 No fearless truth his ear addressed, 
 
 Though thousands sang his praise ; 
 A hollow-hearted thing at best 
 
 Was all their courtly phrase. 
 
 I saw Suspicion cloud his day, 
 
 And fear his firmness move; 
 And felt there was no perfect sway 
 
 Save what is built on love. 
 fc Show me a king." They brought a child 
 
 Clad in his robe of white, 
 His golden curls waved loose and wild, 
 
 His full blue eye was bright. 
 
 A haughty warrior strode that way, 
 
 Whose crest had never bowed 
 Beneath his brother of the clay 
 
 In battle or in crowd: 
 Yet down before that babe he bent, 
 
 A captive to his charms, 
 And meek, as with a slave s intent, 
 
 Received him in his arms. 
 
 Beauty was near, and love s warm sigh 
 
 Burst forth from manhood s breast, 
 While pride was kindling in that eye 
 
/4 NATURE S ROYALTY. 
 
 Which saw its power congest : 
 "Sing me a song," the urchin cried, 
 
 And from her lips did part, 
 A strain to kneeling man denied, 
 
 Rich music of the heart. 
 
 A sage austere, for learning famed, 
 
 Frown d with abstracted air : 
 "Tell me a tale," the child exclaimed, 
 
 And boldly climbed his chair : 
 While he (how wondrous was the change .) 
 
 Poured forth, in language free, 
 Enforc d with gestures strong and strange, 
 
 A tale of Araby. 
 
 " I sought a king :" but Nature cried 
 
 His royalty revere, 
 Who conquers beauty, power and pride, 
 
 Thus with a smile or tear : 
 The anointed monarch s eye may wake, 
 
 His bosom grieve alone, 
 But infant Innocence doth make 
 
 The human heart its throne. 
 
75 
 
 THE TIME TO DIE. 
 
 There is a time to die. 
 
 KING SOLOMON. 
 
 I HEARD a stranger s hearse move heavily 
 Along the pavement. Its deep gloomy pall 
 No hand of kindred or of friend upbore. 
 But from the cloud, that veiled his western couch, 
 The lingering sun shed forth one transient ray, 
 Like sad and tender farewell to some plant 
 Which he had nourished. On the giddy crowd 
 Went dancing in their own enchanted maze, 
 Drowning the echo of those tardy wheels 
 Which hoarsely warn d them of a time to die. 
 I saw a sable train in sorrow bend 
 Around a tomb. There was a stifled sob, 
 And now and then a pearly tear fell down 
 Upon the tangled grass. But then there came 
 The damp clod harshly on the coffin lid, 
 Curdling the life blood at the mourner s heart, 
 While audibly it spake to every ear 
 " There is a time to die." 
 7 
 
76 THE TIME TO DIE. 
 
 And then it seemed 
 
 As if from every mound and sepulchre 
 In that lone cemetery from the sward 
 Where slept the span-long infant to the grave 
 Of him who dandled on his wearied knee 
 Three generations from the turf that veil d 
 The wreck of mouldering beauty, to the bed 
 Where shrank the loathed beggar rose a cry 
 From all those habitants of silence " Yea! 
 There is a time to die." 
 
 Methought that truth, 
 In every tongue, and dialect, and tone, 
 PeaPd o er each region of the rolling globe j 
 The simoon breathed it, and the earthquake groaoM 
 A hollow, deep response the avalanche 
 Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll 
 The red volcano belch d it forth in flames 
 Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge, 
 And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark, 
 With death s eternal darts. But joyous Man, 
 To whom kind heaven the ceaseless warning sent, 
 Turn d to his phantom pleasures, and deferr d, 
 To some convenient hour, the time to die. 
 
77 
 
 FORGOTTEN FLOWERS TO A BRIDE 
 
 WE were left behind, but wt would not stay, 
 
 We found your clue, and have kept the way, 
 
 For, sooth to tell, the track was plain 
 
 Of a bliss like yours, in a world of pain. 
 
 How little we thought, when so richly wo di^st, 
 
 To go to your wedding, and vie with the best, 
 
 When we made our toilette, with such elegant care, 
 
 That we might not disgrace an occasion so rare, 
 
 To be whirl d in a coach, at this violent rate, 
 
 From county to county, and State to State ! 
 
 Though we travelled incog, yet we trembled with fe 
 
 For the accents of strangers fell hoarse on our ear-, 
 
 We could hear every word, as we quietly lay 
 
 In the snug box of tin, where they stow d us away : 
 
 But how would our friends at a distance have known 
 
 If, charm d by our beauty, they d made us their own ? 
 
 All unus d to the taverns and roads, as we were, 
 
 Our baggage and bones were a terrible care : 
 
 Yet we ve scaped every peril, the journey is o er, 
 
 And hooded and cloak d, we are safe at your door. 
 
78 FORGOTTEN FLOWERS TO A BRIDE. 
 
 We bring you a gift from your native skies, 
 The crystal gem from affection s eyes, 
 Which tenderly trickles, when dear ones part, 
 We have wrapp d it close in the rose s heart : 
 We are charg d with a mother s benison kiss, 
 Will y ou welcome us in, to your halls, for this ? 
 We are chilPd with the cold of our wintry way, 
 Our message is done, we must fade away : 
 Let us die on your breast, and our prayer shall be 
 For an Eden-wreath to thy love and thee. 
 
79 
 
 THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! 
 Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
 A toiling atom ; then, from wave to wave 
 Leaps madly, by the tempest lash d, or reels 
 Half wreck d through gulfs profound. 
 
 Moons wax and wane, 
 
 But still that patient traveller treads the deep. 
 I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers 
 With such a tardy movement, that it seems 
 Stern Winter s hand hath turn d her keel to stone, 
 And seal d his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
 They land ! they land ! not like the Genoese 
 With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye 
 Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
 From their long prison, hardy forms that brave 
 The world s unkindness, men of hoary hair, 
 Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, 
 Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. 
 Bleak Nature s desolation wraps them round, 
 Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, 
 7* 
 
80 THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 And savage men, who through the thickets peer 
 With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps 
 To this drear desert ? Ask of him who left 
 His father s home to roam through Haran s wild, 
 Distrusting not the guide who calPd him forth, 
 Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed 
 Should be as ocean s sands. 
 
 But yon lone bark 
 Hath spread her parting sail. 
 
 They crowd the strand. 
 
 Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo 
 That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link, 
 Binding to man, and habitable earth, 
 Is sever d ? Can ye tell what pangs were there, 
 With keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, 
 What yearnings o er their forfeit land of birth, 
 Their distant, dear ones ? 
 
 Long, with straining eye, 
 
 They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek 
 Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness 
 Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! they turn 
 Back to their dreary, famish d huts, and pray ! 
 Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life 
 Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 
 There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 
 A loftiness, to face a world in arms, 
 To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay, 
 On duty s sacred altar, the warm blood 
 
THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 31 
 
 Of slain affections, should they rise between 
 The soul and God. 
 
 Oh ye, who proudly boast, 
 In your free veins, the blood of sires like these. 
 Guard well their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose 
 Their likeness in your sons. 
 
 Should Mammon cling 
 
 Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
 That bloated luxury which eats the core 
 From manly virtue, or the tempting world 
 Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
 Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt 
 Kneel, and renew the vow they breath d to God. 
 
82 
 
 THE FALL OF THE ROSE. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR YOUNG LADY. 
 
 THE Rose was saturate with dew, 
 
 As fresh as Nature sends, 
 And with as bright a sun-beam too, 
 
 As Earth s brief summer lends ; 
 Yet still it long d with an ardent flame 
 For that blessed sphere whence its blushes came, 
 
 Gazing up to that cloudless sky 
 Where Beauty and Love, with their glorious oye 
 
 Ripen, and ripen, but never die. 
 
 Its damask lip to the turf was prest, 
 
 And tears like rain-drops fell, 
 When it sank from the stalk and the florist s breast 
 That had sheltered it long, and well, 
 
 And its fragrance fled 
 
 From the garden-bed, 
 Where it lifted its queenly crown; 
 
 Yet a spirit-sigh 
 From the realms on high 
 To the mourner s heart came down. 
 
THE FALL OF THE ROSE. 83 
 
 Twas there ! That peerless Rose was there, 
 
 Where no frosts, nor mildews are. 
 Tenclerest friends ! whose watchful care 
 Mark d its infant bud unclose, 
 
 Ye fear d the blight for it. 
 The winds, with moody fit, 
 
 The wintry snows ; 
 Now, Fear hath fled away, 
 Hope hath no prayer to say, 
 For it blooms where Heaven s pure ray 
 Unchanging glows. 
 
84 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 By thy thoughts thou shah be judged." 
 
 STAY, winged thought ! I fain would question thee ; 
 Though thy bright pinion is less palpable 
 Than filmy gossamer, more swift in flight 
 Than light s transmitted ray. 
 
 Art thou a friend ? 
 
 Thou wilt not answer me. Thou hast no voice 
 For mortal ear. Thy language is with God. 
 I fear thee. Thou rt a subtle husbandman, 
 Sowing thy little seed, of good or ill, 
 In the moist, unsunn d surface of the heart. 
 But what thou there in secresy dost plant 
 Stands with its ripe fruit at the judgment-day. 
 What hast thou dared to leave within my breast ? 
 Tell me thy ministry in that lock d cell 
 Of which I keep the key, till Deatli shall come. 
 Knowest thou that I must give account for thee ? 
 
THOUGHT. 
 
 Disrobe thee of thy mystery, and show 
 What witness thou hast borne to the high Judge. 
 Oh Man ! so prodigal of words, in deeds 
 Oft wise and wary, lest thy brother worm 
 Should hang thereon his echo-taunt of shame, 
 How dar st thou trifle with all-fearful thought? 
 Beware of thoughts. They whisper to the heavens. 
 Though mute to thee, they prompt the diamond pen 
 Of the recording angel. 
 
 Make them friends! 
 
 Those dread seed-planters for Eternity, 
 Those sky-reporting heralds. Make them friends ! 
 
86 
 
 SCHOOL OF YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 How fair upon the admiring sight, 
 
 In Learning s sacred fane, 
 With cheek of bloom, and robe of white, 
 
 Glide on yon graceful train. 
 Blest creatures ! to whose gentle eye 
 
 Earth s gilded gifts are new, 
 Ye know not that distrustful sigh 
 
 Which deems its vows untrue. 
 
 There is a bubble on your cup 
 
 By buoyant fancy nurs d, 
 How high its sparkling foam leaps up! 
 
 Ye do not think twill burst : 
 And be it far from me to fling 
 
 On budding joys a blight, 
 Or darkly spread a raven s wing 
 
 To shade a path so bright. 
 
 There twines a wreath around your brow, 
 Blent with the sunny braid ; 
 
SCHOOL OF YOUNG LADIES. 7 
 
 Love lends its flowers a radiant glow 
 
 Ye do not think twill fade : 
 And yet twere safer there to bind 
 
 That plant of changeless dye, 
 Whose root is in the lowly mind, 
 
 Whose blossom in the sky. 
 
 But who o er beauty s form can hang, 
 
 Nor think how future years 
 May bring stern sorrow s speechless pang 
 
 Or, disappointment s tears, 
 Unceasing toil, unpitied care, 
 
 Cold treachery s serpent moan 
 Ills that the tender heart must bear, 
 
 Unanswering and alone. 
 
 Yet, as the frail and fragrant flower, 
 
 Crushed by the sweeping blast, 
 Doth even in death an essence pour. 
 
 The sweetest, and the last, 
 So woman s deep, enduring love, 
 
 Which nothing can appal, 
 Her steadfast faith, that looks above 
 
 For rest, can conquer all. 
 
 8 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 FLOW on forever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
 Unfathom d and resistless. God hath set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead : and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him 
 Eternally bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence and upon thine altar pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 Earth fears to lift 
 
 The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys 
 Or fleeting triumphs, mid the peal sublime 
 Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks 
 Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves 
 Retire abash d. For h* hath need to sleep, 
 Sometimes, like a spent laborer, calling home 
 His boisterous billows, from their vexing play, 
 
NIAGARA. 89 
 
 To a long, dreary calm : but thy strong tide 
 Faints not, nor e er with failing heart, forgets 
 Its everlasting lesson, night nor day. 
 The morning stars, that hail d creation s birth. 
 Heard thy hoarse anthem, mixing with their song 
 Jehovah s name ; and the dissolving fires, 
 That wait the mandate of the day of doom 
 To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscrib d 
 Upon thy rocky scroll. 
 
 The lofty trees 
 
 That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore 
 Of the too fitful winds ; while their young leaves 
 Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray, 
 Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds, 
 How bold they venture near, dipping their wing 
 In all thy mist and foam. Perchance tis meet 
 For them to touch thy garment s hem, or stir 
 Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud. 
 Unblam d, or warble at the gate of heaven 
 Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems 
 Scarce lawful, with our erring lips to talk 
 Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace 
 Thine awful features, with our pencil s point 
 Were but to press on Sinai. 
 
 Thou dost spe^k 
 Alone of God, who pour d thee as a drop 
 
90 NIAGARA. 
 
 From his right-hand, bidding the soul that looks 
 Upon thy fearful majesty, be still, 
 Be humbly wrapp d in its own nothingness, 
 And lose itself in Him. 
 
91 
 
 THE SICK CHILD. 
 
 THY fever d arms around me, 
 My little, suffering boy 
 
 Tis better thus with thee to watch, 
 Than share in fashion s joy. 
 
 The pale nurse-lamp is waning 
 
 Upon the shaded hearth, 
 And dearer is its light to me 
 
 Than the gay flambeau s mirth. 
 
 I ve lov d the merry viol 
 
 That spurs the dancer s heel, 
 
 And those soft tremblings of the lute 
 O er summer s eve that steal ; 
 
 But when hath richest music 
 
 Been to my soul so dear, 
 As that half-broken sob of thine 
 
 Which tells that sleep is near? 
 
THE SICK CHILD. 
 
 I knew not half how precious 
 The cup of life might be, 
 
 Till o er thy cradle bed I knelt, 
 And learn d to dream of thec ; 
 
 Till at the midnight hour I found 
 Thy head upon my arm, 
 
 And saw thy full eye fix d on mine, 
 A strong, mysterious charm ; 
 
 Till at thy first faint lisping 
 That tear of rapture stole, 
 
 Which ever as a pearl had slept 
 Deep in the secret soul. 
 
 A coffin small, and funeral, 
 
 With all their sad array, 
 Gleam as my broken slumbers fleet 
 
 On sable wing away. 
 
 Rouse, rouse me, ere such visions 
 My heated brain can sear, 
 
 For still my baby s heavy knell 
 Comes booming o er my ear. 
 
 Cling closer, round my bosom 
 Thy feeble arms entwine, 
 
THE SICK CHILD. 93 
 
 And while the life-throb stirs thy heart, 
 Be as a part of mine. 
 
 That start, that cry, that struggle ! 
 
 My God I am but clay, 
 Have pity on a bruised reed, 
 
 Give thy compassions way ; 
 
 Send forth thy strength to gird me, 
 
 Impart a power divine, 
 To wring out sorrow s dregs, and say 
 
 " Oh ! not my will but thine." 
 
94 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 I WOULD ye had not glared on me so soon, 
 Officious lamps ! that gild the parlor scene 
 With such oppressive brightness. They were here 
 Whose garments like the tissue of our dreams 
 Steal o er the eye, and win it from the world. 
 They smiled on me so sweetly, and their hands 
 Clasped mine, and their calm presence woo d away 
 The throb of grief so tenderly I would 
 That twilight to the purple peep of dawn 
 Had kindly lingered. 
 
 She, who nearest hung, 
 
 Pressing my head to her meek, matron breast, 
 Was one who lulled me to my cradle sleep, 
 With such blest melodies as memory pours 
 Fresh from her echo-harp, when the fond heart 
 Asks for its buried joys. Slow years have sown 
 Rank rooted herbage o er her lowly couch, 
 Since she arose to chant that endless song 
 Which hath no dissonance. 
 
 Another form 
 
TWILIGHT. 95 
 
 Sat at her feet, whose brow was bright with bloom 
 
 When the cold grave shut o er it. It hath left 
 
 Its image every where upon my books, 
 
 My bower of musing, and my page of thought, 
 
 And the lone altar of the secret soul. 
 
 Would that those lips had spoken ! yet I hear 
 
 Always their ring-dove murmuring, when I tread 
 
 Our wonted shady haunts. 
 
 Say, is there aught 
 
 Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead ? 
 It cannot hide its face, it changeth not, 
 Grieves not, suspects not, may not fleet away ; 
 For as a seal upon the melted heart 
 Tis set forever. Sure tis weak to mourn 
 Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts 
 Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come 
 Such angel-visitants at even-tide, 
 Or midnight s holy hush, to cleanse away 
 The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch 
 Pure and ethereal to sublimate 
 The erring spirit. 
 
06 
 
 FUNERAL OF MAZEEN. 
 
 .HIE LAST OF THE ROYAL LINE OF THE MOHEGAN NATIOV. 
 
 JV>iD the trodden turf is an open grave, 
 
 And a funeral train where the wild flowers wave, 
 
 And a manly sleeper doth seek his bed 
 
 In the narrow house of the sacred dead, 
 
 Yet the soil hath scantily drank of the tear, 
 
 For the red-brow d few are the mourners here. 
 
 They have lower d the prince to his resting spot, 
 The deep prayer hath swell d, but they heed it not. 
 Their abject thoughts mid his ashes grope, 
 And quench d in their souls is the light of hope ; 
 Know ye their pangs, who turn away 
 The vassal foot from a monarch s clay ? 
 
 With the dust of kings in this noteless shade, 
 The last of a royal line is laid, 
 In whose stormy veins that current roll d 
 Which curb d the chief and the warrior bold ; 
 Yet pride still burns in their humid clay, 
 Though the pomp of the sceptre hath pass d away. 
 
FUNERAL OF MAZEEN. 97 
 
 They spake, and the war-dance wheel d its round, 
 Or the wretch to the torturing stake was bound ; 
 They lifted their hand, and the eagle fell 
 From his sunward flight, or his cloud- wrapt cell ; 
 They frown d, and the tempest of battle arose, 
 And streams were stain d with the blood of foes. 
 
 Be silent, O Grave ! o er thy hoarded trust, 
 And smother the voice of the royal dust ; 
 The ancient pomp of their council-fires, 
 Their simple trust in our pilgrim sires, 
 The wiles that blasted their withering race, 
 Hide, hide them deep in thy darkest place. 
 
 Till the rending caverns shall yield their dead, 
 
 Till the skies as a burning scroll are red, 
 
 Till the wondering slave from his chain shall spring, 
 
 And to falling mountains the tyrant cling, 
 
 Bid all their woes with their relics rest 
 
 And bury their wrongs in thy secret breast. 
 
 But, when aroused at the trump of doom, 
 
 Ye shall start, bold kings, from your lowly tomb, 
 
 When some bright-wing d seraph of mercy shall bend 
 
 Your stranger eye on the Sinner s Friend, 
 
 Kneel, kneel, at His throne whose blood was spilt, 
 
 And plead for your pale-brow d brother s guilt. 
 
98 
 
 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 WHEELS o er the pavement roll d, and a slight form, 
 Just in the bud of blushing womanhood, 
 Reach d the paternal threshold. Wrathful night 
 Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung 
 On that fair creature s rich and glossy curls. 
 She stood and shiver d, but no mother s hand 
 Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress 
 Sustain d the weary spirit. No, that hand 
 Was with the cold, dull earth worm. 
 
 Gray and sad, 
 
 The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man, 
 The soldier-servant who had train d the steeds 
 Of her slain brothers for the battle field, 
 Essay d to lead her to the couch of pain, 
 Where her sick father pined. 
 
 Oft had he yearn d 
 
 For her sweet presence, oft in midnight s watch, 
 Mus d of his dear one s smile, till dreams restor d 
 The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip 
 Breathing his woes away. While distant far. 
 
THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 She, patient student, bending o er her tasks, 
 Toil d for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still, 
 In the heart s casket, his approving word 
 And the pure music of the welcome home, 
 Rich payment of her lahors. 
 
 But there came 
 
 A summons of surprise, and on the wings 
 Of filial love she hasted. Twas too late ; 
 The lamp of life still burned, yet twas too late. 
 The mind had pass d away, and who could call 
 Its wing from out the sky ? 
 
 For the embrace 
 
 Of strong idolatry, was but the glare 
 Of a fix d vacant eye. Disease had dealt 
 A fell assassin s blow. Oh God! the blight 
 That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain 
 The passive hand was grasp d and the wide halls 
 Re-echoed "father! father!" 
 
 Through the shades 
 
 Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent ; 
 Bathing with tireless hand the unmov d brow, 
 And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn 
 Came with its rose tint up, she shrieking clasp d 
 Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray 
 Flush d that wan brow, as if with one brief trace 
 Of waken d intellect. Twas seeming all, 
 And Hope s fond vision faded, as the day 
 
 Rode on in glory. 
 
 9 
 
J W) THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 Eve, her curtain drew 
 
 And found that pale and beautiful watcher there. 
 Still unreposing. Restless on his couch 
 Toss d the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep d 
 Its last dead poppy in his heart s red stream, 
 And agony was stirring Nature up 
 To struggle with her foe. 
 
 " Father in heaven ! 
 
 Oh give him sleep !" sigh d an imploring voice, 
 And then she ran to hush the measur d tick 
 Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl 
 That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour d 
 A boding note. But soon, from that lone couch 
 A hollow groan announc d the foe that strikes 
 But once. 
 
 They bore the fainting girl away, 
 And paler than that ashen corse, her face 
 Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid 
 Droop d o er the old nurse s shoulder. It was sad 
 To see a young heart breaking, while the old 
 Sank down to rest. 
 
 There was another change. 
 The mournful bell toll d out the funeral hour, 
 And groups came gathering to the gate where stood 
 The sable hearse. Friends throng d with heavy hearts, 
 And curious villagers, intent to scan 
 The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men, 
 Even o er the coffin and the warning shroud, 
 
THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 Revolving selfish schemes. 
 
 But one was there, 
 
 To whom all earth could render nothing back, 
 Like that pale changeless brow. Calmly she stood, 
 As marble statue. Not one trickling tear, 
 Or trembling of the eye-lid told she liv d, 
 Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came, 
 Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm, 
 All unreproved. 
 
 He for his master mourn d ; 
 And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft 
 His shaggy length through many a fireside hour 
 Stretch d at her father s feet? who round his bed 
 Of sickness watch d with wistful, wondering eye 
 Of earnest sympathy ? No, round his neck 
 Her infant arms had clasp d, and still he rais d 
 His noble front beside her, proud to guard 
 The last, lovM relic of his master s house. 
 
 The deadly calmness of that mourner s brow 
 
 Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought 
 
 Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake, 
 
 Who suffer d not the winds of heaven to touch 
 
 The tresses of his darling, and who dream d 
 
 In the warm passion of his heart s sole love 
 
 She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz d 
 
 Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said, 
 
 " How strange that he should be so lightly mourn d." 
 
102 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 
 
 Oh woman, oft misconstrued ! the pure pearls 
 
 Lie all too deep in thy heart s secret well, 
 
 For the unpausing and impatient hand 
 
 To win them forth. In that meek maiden s breast 
 
 Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down, 
 
 Though the hlanch d lips breath d out no boisterous plaint 
 
 Of common grief. 
 
 Even on to life s decline, 
 
 Through all the giddy round of prosperous years, 
 The birth of new affections, and the joys 
 That cluster round earth s favorites, there walk d 
 Still at her side, the image of her sire, 
 As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye 
 Met hers, and knew her not. When her full cup 
 Perchance had foam d with pride, that icy glance 
 Checking its effervescence, taught her soul 
 The chasten d wisdom of attemper d bliss. 
 
103 
 
 THE HAPPY FARMER. 
 
 SAW ye the fanner at his plough 
 
 As you were riding by ? 
 Or wearied neath his noon-day toil, 
 
 When summer suns were high ? 
 And thought you that his lot was hard ? 
 
 And did you thank your God, 
 That you, and yours, were not condemn d 
 
 Thus like a slave to plod ? 
 
 Come, see him at his harvest home, 
 
 When garden, field, and tree, 
 Conspire, with flowing stores to fill 
 
 His barn, and granary. 
 His healthful children gaily sport, 
 
 Amid the new-mown hay, 
 Or proudly aid, with vigorous arm, 
 
 His task, as best they may. 
 
 The dog partakes his master s joy, 
 And guards the loaded wain, 
 
104 THE HAPPY FARMER 
 
 The feathery people clap their wings, 
 And lead their youngling train. 
 
 Perchance, the hoary grandsire s eye 
 The glowing scene surveys, 
 
 And breathes a blessing on his race 
 Or guides their evening praise. 
 
 The Harvest-Giver is their friend, 
 
 The Maker of the soil, 
 And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread 
 
 And cheers their patient toil. 
 Come, join them round their wintry hearth, 
 
 Their heartfelt pleasures see, 
 And you can better judge how blest 
 
 The farmer s life may be. 
 
A COTTxlGE SCENE. 
 
 I SAW a cradle at a cottage door, 
 Where the fair mother, with her cheerful wheel, 
 Carolled so sweet a song, that the young bird, 
 Which, timid, near the threshold sought for seeds, 
 Paused on its lifted foot, and raised its head, 
 As if to listen. The rejoicing bees 
 Nestled in throngs amid the wood-bine cups 
 That o er the lattice clustered. A clear stream 
 Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured 
 Music upon the pebbles, and the winds 
 Which gently mid the vernal branches played 
 Their i dle freaks, brought showering blossoms down, 
 Surfeiting earth with sweetness. 
 
 Sad I came 
 
 From weary commerce with the heartless world ; 
 But when I felt upon my withered cheek 
 My mother Nature s breath, and heard the trump 
 Of those gay insects at their honied toil, 
 Shining like winged jewelry, and drank 
 The healthful odor of the flowering trees 
 
106 A COTTAGE SCENE. 
 
 And bright-eyed violets ; but, most of all, 
 
 When I beheld mild slumbering innocence, 
 
 And on that young maternal brow the smile 
 
 Of those affections which do purify 
 
 And renovate the soul, I turned me back 
 
 In gladness, and with added strength, to run 
 
 My weary race lifting a thankful prayer 
 
 To Him who showed me some bright tints of Heaven 
 
 Here on the earth, that I might safer walk 
 
 And firmer combat sin, and surer rise 
 
 From earth to Heaven. 
 
107 
 
 ROSE TO THE DEAD. 
 
 I PLUCK D a rose for thee, sweet friend, 
 
 Thy ever favorite flower, 
 A bud I long had nurs d for thee, 
 
 Within my wintry bower; 
 I group d it with the fragrant leaves 
 
 That on the myrtle grew, 
 And tied it with a silken string 
 
 Of soft cerulean blue. 
 
 I brought them all to thee, sweet friend, 
 
 And stood beside the chair, 
 Where sickness long thy step had chain d, 
 
 But yet thou wert not there ; 
 I turn d me to thy curtainM bed, 
 
 So fair with snowy lawn, 
 Methought the unpress d pillow said 
 
 " Not here, but risen and gone." 
 
 Thy book of prayer lay open wide, 
 And mid its leaves were seen, 
 
1C8 ROSE TO THE DEAD. 
 
 A flower with petals shrunk and dried, 
 Lost Summer s wither d queen. 
 
 It was a flower I gave thee, friend, 
 Thou lov dst it for my sake ; 
 
 " See here a fresher one I bring," 
 No lip in answer spake. 
 
 Then from the sofa s quiet side 
 
 I rais d the covering rare, 
 " Sleepest thou ?" upon the forehead lay 
 
 Unstirr d the auburn hair : 
 But when to leave my cherish d gift, 
 
 That gentle hand I stole, 
 Its icy touch ! its fearful chill, 
 
 Congeal d my inmost soul. 
 
 Ah friend, dear friend ! and can it be 
 
 Thy last sweet word is said ? 
 That all too late my token comes, 
 
 To cheer the pulseless dead ? 
 Here, on thy cold unheaving breast, 
 
 The promis d Rose I lay, 
 The last, poor symbol of a love 
 
 That cannot fade away. 
 
 But thou, mid yon perennial bowers 
 Where angel footsteps roam, 
 
ROSE TO THE DEAD. 109 
 
 Among the ever-fragrant flowers 
 
 That deck the spirit s home, 
 Rememberest thou the mourning friend, 
 
 Who nightly weeps for thee ? 
 And wilt thou pluck a thornless rose 
 
 And keep it safe for me ? 
 
110 
 
 BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS, 
 
 THE ONLY CHILDREN OF THEIR PARENTS. 
 
 THEY RE here, in this turf-bed those tender forms, 
 So kindly cherishM, and so fondly loved, 
 They^re here. 
 
 Sweet sisters ! pleasant in their lives 
 And not in death divided. Sure tis meet 
 That blooming ones should linger here and learn 
 How quick the transit to the silent tomb. 
 I do remember them, their pleasant brows 
 So mark d with pure affections, and the glance 
 Of their mild eyes, when, in the house of God, 
 They gathered up the manna, that distill d, 
 Like dew, around. 
 
 The eldest, parted first, 
 And it was touching even to tears, to see 
 The perfect meekness of that child-like soul, 
 Turning mid sorrow s chastening to its God, 
 And loosening every link of earthly hope, 
 To gird an angel s glorious garments on. 
 The younger lingered yet a little while, 
 
BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS. Ill 
 
 Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve 
 Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop : 
 Yet still in timid tenderness embraced 
 The Rock of Ages while the Saviour s voice 
 Confirmed its trust : " Suffer the little ones 
 To come to me." 
 
 And then her sister s couch 
 Undrew its narrow covering and those forms, 
 Which side by side, on the same cradle- bed, 
 So oft had shared the sleep of infancy, 
 Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheek 
 And hand to hand, until that morning break, 
 Which hath no night. 
 
 And ye are left alone, 
 
 Who nurtured those fair buds, and often said 
 Unto each other, in the hour of care, 
 " These same shall comfort us for all our toil." 
 Yes, ye are left alone. It is not ours 
 To heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand, 
 All he can give, is tears. 
 
 But he who took 
 
 Your treasures to his keeping: He hath power 
 To bear you onward to that better land, 
 Where none are written childless, and torn hearts 
 Blend in a full eternity of bliss. 
 10 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 HAS it come, the time to fade? 
 
 And with a murmur d sigh, 
 The Maple, in his scarlet robe, 
 
 Was the first to make reply ; 
 And the queenly Dahlias droop d 
 
 Upon their thrones of state, 
 The frost-king, with his baleful kiss. 
 
 Had well forestalled their fate. 
 
 Hydrangia, on her telegraph 
 
 A hurried signal trac d 
 Of dire and dark conspiracy 
 
 That Summer s realm menac d} 
 Then quick the proud exotic peerss 
 
 In consternation fled, 
 And refuge in their green-house sought 
 
 Before the day of dread. 
 
 The vine that o er my casement climb d 
 And cluster d day by day, 
 
AUTUMN 113 
 
 I count its leaflets every morn, 
 
 See, how they fade away; 
 And, as they withering one by one 
 
 Forsake their parent tree. 
 I call each sere and yellow leaf, 
 
 A buried friend to me. 
 
 Put on thy mourning, said my soul, 
 
 And with a tearful eye, 
 Walk softly mid the many graves, 
 
 Where thy companions lie. 
 The violet, like a loving babe, 
 
 When vernal suns were new, 
 That met thee with a soft, blue eye, 
 
 And lips all bath d in dew, 
 
 The lily, as a timid bride, 
 
 While summer suns were fair, 
 That put her snowy hand in thine, 
 
 To bless thee for thy care, 
 The trim and proud anemone, 
 
 The daisy from the vale, 
 The purple lilac towering high 
 
 To guard his sister pale, 
 
 The ripen d rose, where are they now? 
 But from the rifled bower 
 
114 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 A voice came forth " take heed to note 
 
 Thine own receding hour, 
 And let the strange and silver hair 
 
 That o er thy forehead strays 
 Be as a monitor, to tell 
 
 The autumn of thy days." 
 
115 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER. 
 
 A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI. 
 
 BEHOLD that countenance, where grief and love 
 Blend with ineffable benignity, 
 And deep, unuttered majesty divine. 
 
 Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart, 
 And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe ? 
 Redeemer! is it thine? And is this feast, 
 Thy last on earth ? Why do the chosen few, 
 Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand 
 As men transfix d with horror? 
 
 Ah! I hear 
 
 The appalling answer, from those lips divine, 
 "One of you shall betray me." 
 
 One of these? 
 
 Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, 
 Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant 
 Turns to the rain of summer ? One of these ! 
 Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops 
 10* 
 
116 THE LAST SUPPER. 
 
 The loved disciple, as if life s warm spring 
 
 Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock 
 
 Of unimagined guilt. See, his whole soul 
 
 Concentred in his eye, the man who walked 
 
 The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts 
 
 The horror struck inquiry " Is it I ? 
 
 Lord ! is it I ?" while earnest pressing near, 
 
 His brother s lip, in ardent echo seems 
 
 Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised, 
 
 Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul ; 
 
 And springing eager from the table s foot, 
 
 Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope, 
 
 That by his ear, the Master s awful words 
 
 Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ, 
 
 James, in the warmth of cherished friendship clings, 
 
 Yet trembles as the traitor s image steals 
 
 Into his throbbing heart ; while he, whose hand 
 
 In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds 
 
 Of him he loved, points upward to invoke 
 
 The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze, 
 
 Stands in his crystal singleness of soul, 
 
 Attesting innocence while Matthew s voice, 
 
 Repeating fervently the Master s words, 
 
 Rouses to agony the listening group, 
 
 Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem 
 
 To shudder at his accents. 
 
 All the twelve 
 With strong emotion strive, save one false breast 
 
THE LAST SAPPER. 117 
 
 By Mammon seared, which, brooding o er its gain, 
 Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour s blood. 
 Son of perdition ! dost thou freely breathe 
 In such pure atmosphere ? And canst thou hide, 
 "Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow, 
 The burden of a deed whose very name 
 Strikes all thy brethren pale? 
 
 But can it be 
 
 That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene 
 Is the slight pencil s witchery ? I would speak 
 Of him who pour d such bold conception forth 
 O er the dead canvass. But I dare not muse, 
 Now of a mortal s praise. Subdued I stand 
 In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God 
 I feel the breathing of those holy men, 
 From whom thy gospel, as on angel s wing, 
 Went out through all the earth. I see how deep 
 Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel 
 Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask 
 "Lord! is it I?" 
 
 For who may tell, what dregs 
 Do slumber in his breast. Thou, who didst taste 
 Of man s infirmities, yet bar his sins 
 From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not 
 In our temptations ; but so guide our feet, 
 That our Last Supper in this world may lead 
 To that immortal banquet by thy side, 
 Where there is no betrayer. 
 
118 
 WASHINGTON S TOMB. 
 
 ADAPTED TO MUSIC. 
 
 TOMB of the mighty dead ! 
 How sacred every tree, 
 Waving above thy head, 
 
 Or shedding bloom on thee : 
 As long as fair Potomac flows, 
 Sparkling neath Mount Vernon s sun, 
 Rever d by friends and foes 
 Dwell here, in blest repose, 
 Washington ! 
 
 Sons of the pilgrim sires, 
 
 Sons of yon boundless west, 
 Ye, whom the tropic fires, 
 
 Or hoarse lakes lull to rest, 
 If wandering wide, you e er forget 
 Ties that bind us all in one, 
 Here, at your father s feet, 
 The brothers vow repeat, 
 While the breeze respondeth sweet, 
 Washington ! 
 
WASHINGTON S TOMB. 119 
 
 He, of Helena s rock 
 
 Hath an enduring name, 
 Echoed in battle shock, 
 
 Sculptured with blood and flame : 
 But, when the mother at her knee 
 Whispereth to her cradled son 
 The alphabet of liberty, 
 Will he not lisp of thee, 
 Washington ? 
 
 Should baleful Discord steal 
 
 Our patriot strength away, 
 Or fierce Invasion s zeal 
 
 Recal old Bunker s day, 
 Or mad Disunion smite the tree 
 
 Nurs d so long in Glory s sun, 
 
 Mount Vernon s tomb shall be 
 
 The watch-word of the free, 
 
 Guiding their hearts to thee, 
 Washington ! 
 
120 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 
 
 I DO remember him. His saintly voice, 
 So duly lifted in the house of God, 
 Comes, with the far off wing of infant years, 
 Like solemn music. Often have we hush d 
 The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
 Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass d, 
 And eager to record one favoring smile, 
 Or word paternal. 
 
 At the bed of death 
 
 I do remember him ; when one, who bore 
 For me a tender love, did feel that pang 
 Which makes the features rigid and the eye 
 Like a fix d glassy orb. Her head was white 
 With many winters but her furrow d brow 
 To me was beautiful for she had cheer d 
 My lonely childhood with a changeless stream 
 Of pure benevolence. His earnest tone, 
 Girding her from the armory of God 
 To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale 
 Through which she walk d, doth linger round me still 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 12 \ 
 
 And by that gush of bitter tears, when first 
 
 Grief came into my bosom by that thrill 
 
 Of agony, which from the open grave 
 
 Hose wildly forth I do remember him, 
 
 The comforter and friend. 
 
 When Fancy s smile 
 
 Gilding youth s scenes, and promising to bring 
 
 The curtain d morrow fairer than to-day, 
 
 Enkindled wilder gaiety than fits 
 
 Beings so frail how oft his funeral prayer 
 
 Over some shrouded sleeper, made a pause 
 
 In folly s song, or warn d her roving eye 
 
 That all man s glory was the flower of grass 
 
 Beneath the mower s scythe. 
 
 His fourscore years 
 
 Sat lightly on him for his heart was glad, 
 
 Even to its latest pulse, with that fond love, 
 
 Home-nurtur d and reciprocal, which girds 
 
 And garners up, in sorrow and in joy. 
 
 I was not with the weepers when the hearse 
 
 Stood all expectant at his pleasant door, 
 
 And other voices from his pulpit said 
 
 That he was not : but yet the requiem sigh 
 
 Of that sad organ, in its sable robe, 
 
 Made melancholy music in my dreams. 
 
 And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew 
 
 Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead 
 
 To the Redeemer s sacred board, a guest 
 
122 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 
 
 Timid and unassur d yet gathering strength 
 From the blest promise of Jehovah s aid 
 Unto the early seeker. When again 
 My native spot unfolds that pictur d chart 
 Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, 
 Rocks, woods and waters exquisitely blent, 
 Thy cordial welcome I no more shall hear 
 Father and guide nor can I hope to win 
 Thy glance from glory s mansion, while I lay 
 This wild-flower garland on thine honor d tomb. 
 
123 
 
 OUR ABORIGINES 
 
 I HEARD the forests as they cried 
 
 Unto the valleys green, 
 "Where is the red-brow d hunter-race, 
 
 Who lov d our leafy screen ? 
 Who humbled mid these dewy glades 
 
 The red deer s antler d crown, 
 Or soaring at his highest noon, 
 
 Struck the strong eagle down." 
 
 Then in the zephyr s voice replied 
 
 Those vales, so meekly blest, 
 " They rear d their dwellings on our side, 
 
 Their corn upon our breast ; 
 A blight came down, a blast swept by. 
 
 The cone-roof d cabins fell, 
 And where that exil d people fled, 
 
 It is not ours to tell." 
 
 Niagara, of the mountains gray, 
 Demanded, from his throne, 
 11 
 
124 OUR ABORIGINES. 
 
 And old Ontario s billowy lake 
 
 Prolong d the thunder tone, 
 " The chieftains at our side who stood 
 
 Upon our christening day, 
 Who gave tne glorious names we bear, 
 
 Our sponsors, \vhere are they ?" 
 
 And then the fair Ohio charg d 
 
 Her many sisters dear, 
 " Show me once more, those stately forms 
 
 Within my mirror clear j" 
 But they replied, " tall barks of pride 
 
 Do cleave our waters blue, 
 And strong keels ride our farthest tide, 
 
 But where s their light canoe ?" 
 
 The farmer drove his plough-share deep 
 
 " Whose bones are these ?" said he, 
 " I find them where my browsing sheep 
 
 Roam o er the upland lea." 
 But starting sudden to his path 
 
 A phantom seem d to glide, 
 A plume of feathers on his head, 
 
 A quiver at his side. 
 
 He pointed to the rifled grave 
 Then rais d his hand on high, 
 
OUR ABORIGINES. 125 
 
 And with a hollow groan invok d 
 
 The vengeance of the sky. 
 O er the broad realm so long his own 
 
 Gaz d with despairing ray, 
 Then on the mist that slowly curl d, 
 
 Fled mournfully away. 
 
 
126 
 
 THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 
 
 " Oh Death! how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man that 
 is at ease in his possessions." ECCLESIASTICUS, iv., 1. 
 
 THE rich man moved in pomp. His soul was gorged 
 
 With the gross fulness of material things. 
 
 So that it spread no pinion forth to seek 
 
 A better world than this. There was a change, 
 
 And in the sleepless chamber of disease, 
 
 Curtained and nursed, and ill-content he lay. 
 
 lie had a wasted and an eager look, 
 
 And on the healer s brow he fixed a glance, 
 
 Keen yet imploring. 
 
 What he greatly feared 
 
 Had come upon him. So he went his way 
 The way of all the earth and his lands took 
 Another s name. 
 
 Why dost thou come. O Deatli f 
 
THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 127 
 
 To print the bridal chamber with thy foot, 
 And leave the ruin of thy ministry, 
 Where love, and joy, and hope so late had hung 
 Their diamond cressets ? 
 
 To the cradle side 
 
 Why need st thou steal, changing to thine own hue 
 Of ghastly pale, the youthful mother s brow ; 
 And for her nightly watching, leaving nought 
 In mocking payment, but a form of clay, 
 And the torn heart-strings in her bleeding breast? 
 Come to the aged, he hath sorely trod 
 Time s rugged road, until his staff is broke, 
 And his feet palsied, and his friends all gone ; 
 Lay thy cold finger on life s last faint spark, 
 And scarcely gasping he shall follow thee. 
 Come to the saint, for he will meekly take 
 Thy message to his soul, and welcome thee 
 In Jesus name, and bless the shadowy gate 
 Which thou dost open. 
 
 Wait awhile, O Death ! 
 
 For those who love this fleeting world too well ; 
 Wait, till it force their hearts to turn away 
 From all its empty promises, and loathe 
 Its deep hypocrisy. Oh ! wait for those 
 Who have not tasted yet of Heaven s high grace, 
 Nor bring them to their audit, all unclothed 
 With a Redeemer s righteousness. 
 
 ii 
 
128 
 
 THE HOPIA TREE. 
 
 PLANTED OVER THE GRAVE OF MRS. ANN H. JUDSON 
 
 "REST! Rest! the Hopia tree is green, 
 And proudly waves its leafy screen, 
 
 Thy lowly bed above, 
 And by thy side, no more to weep, 
 Thine infant shares the gentle sleep, 
 
 Thy youngest bud of love. 
 
 How oft its feeble wailing cry 
 DetainM unsealM thy watchful eye, 
 
 And pain d that parting hour 
 When pallid death, with stealthy tread, 
 Descried thee on thy fever-bed, 
 
 And proved his fatal power. 
 
 " Ah ! do I see with faded charm, 
 Thy head reclining on thine arm, 
 The Teacher* far away ? 
 
 * " The last day or two of her life, slie la) almost motionless, on 
 
THE IIOPIA TREE. 129 
 
 But now, thy mission-labors o er, 
 Rest, weary clay, to wake no more, 
 Till the Great Rising-Day." 
 
 Thus spake the traveller, as he staid 
 His step within that sacred shade, 
 
 A man of God was he, 
 Who his Redeemer s glory sought, 
 And paused to woo the holy thought 
 
 Beneath that Hopia tree. 
 
 The Sal wen s tide went rushing by, 
 And Burmah s cloudless moon was high, 
 
 With many a solemn star ; 
 And while he mus d methought there stole 
 An angel s whisper o er his soul, 
 
 From that pure clime afar, 
 
 Where swells no more the heathen sigh, 
 Nor neath the idol s stony eye 
 
 Dark sacrifice is done, 
 And where no more, by prayers and tears, 
 And toils of agonising years, 
 
 The martyr s crown is won. 
 
 one side, her head reclining on her arm. Sometimes she said, 
 The teacher is long in coming, and the new missionaries are lor? 
 in coming. I must die alone. " Knowles s Memoir. 
 
130 THE IIOPIA TREE. 
 
 Then visions of the faith that blest 
 The dying 1 saint s rejoicing breast, 
 
 And set the pagan free, 
 Came thronging on, serenely bright, 
 And cheer d the traveller s heart that night, 
 
 Beneath the Hopia tree. 
 
131 
 
 A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN. 
 
 " I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven." 
 REVELATIONS, iv., 31. 
 
 IT seemed not as a dream, and yet I stood 
 
 Beside Heaven s gate. Its mighty valves were loosed, 
 
 And upward, from earth s tribulation, came 
 
 A soul, whose passport, signed in Calvary s blood, 
 
 Prevailed. Around the golden threshold s verge 
 
 I saw the dazzling of celestial wings, 
 
 Thronging to welcome it. The towering form 
 
 Of an archangel bore it company 
 
 Up to God s throne. Soft on my ear their tones, 
 
 Serenely wafted by ambrosial gales, 
 
 Fell like rich music. 
 
 " Wherefore didst thou pass 
 Weeping along thy pilgrimage ?" inquired 
 The sinless seraph. 
 
 " Thorns beset my path. 
 I sought and found not. I obtained and mourned. 
 
132 A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN. 
 
 1 loved and lost. Ingratitude and Hate 
 Did whet their serpent tooth upon my fame. 
 My wealth took wing. I planted seeds of bliss, 
 And sorrow blossomed." 
 
 But the risen from earth 
 Faltered to mark that high archangel s glance 
 Bent downward with surprise, as though it asked 
 "Had thy felicity no deeper root, 
 Thou sky-born soul, for whom the Son of God 
 Bowed to be crucified ?" 
 
 So when I saw, 
 
 Or dreamed I saw, that even in Heaven might dwell 
 Reproof and penitence, T prayed to look 
 Ever upon that flood of light which gilds 
 Each morning with its mercy, and whose beams 
 Are brightened every moment, and to bear 
 God s discipline with gladness; that no tear 
 For trials lost, be shed beyond the grave. 
 
133 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 The fashion of this world passeth away." 1 CORINTHIANS, vn., 31. 
 
 A ROSE upon her mossy stem, 
 
 Fair Queen of Flora s gay domain, 
 
 All graceful wore her diadem, 
 
 The brightest mid the brilliant train ; 
 
 But evening came, with frosty breath, 
 And, ere the quick return of day, 
 
 Her beauties, in the blight of death, 
 
 Had pass d away. 
 
 I saw, when morning gemmed the sky, 
 A fair young creature gladly rove, 
 
 Her moving lip was melody, 
 
 Her varying smile the charm of love ; 
 
 At eve I came but on her bed 
 
 She drooped, with forehead pale as clay 
 
 What dost thou here ?" she faintly said, 
 " Passing away." 
 
134 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 I looked on manhood s towering form 
 Like some tall oak when tempests blow, 
 
 That scorns the fury of the storm 
 And strongly strikes its root below. 
 
 Again I looked with idiot cower 
 His vacant eye s unmeaning ray 
 
 Told how the mind of godlike power 
 Passeth away. 
 
 O earth ! no better wealth hast thou ? 
 
 No balsam for the heart that bleeds ? 
 Fade all thy blossoms on their bough ? 
 
 Fail all thy props like bruised reeds? 
 The soul replied, " My hopes are wreathM 
 
 Around the bowers of changeless day, 
 Where angel tones have never breath d 
 
 Passing away. n 
 
135 
 
 SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY 
 
 I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot 
 
 Of the crownM Alleghany, when he wrapp d 
 
 His purple mantle gloriously around, 
 
 And took the homage of the princely hills, 
 
 And ancient forests, as they bow d them down, 
 
 Each in his order of nobility. 
 
 And then in glorious pomp, the sun retir d 
 
 Behind that solemn shadow. And his train 
 
 Of crimson, and of azure and of gold 
 
 Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, 
 
 And ray on ray, till all the concave caught 
 
 His parting benediction. 
 
 But the glow 
 
 Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank 
 In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood 
 In awful state, like dread ambassador 
 Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown d severe 
 Upon the world beneath, and lifted up 
 The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky 
 To witness gainst its sins And is it meet 
 12 
 
136 SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY. 
 
 For thee, swoln out in cloud-capp d pinnacle, 
 
 To scorn thine own original, the dust 
 
 That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, 
 
 Doth sweep thy base ? Say, is it meet for thee, 
 
 Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach 
 
 This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root 
 
 Draws depth and nutriment ? 
 
 But lo ! a star, 
 
 The first meek herald of advancing night, 
 Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe 
 Might gaze with brow of timid innocence 
 Over a giant s shoulder. Hail, lone star! 
 Thou friendly watcher o er an erring world, 
 Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach 
 Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes 
 Thee light, and man salvation. 
 
 Not to mark 
 
 And treasure up his follies, or recount 
 Their secret record in the court of Heaven, 
 Thou com st. Methinks, thy tenderness would shroud 
 With trembling mantle, his infirmities. 
 The purest natures are most pitiful. 
 But they who feel corruption strong within, 
 Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace 
 Of their own image, in another s breast. 
 So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies 
 His own mad visage, furiously destroys 
 The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star ! 
 
SUNSET ON THE ALLEOHANY. 137 
 
 Shalt stand a watchman on Creation s walls, 
 While race on race, their little circles mark, 
 And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, 
 Who through this evening scene may wander on. 
 And from yon mountain s cold magnificence 
 Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all, 
 The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, 
 A silent teacher of its boundless lore. 
 
138 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Is that beast better that hath two or three mountains to graze on, 
 than a little bee that feeds on dew or manna, and lives upon what 
 falls every morning from the storehouses of heaven, clouds, and 
 providence ? Can a man quench his thirst better out of a river than 
 a full urn ; or drink better from the fountain which is finely paved 
 with marble, than when it swells over the green turf?" 
 
 BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 THINK ST thou the steed that restless roves 
 O er rocks and mountains, fields and groves, 
 
 With wild, unbridled bound, 
 Finds fresher pasture than the bee, 
 On thymy bank, or vernal tree, 
 Intent to store her industry, 
 
 Within her waxen round ? 
 
 Think st thou the fountain forc d to turn 
 Thro marble vase, or sculptur d urn, 
 
 Affords a sweeter draught, 
 Than that which in its native sphere, 
 
CONTENTMENT. 139 
 
 Perennial, undisturb d and clear, 
 Flows, the lone traveller s thirst to cheer, 
 And wake his grateful thought ? 
 
 Think st thou the man whose mansions hold 
 The worldling s pomp, and miser s gold, 
 
 Obtains a richer prize, 
 Than he who in his cot at rest, 
 Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest, 
 And bears the promise in his breast 
 
 Of treasure in the skies ? 
 
140 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER WHILE 
 ABSENT AT SCHOOL.* 
 
 SWEET Sister! is it so? And shall I see 
 Thy face on earth no more ? And didst thou breathe 
 The last sad pang of agonising life 
 Upon a stranger s pillow ? No kind hand, 
 Of parent or of kindred near, to press 
 Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew 
 Stood thick upon them ? And they say my name 
 Hung on thy lips mid the chill, parting strife. 
 Ah ! those were hallowed memories that could stir 
 Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song 
 Of cradle-nurture the low, lisping prayer, 
 Learned at our mother s knee the childish sport, 
 The gift divided, and the parted cake 
 Our walk to school amid the dewy grass 
 Our sweet flower-gatherings all those cloudless hours 
 Together shared, did wake a love so strong 
 That Time must yield it to Eternity 
 For its full crown. Would it had been my lot 
 But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart 
 * Written at the request of her bereaved brother. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 141 
 
 For its last conflict. Would that I had seen 
 
 That peaceful smile which Death did leave thy clay 
 
 After his conquest o er it. But the turf 
 
 On thy lone grave was trodden, while 1 deemed 
 
 Thee meekly musing o er the classic page, 
 
 Loving and loved, amid the studious band 
 
 As erst I left thee. 
 
 Sister ! toils and ills 
 
 Henceforth are past for knowledge without pain, 
 A free translucent, everlasting tide, 
 (yerfiows thy spirit. Thou no more hast need 
 Of man s protecting arm, for thou may st lean 
 On His unchanging throne who was thy trust, 
 Even from thine early days. 
 
 Tis well ! tis well ! 
 Saviour of souls ! I thank thee for her bliss. 
 
142 
 
 THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD 
 
 YON pilgrim see, in vestments gray, 
 Whose bleeding feet bedew his way, 
 O er arid sands, with want opprest, 
 Who, toiling, knows no place of rest : 
 Mourn ye, because the long-sought shrine 
 He clasps in ecstacy divine, 
 And lays his load of sin and gloom 
 Repentant on a Saviour s tomb ? 
 Behold yon ship, with wrecking form 
 Her proud masts quivering to the storm, 
 Rude winds and waves with headlong force 
 Impel her on her dangerous course; 
 The pallid crew their hope resign, 
 And powerless view the surging brine : 
 Mourn ye, because the tempest dies, 
 And in the haven moor d she lies ? 
 Emerging from the field of strife 
 Where slaughter d thousands waste their life, 
 Yon warrior see, with gushing veins, 
 Who scarce his frantic steed restrains ; 
 
THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. 143 
 
 The death-mist swims before his eyes 
 
 As toward the well known spot he flies, 
 
 Where every fond affection lies. 
 
 Mourn ye, because to home restor d, 
 
 Woman s white arms enwrap her lord, 
 
 And tears and smiles with varying grace 
 
 Fleet o er his cherub children s face ? 
 
 Yet on his path of toil and woe, 
 
 The pilgrim from his shrine must go, 
 
 The ship amid the billows strain, 
 
 The warrior seek the war again : 
 
 But he, whose form to death has bow d, 
 
 Whose spirit cleaves the ethereal cloud, 
 
 From him hath change and sorrow fled, 
 
 Why mourn ye, then, the righteous dead < 
 
144 
 
 JOY IN BELIEVING. 
 
 God desireth to have no slaves in his family." REV. DR. HA WES 
 
 MAN asketh homage. When his foot doth stand 
 
 On earth s high places, he exacteth fear 
 
 From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves 
 
 The quick observance of an abject eye 
 
 And cowering brow. His dignity, he deems, 
 
 Demands such aliment and he doth show 
 
 Its evanescence, by the food he seeks 
 
 To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this 
 
 He o er his brother rules, with scourge and chain, 
 
 Treading out Nature s charities, till life 
 
 To madness tortur d, or in misery crush d, 
 
 Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God. 
 
 But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not 
 
 The slavery of the soul. His claim is love, 
 
 A filial spirit, and a song of praise. 
 
 It doth not please him, that his servants wear 
 
JOY IN BELIEVING. 145 
 
 The livery of mourning. Peace is sown 
 Along their pilgrim path and holy hopes 
 Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour 
 Melodious measures and a glorious faith 
 Springs up o er Jordan s wave. Say, is it meet 
 For those who wear a Saviour s badge, to sigh 
 In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys 
 Quench their brief taper ? or go shrinking down 
 As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death 
 Opes its low valve, to show the shining track 
 Up to an angel s heritage of bliss ? 
 
146 
 
 INDIAN GIRL S BURIAL. 
 
 " In tne vicinity of Montrose, Wisconsin Territory, the only 
 daughter of an Indian woman of the Sac tribe, died of lingering 
 consumption, a; the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and 
 a few of the pale-faces were at the grave, but none wept, save the 
 poor mother." HERALD OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 A VOICE upon the prairies 
 
 A cry of woman s woe. 
 That mingleth with the autumn blast 
 
 All fitfully and low ; 
 It is a mother s wailing ; 
 
 Hath earth another tone 
 Like that with which a mother mourns 
 
 Her lost, her only one ? 
 
 Pale faces gather round her, 
 
 They mark d the storm swell high 
 
 That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, 
 But their cold, blue eyes are dry. 
 
INblAN GIRL S BURIAL. 147 
 
 Pale faces gaze upon her, 
 
 As the wild winds caught her moan, 
 But she was an Indian mother, 
 
 So she wept her tears alone. 
 
 Long o er that wasted idol, 
 
 She watch d, and toil d, and pray d, 
 Though every dreary dawn reveal d 
 
 Some ravage Death had made, 
 Till the fleshless sinews started, 
 
 And hope no opiate gave, 
 And hoarse, and hollow grew her voice, 
 
 An echo from the grave. 
 
 She was a gentle creature, 
 
 Of raven eye and tress, 
 And dove-like were the tones that breath d 
 
 Her bosom s tenderness, 
 Save when some quick emotion, 
 
 The warm blood strongly sent. 
 To revel in her olive-cheek 
 
 So richly eloquent. 
 
 I said Consumption smote her, 
 
 And the healer s art was vain, 
 But she was an Indian maiden, 
 
 So none deplor d her pain ; 
 
 13 
 
148 INDIAN GIRL S BURIAL. 
 
 None, save that widow d mother, 
 
 Who now by her open tomb, 
 Is writhing like the smitten wretch 
 
 Whom judgment marks for doom. 
 
 Alas ! that lowly cabin, 
 
 That bed beside the wall, 
 That seat beneath the mantling vine, 
 
 They re lone and empty all. 
 What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn 
 
 That ripeneth on the plain ? 
 Since she for whom the board was spread 
 
 Must ne er return again. 
 
 Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, 
 
 Nor let thy murmuring shade 
 Grieve that those pale-brow d ones wim scorn 
 
 Thy burial rite survey d ; 
 There s many a king whose funeral 
 
 A black-rob d realm shall see, 
 For whom no tear of grief is shed 
 
 Like that which falls for thee. 
 
 Yea, rest thee, forest maiden ! 
 
 Beneath thy native tree ; 
 The proud may boast their little day 
 
 Then sink to dust like thee : 
 
INDIAN GIRL S BURIAL. 149 
 
 But there s many a one whose funeral 
 
 With nodding plumes may be, 
 Whom nature nor affection mourn, 
 
 As here they mourn for thee. 
 
150 
 
 THE LOST DARLING. 
 
 SHE was my idol. Night and day, to scan 
 The fine expansion of her form, and mark 
 The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start 
 To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. 
 To find her fairy footsteps following mine, 
 Her hand upon my garments, or her lip 
 Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night 
 The quiet breath of innocence to feel 
 Soft on my cheek, was such a full content 
 Of happiness, as none but mothers know. 
 
 Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields 
 To the slight fingered breeze, and as it held 
 Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed 
 The moaning kitten, or with patient care 
 Conned o er the alphabet but most of all, 
 Its tender cadence in her evening prayer 
 Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone 
 Heard in sweet dreams. 
 
 But now alone I sit, 
 Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears 
 
THE LOST DARLING. 
 
 1/51 
 
 Her little robes, that once with woman s pride 
 I wrought, as if there were a need to deck 
 What God hath made so beautiful. I start, 
 Half fancying from her empty crib there comes 
 A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed words 
 tt Hush ! Hush thee, dearest." Then I bend and weep 
 As though it were a sin to speak to one 
 Whose home is with the angels. 
 
 Gone to God! 
 
 And yet I wish I had not seen the pang 
 That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white 
 Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven 
 Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower 
 Blooming in all its freshness. 
 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Be still, my heart! what could a mother s prayer, 
 In all the wildest ecstacies of hope, 
 Ask for its darling like the bliss of Heaven ? 
 
152 
 
 BARZILLAI THE GILEAD1TE. 
 
 " Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother." 
 2 SAIIUEL, xix., 37. 
 
 SON of Jesse ! let me go, 
 
 Why should princely honors stay me ? 
 Where the streams of Gilead flow, 
 Where the light first met mine eye, 
 Thither would I turn and die ; 
 Where my parent s ashes lie, 
 
 King of Israel ! bid them lay me. 
 
 Bury me near my sire revered, 
 Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod, 
 Who early taught my soul with awe 
 To heed the Prophets and the Law, 
 And to my infant heart appeared 
 
 Majestic as a God : 
 Oh ! when his sacred dust 
 The cerements of the tomb shall burst, 
 
BARZILLAI THE OILEADITE. 1/53 
 
 Might I be worthy at his feet to rise, 
 
 To yonder blissful skies, 
 Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, 
 Jehovah ! Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine. 
 
 Cold age upon my breast 
 Hath shed a frost like death, 
 
 The wine-cup hath no zest, 
 The rose no fragrant breath ; 
 Music from my ear hath fled, 
 
 Yet still one sweet tone lingereth there, 
 The blessing that my mother shed 
 Upon my evening prayer. 
 Dim is my wasted eye 
 To all that beauty brings, 
 The brow of grace the form of symmetry 
 
 Are half-forgotten things ; 
 Yet one bright hue is vivid still, 
 A mother s holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. 
 
 Memory, with traitor-tread 
 
 Methinks, doth steal away 
 Treasures that the mind had laid 
 
 Up for a wintry day. 
 Images of sacred power, 
 Cherished deep in passion s hour, 
 
 Faintly now my bosom stir, 
 Good and evil like a dream 
 
154 BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 
 
 Half obscured and shadowy seem, 
 Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, 
 
 Yea it remembereth her : 
 Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. 
 
156 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY 
 
 BRILLIANT and beautiful ! And can it be 
 That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light 
 Upon thy lips no sound ? I little deemed 
 At our last parting, when thy cheering voice 
 Breathed the soul s harmony, what shadowy form 
 Then rose between us, and with icy dart 
 Wrote, " Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed 
 That thy elastic step, Death s darkened vale 
 Would tread before me. 
 
 Friend, I shrink to say 
 
 Farewell to thee. In youth s unclouded morn, 
 We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower, 
 And win it for our pleasure, or our pride. 
 But when the stern realities of life 
 Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms 
 Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes 
 A healing essence, and a strengthening charm, 
 Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love, 
 Departed and deplored. Talents were thine, 
 Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit, 
 
156 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 And that keen glance of intellect which reads, 
 
 Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs 
 
 Of human action. Yet such meek regard 
 
 For other s feelings, such a simple grace 
 
 And singleness of purpose, such respect 
 
 To woman s noiseless duties, sweetly bow d, 
 
 And tempered those high gifts, that every heart, 
 
 Which feared their splendor, loved their goodness too. 
 
 I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls 
 
 Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone 
 
 Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld 
 
 Their bright expansion through each ripening year. 
 
 To them the sacred name of daughter, blent 
 
 All images of comforter and friend, 
 
 The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain, 
 
 Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings. 
 
 What shall console their sorrow, when young morn 
 
 Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile 
 
 Of filial love doth mark it ? or when eve 
 
 Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone, 
 
 So long the treasure of their listening heart, 
 
 Uttereth no music ? 
 
 Ah ! so frail are we 
 So like the brief ephemeron that wheels 
 Its momentary round, we scarce can weep 
 Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share 
 The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point 
 Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death : 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Down to the mouldering multitude we go, 
 And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes, 
 The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage 
 In deep oblivion rest. 
 
 Then let the woes 
 
 And joys of earth be to the deathless soul 
 Like the spent dew-drop from the eagle s wing, 
 When, waking in his strength, he sunward soars. 
 
158 
 
 THE WAR SPIRIT 
 
 WAR-SPIRIT! war-spirit! how gorgeous thy path, 
 Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath : 
 The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne, 
 To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on, 
 With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpet s wild cry, 
 While the fold of their banners gleams bright o er the sky 
 
 Thy glories are sought till the life-throb is o er, 
 Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore ; 
 Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime, 
 The arch of the hero doth grapple with time, 
 The muse o er thy form throws her tissue divine, 
 And history her annal emblazons with thine. 
 
 War-spirit! war- spirit! thy secrets are known, 
 
 I have looked on the field when the battle was done 
 
 The mangled and slain in their misery lay, 
 
 And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey ; 
 
 But the heart s gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore, 
 
 In the homes that those loved ones revisit no more. 
 
THE WAR- SPIRIT. 159 
 
 I have traced out thy march by its features of pain, 
 
 While famine and pestilence stalked in thy train, 
 
 And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell, 
 
 And thy breath on the soul was the plague-spot of hell; 
 
 Death lauded thy deeds, and in letters of flame 
 
 The realm of perdition recorded thy name. 
 
 War spirit ! war spirit ! go down to thy place, 
 With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race ; 
 Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride, 
 Bid the rivers of blood thou hast opened be dried 
 Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease, 
 And yield the torn world to the angel of peace. 
 
 14 
 
160 
 
 DEATH AMONG THE TREES. 
 
 DEATH walketh in the forest. 
 
 The tall pines 
 
 Do woo the lightning-flash, and through their veins 
 The fire-shaft, darting, leaves their blackened trunks 
 A tablet, for ambition s sons to read 
 Their destiny. The oak that centuries spared, 
 Grows gray at last, and, like some time-worn man 
 Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope 
 With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots 
 Betray their trust. The towering elm turns pale, 
 And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, 
 While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. 
 The sycamore uplifts a beacon brow, 
 Denuded of its honors, and the blast, 
 Swaying the withered willow, rudely asks 
 For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf, 
 With silver lined. 
 
 1 knew that blight might check 
 The sapling, ere kind Nature s hand could weave 
 Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm, 
 Coiling itself amid our garden plants, 
 
DEA.TH AMONG THE TREES. 161 
 
 Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre. 
 
 And well I know how wild and wrecking winds 
 
 Might take the forest- monarchs by the crown, 
 
 And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb ; 
 
 And that the axe, with its sharp ministry, 
 
 Might, in one hour, such revolution work, 
 
 As all Earth s boasted power could never hop* 
 
 To reinstate. And I had seen the flame 
 
 Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs, 
 
 And with a tyrant s insolence dissolve 
 
 Their interlacing, till I felt that man, 
 
 For sordid gain, would make the forest s pomp, 
 
 Its heaven-raised arch and living tracery, 
 
 One funeral-pyre. 
 
 But, yet I did not deem 
 
 That pale Disease amid those shades would steal 
 As to a sickly maiden s cheek, and waste 
 The power and plenitude of those high ranks, 
 Which in their peerage and nobility, 
 Unrivalled and unchronicled, had reigned. 
 And so I said, if in this world of knells 
 And open tombs, there lingereth one whose dream 
 Is of aught permanent below the skies, 
 Even let him come and muse among the trees, 
 For they shall be his teachers ; they shall bow 
 To Wisdom s lessons his forgetful ear, 
 And, by the whisper of their faded leaves, 
 Soften to his sad heart the thought of death. 
 
162 
 
 RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 
 
 BRIGHT Clouds! ye are gathering one by one, 
 Ye are sweeping in pomp round the dying sun, 
 With crimson banner, and golden pall, 
 Like a host to their chieftain s funeral *, 
 Perchance ye tread to that hallowed spot, 
 With a muffled dirge, though we hear it not. 
 
 But methinks ye tower with a lordlier crest, 
 And a richer robe as he sinks to rest ; 
 Not thus, in the day of his pride and wrath, 
 Did ye dare to press on his glorious path, 
 At his noontide glance ye have quaked with fear, 
 And hasted to hide in your misty sphere. 
 
 Do you say he is dead ? You exult in vain, 
 With your rainbow tint and your swelling train : 
 He shall rise again with his strong bright ray, 
 He shall reign in power when you fade away, 
 When ye darkly cower in your vapory hall, 
 Tintlcss, and naked, and noteless all. 
 
RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 163 
 
 The Soul ! The Soul ! with its eye of fire, 
 Thus, thus shall it soar when its foes expire, 
 It shall spread its wing o er the ills that pained, 
 The evils that shadowed, the sins that stained ; 
 It shall dwell where no rushing cloud hath sway, 
 And the pageants of earth shall have melted away. 
 
164 
 
 THE BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY 
 
 "Are you Jesus Christ s man? Give us a writing that tells 
 about Jesus Christ." LETTER OF REV. DR. JUDSON. 
 
 THERE is a cry in Burmah, and a rush 
 Of thousand footsteps from the distant bound 
 Of watery Siam, and the rich Cathay. 
 From the far northern frontier, pilgrims meet 
 The central dwellers in the forest-shades, 
 And on they press together. Eager hope 
 Sits in their eye, and on their lips the warmth 
 Of strong request. Is it for bread they seek, 
 Like the dense multitude, which, fainting, hung 
 Upon the Saviour s words, till the third day 
 Closed in, and left them hungering ? 
 
 Not for food 
 
 Or raiment ask they. Simply girding on 
 The scanty garment o er the weary limb, 
 They pass unmarked, the lofty domes of wealth 
 
THE BURMANS AND THEIR MISSION ARV. 
 
 Inquiring for a stranger. There he stands ; 
 
 The mark of foreign climes is on his brow ; 
 
 He hath no power, no costly gifts to deal 
 
 Among the people, and his lore perchance 
 
 The earth-bowed worldling with his scales of gold, 
 
 Accounteth folly. Yet to him is raised 
 
 Each straining eye-ball, Tell us of the Christ !" 
 
 And like the far-off murmur of the sea 
 
 Lashed by the tempest, swells their blended tone, 
 
 " Yea. Tell us of the Christ. Give us a scroll 
 
 Bearing his name." 
 
 And there the teacher stood, 
 Far from his native land amid the graves 
 Of his lost infants, and of her he loved 
 More than his life. Yes, there he stood alone, 
 And with a simple, saint-like eloquence 
 Spake his Redeemer s word. Forgot were all 
 Home, boj hood, Christian-fellowship the tone 
 Of his sweet babes his partner s dying strife 
 Chains, perils, Burman dungeons, all forgot, 
 Save the deep danger of the heathen s soul, 
 And God s salvation. And methought that earth 
 In all she vaunts of majesty, or tricks 
 With silk and purple, or the baubled pride 
 Of throne and sceptre, or the blood-red pomp, 
 Of the stern hero, had not aught to boast 
 So truly great, so touching, so sublime, 
 
166 THE BURMAN9 AND THEIR MISSIONARY. 
 
 As that lone Missionary, shaking off 
 All links and films and trappings of the world, 
 And in his chastened nakedness of soul 
 Rising to bear the embassy of Heaven. 
 
167 
 
 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 
 
 Occasioned by reading the manner of conveying a young man to 
 burial, in the mountainous region about Vettie s Giel, in Norway. 
 
 WHO S riding o er the Giel so fast, 
 
 Mid the crags of Utledale ? 
 He heeds not cold, nor storm, nor blast ; 
 
 But his cheek is deadly pale. 
 
 A fringe of pearl from his eye-lash long, 
 
 Stern Winter s hand hath hung; 
 And his sinewy arm looks bold and strong, 
 
 Though his brow is smooth and young. 
 
 Round his marble forehead, in clusters bright, 
 
 Is wreathed his golden hair ; 
 His robe is of linen, long and white, 
 Though a mantle of fur scarce could bide the blight 
 
 Of his keen and frosty air. 
 
168 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 
 
 God speed thee now, thou horseman bold! 
 
 For the tempest awakes in wrath ; 
 And thy stony eye is fixed and cold 
 
 As the glass of thine icy path. 
 
 Down, down the precipice wild he breaks, 
 
 Where the foaming waters roar; 
 And his way up the cliff of the mountain takes, 
 
 Where man never trod before. 
 
 No checking hand to the rein he lends, 
 
 On slippery summits sheen; 
 But ever and aye his head he bends 
 
 At the plunge in some dark ravine. 
 
 Dost thou bow in prayer, to the God who guides 
 
 Thy course o er such pavement frail ? 
 Or nod in thy dream on the steep, where glides 
 The curdling brook, with its slippery tides, 
 Thou horseman, so young and pale ? 
 
 Swift, swift o er the breast of the frozen streams, 
 
 Toward Lyster-Church he hies 
 Whose holy spire mid the glaciers gleams, 
 
 Like a star in troubled skies. 
 
 Now stay, thou ghostly traveller stay, 
 Why haste in such mad career ? 
 
THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 169 
 
 Be the guilt of thy bosom as dark as it may, 
 Twere better to purge it here. 
 
 On, on ! like the winged blast he wends, 
 Where moulder the bones of the dead 
 
 Wilt thou stir the sleep of thy buried friends, 
 With thy courser s tramping tread ? 
 
 At a yawning pit, whose narrow brink, 
 
 Mid the swollen snow was grooved, 
 lie paused. The steed from that chasm did shrink 
 
 But the rider sate unmoved. 
 
 Then down at once, from his lonely seat, 
 
 They lifted the horseman pale, 
 And laid him low in that drear retreat 
 And poured in dirge-like measure sweet, 
 
 The mournful funeral wail. 
 
 Bold youth ! whose bosom with pride had glowed 
 
 In a life of toil severe 
 Didst thou scorn to pass to thy last abode 
 
 In the ease of the slothful bier ? 
 
 Must thy own good steed, which thy hands had drest, 
 
 In the fulness of boyhood s bliss, 
 By the load of thy lifeless limbs be prest, 
 
 On a journey so strange as this ? 
 
170 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 
 
 Yet still to the depth of yon rock-barred dell, 
 
 Where no ray from heaven hath glowed, 
 Where the thundering rush of the Markefoss fell, 
 The trembling child doth point and tell 
 How that fearful horseman rode. 
 
171 
 
 THE LONELY CHURCH. 
 
 IT stood among the chestnuts, its white spire 
 And slender turrets pointing where man s heart 
 Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs, 
 Abruptly beautiful, above its head, 
 Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, 
 That just beyond in deep sequestered vale 
 Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs 
 And varying sounds of village industry 
 Swelled from its margin, while the busy loom, 
 Replete with radiant fabrics, told the skill 
 Of the prompt artisan. 
 
 But all around 
 
 The solitary dell, where meekly rose 
 That consecrated church, there was no voice 
 Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, 
 And that unspoken lore with which the dead 
 Do commune with the living. There they lay, 
 Each in his grassy tenement, the sire 
 Of many winters, and the noteless babe 
 Over whose empty cradle, night by night, 
 15 
 
172 THE LONELY CHURCH. 
 
 Sate the poor mother mourning, in her tears 
 Forgetting what a little span of time 
 Did hold her from her darling. And methought, 
 How sweet it were, so near the sacred house 
 Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, 
 And Sabbath after Sabbath gathered strength 
 To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, 
 Close neath the shadow of its peaceful walls ; 
 And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up 
 Our simple tomb-stone witness to that faith 
 Which cannot die. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, Lonely Chuich 
 And daily may st thou warn a pilgrim-band, 
 From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee. 
 And drink the waters of eternal life : 
 Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies, 
 Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand 
 To guide the living and to guard the dead. 
 
173 
 
 THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 " When he found his end drev nigh, that great king summoned 
 his barons and peers around him, and, singling out the good Lord 
 James of Douglas, fondly entreated him, as his old friend and com 
 panion in arms, to cauoe his heart to be taken from his body, after 
 death, and to transport it to Palestine, in redemption of a vow which 
 he had made to go thither in person." SIR WALTER SCOTT S His- 
 v SCOTLAND. 
 
 KING ROBERT bore with gasping breath 
 
 The strife of mortal pain. 
 And, gathering round the couch of death, 
 
 His nobles mourned in vain. 
 Bathed were his brows in chilling dew, 
 
 As thus he faintly cried, 
 a Red Comyn, in his sins, I slew 
 
 At the high altar s side. 
 
 Tor this a vow my soul hath bound, 
 In armed lists to ride, 
 
174 THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 A warrior to that Holy Ground 
 Where my Redeemer died. 
 
 Lord James of Douglas, see, we part ! 
 I die before my time ; 
 
 I charge thee bear this pulseless heart 
 A pilgrim to that clime." 
 
 He ceased, for lo ! in close pursuit, 
 
 With fierce and fatal strife, 
 Death came, and crush d with icy foot 
 
 The brittle lamp of life. 
 The brave Earl Douglas, trained to meet 
 
 Dangers and perils wild, 
 Now, kneeling at his sovereign s feet, 
 
 Wept as a weaned child. 
 
 Beneath Dunfermline s hallowed nave, 
 
 Enwrapt in cloth of gold, 
 The Bruce s relics found a grave 
 
 Deep in their native mould ; 
 But locked within its silver vase, 
 
 Next to Lord James breast, 
 His heart went journeying on apace, 
 
 In Palestine to rest. 
 
 While many a noble Scottish knight, 
 With sable shield and plume, 
 
THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 17 i> 
 
 Rode as its guard in armor bright, 
 
 To bless their Saviour s tomb. 
 As on the scenery of Spain 
 
 They bent a traveller s eye, 
 Forth came, in bold and glorious train, 
 
 Her flower of chivalry. 
 
 Led by Alphonso gainst the Moor, 
 
 They came in proud array, 
 And set their serried phalanx sure 
 
 To bide the battle-fray. 
 "God save ye now, ye gallant band 
 
 Of Scottish warriors true \ 
 Good service for the Holy Land 
 
 Ye on this field may do." 
 
 So with the cavalry of Spain 
 
 In brother s grasp they closed, 
 And the grim Saracen in vain 
 
 Their blended might opposed ; 
 But Douglas, with his falcon-glance, 
 
 O erlooking crest and spear, 
 Saw brave St. Clair with broken lance, 
 
 That friend from childhood dear. 
 
 He saw him by a thousand foes 
 Opprest and overborne, 
 
 15 
 
176 THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 And high the blast of rescue rose 
 
 From his good bugle-horn ; 
 And, reckless of the Moorish spears, 
 
 In bristling ranks around, 
 His monarch s heart, oft steeped in tears, 
 
 He from his neck unbound, 
 
 And flung it toward the battle front, 
 
 And cried, with panting breath, 
 " Pass first, my liege, as thou wert wont, 
 
 I follow thee to death." 
 Stern Osmyn s sword was dire that day, 
 
 And keen the Moorish dart, 
 And there Earl Douglas bleeding lay 
 
 Beside the Bruce s heart. 
 
 Embalmed with Scotland s flowing tears, 
 
 That peerless champion fell, 
 And still the lyre, to future years, 
 
 His glorious deeds shall tell. 
 The "good Lord James," that honored name, 
 
 Each Scottish babe shall call, 
 And all who love the Bruce s fame 
 
 Deplore the Douglas fall. 
 
177 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 I DEEM thce not unlovely, though thou com st 
 With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, 
 The hlushing flowret, the rejoicing stream, 
 Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man 
 Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. 
 Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys, 
 And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, 
 So that the hoarse storm passeth by unheard. 
 Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds, 
 And keepeth silence at her Maker s feet. 
 She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, 
 And from the harvest-shouting. 
 
 Man should rest 
 
 Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale 
 The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, 
 And drink in holy health. As the toss d bark 
 Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay 
 To trim its shattered cordage, and restore 
 Its riven sails so should the toil-worn mind 
 Refit for time s rough voyage. Man, perchance, 
 
178 WINTER. 
 
 Soured by the world s sharp commerce, or impaired 
 By the wild wanderings of his summer way, 
 Turns like a truant scholar to his home, 
 And yields his nature to sweet influences 
 That purify and save. 
 
 The ruddy boy 
 
 Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport, 
 On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star 
 Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth. 
 And throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, 
 Hastes to his mother s side. Her tender hand 
 Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls, 
 And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice 
 Ask of his lessons, while her lifted heart 
 Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven 
 To " bless the lad." The timid infant learns 
 Better to love its sire and longer sits 
 Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip 
 Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue 
 Hath never spoken. 
 
 Come thou to life s feast 
 With dove-eyed meekness, and bland chanty, 
 And thou shalt find even Winter s rugged blast 
 The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul : 
 And when the last drop of its cup is drained 
 Arising with a song of praise go up 
 To the eternal banquet. 
 
179 
 
 FAREWELL TO AN ANCIENT CHURCH 
 
 FAREWELL, thou consecrated dome, 
 
 Whence prayer and chant and anthem rose, 
 
 Whose walls have given meek Hope a home, 
 And tearful Penitence, repose. 
 
 Here gathered round their shepherd-guide. 
 
 A flock, to the Redeemer dear, 
 While praise in full, responsive tide, 
 
 Soared heavenward, to its native sphere. 
 
 Here at this altar s hallowed side, 
 Oft was the bond of deathless love 
 
 Sealed by the kneeling, trembling bride 
 Where is that bride ? Perchance above. 
 
 The mother here her infant drew, 
 Unscathed by sin or sorrow s rod, 
 
 To win the pure, baptismal dew 
 Where is that mother? Ask of God. 
 
180 FAREWELL TO AN ANCIENT CHURCH. 
 
 And duly here lias childhood s train 
 Bowed to Instruction s mildest sway : 
 
 But were those ceaseless lessons vain ? 
 The page of doom alone can say. 
 
 Here many a brow in beauty s prime 
 Hath faded, like the rose-tinged cloud, 
 
 And many a head grown white with time, 
 That towered in manhood s glory proud. 
 
 Oh! if from yon celestial place, 
 
 Bright bands regard a world like this, 
 
 Here many a sainted soul may trace 
 The birth-place of its boundless bliss. 
 
 Witli tenderest recollections fraught, 
 How do these parting moments swell ! 
 
 Thou ancient nurse of holy thought, 
 Pear, venerated dome, farewell ! 
 
181 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 " The silver is mine, and the gold is mine saith the Lord of Hosts 
 HAGGAI, n. 8. 
 
 WHOSE is the gold that glitters in the mine ? 
 And whose the silver ? Are they not the Lord s ? 
 And lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills, 
 And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, 
 Are they not his who made them ? 
 
 Ye who hold 
 
 Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands 
 By your own names, and lock your gathered gold 
 From him who in his bleeding Saviour s name 
 Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be 
 When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, 
 You fall away ? 
 
 Point out to me the forms 
 That in your treasure-chambers shall enact 
 Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled 
 
182 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all. 
 
 Oh man ! whose wrinkling labor is for heirs 
 Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed, 
 Unkenned, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep; 
 Nor will they thank thee,that thou didst bereave 
 Thy soul of good for them. 
 
 Now, thou mayest give 
 The famished food, the prisoner liberty, 
 Light to the darkened mind, to the lost souV 
 A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege. 
 With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art 
 Upon earth s surface, gloriously exult 
 To be co-worker with the King of kings. 
 
APPEAL OF THE BLIND. 
 
 TO BE SUNG AT AN EXHIBITION OF BLIND BOYS. 
 
 YE see the glorious sun, 
 
 The varied landscape light. 
 The moon with all her starry train, 
 
 Illume the aich of night, 
 Bright tree, and bird, and flower 
 
 That deck your joyous way, 
 The face of kindred and of friend, 
 
 More fair, more dear than they. 
 
 For us there glows no sun, 
 
 No green and flowery lawn ; 
 Our rayless darkness hath no moon. 
 
 Our midnight knows no dawn ; 
 The parent s pitying eye, 
 
 To all our sorrows true, 
 The brother s brow, the sister s smile, 
 
 Have never met our view. 
 
 16 
 
184 APPEAL OF THE BLIND. 
 
 Still there s a lamp within, 
 
 That knowledge fain would light. 
 And pure Religion s radiance touch 
 
 With beams for ever bright, 
 Say, shall it rise to share 
 
 Such radiance full and free ? 
 And will ye keep a Saviour s charge 
 
 And cause the blind to see ? 
 
EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 WHEN fervid summer crisps the shrinking nerve. 
 
 And every prismed rock doth catch the ray 
 
 As in a burning glass, tis wise to seek 
 
 This city of the wave. For here the dews 
 
 With which Hygeia feeds the flower of life 
 
 Are ever freshening in their secret founts. 
 
 Here may st thou talk with the ocean, and no ear 
 
 Of gossip islet on thy words shall feed. 
 
 Send thy free thought upon the winged winds, 
 
 That sweep the castles of an older world, 
 
 And what shall bar it from their ivied heights ? 
 
 Tis well to talk with Ocean. Man may cast 
 His pearl of language on unstable hearts, 
 And, thriftless sower ! reap the winds again. 
 But thou, all-conquering element, dost grave 
 Strong characters upon the eternal rock, 
 Furrowing the brow that holdeth speech with thee. 
 Musing beneath yon awful cliffs, the soul, 
 That brief shell-gatherer on the shores of time, 
 
186 EVENING BY THE SEA.-SHORE. 
 
 Feels as a brother to the drop that hangs 
 One moment trembling on thy crest, and sinks 
 Into the bosom of the boundless wave. 
 
 And see, outspreading her broad, silver scroll 
 Forth comes the moon, that meek ambassador, 
 Bearing Heaven s message to the mighty surge. 
 Yet he, who listeneth to its hoarse reply, 
 Echoing in anger through the channel d depths 
 Will deem its language all too arrogant, 
 And earth s best dialect too poor to claim 
 Benignant notice from the star-pav d skies, 
 And man too pitiful to lift himself 
 In the frail armour of his moth-crushM pride. 
 Amid o ershadowing nature s majesty. 
 
187 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " It may be Autumn, yea Winter with the woman but with the 
 mother, as a mother, it is always Spj.ng." SERMON OF THE REV. 
 THOMAS COBEETT, AT LYNN, 1665. 
 
 I SAW an aged woman bow 
 
 To weariness and care, 
 Time wrote his sorrows on her brow 
 
 And mid her frosted hair. 
 
 Hope, from her breast had torn away 
 Its rooting, scathed and dry, 
 
 And on the pleasures of the gay 
 She turned a joyless eye. 
 
 What was it that like sunbeam clear 
 O er her wan features run, 
 
 As pressing towards her deafened ear 
 I named her absent son ? 
 
188 THE MOTHER. 
 
 What was it ! Ask a mother s breast 
 Through which a fountain flows 
 
 Perennial, fathomless and blest, 
 By winter never fro/o. 
 
 What was it ? Ask the King of kings, 
 
 Who hath decreed, above, 
 That change should mark all earthly things. 
 
 Except a mother s love 
 
189 
 
 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. 
 
 THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees, 
 Reft of their coronals, and the crisp vines, 
 And flowers \vhose dewless bosoms sought the dusl 
 Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds 
 Pined on, and perished mid the scorching fields ; 
 And near the vanished fountains where they used 
 Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks 
 Laid their parched mouths and died. 
 
 A holy man, 
 
 Who saw high visions of unuttered things, 
 Dwelt, in deep-musing solitude, apart 
 Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark winged birds, 
 Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved 
 To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, 
 And night and morning lay their gathered spoils 
 Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank, 
 Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill 
 Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan s breast. 
 Then warned of God, he rose and went his way 
 
180 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPIIATII. 
 
 Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates 
 Of Zarephath he marked a lowly cell, 
 Where a pale, drooping widow in the depth 
 Of desolate and hopeless poverty, 
 Prepared the last scant morsel for her son, 
 That he might eat and die. 
 
 The man of God. 
 
 Entering, requested food. Whether that germ 
 Of self-denying fortitude, which stirs 
 Sometimes in woman s soul, and nerves it strong 
 For life s severe and unapplauded tasks, 
 Sprang up at his appeal or whether He 
 Who ruled the ravens, wrought within her heart, 
 I cannot say; but to the stranger s hand 
 She gave the bread. Then, round the famishcJ boy 
 Clasping her widowed arms, she strained him dose 
 To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye 
 Wondering and wistfully regarded her, 
 With ill-subdued reproach. 
 
 But blessings fell 
 
 From the majestic guest, and every morn 
 The empty store which she had wept at eve, 
 Mysteriously replenished, woke the joy 
 That ancient Israel felt, when round their caitip 
 The manna lay like dew. Thus many days 
 They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy 
 Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health 
 
THE WIDOW OF ZAREPIIATII. 
 
 Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, 
 And bade the fair flesh o er his wasted limbs 
 Come like a garment. The lone widow mused 
 On her changed lot, yet to Jehovah s name 
 Gave not the praise ; but when the silent moon 
 Moved forth all radiant, on her star-girt throne, 
 Uttered a heathen s gratitude, and hailed, 
 In the deep chorus of Zidonian song, 
 " Astarte, queen of Heaven !" 
 
 But then there came 
 
 A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom 
 His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed 
 Time s weary heritage a blessing, died. 
 Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth, 
 And on the prophet of the Lord, her Up 
 Called with indignant frenzy. So he came, 
 And from her bosom took the breathless clay 
 And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt 
 In supplication that the dead might live. 
 He rose, and looked upon the child. His cheek 
 Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, 
 While round his polished forehead, the bright curls 
 Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept 
 Beauty and innocence in Death s embrace, 
 ft seemed a mournful thing to waken them. 
 
 Another prayer arose and he, whose faith 
 Had power o er nature s elements, to seal 
 
 191 
 
192 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPIIATH. 
 
 The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning s dart, 
 And soon, from Death escaping, was to soar 
 On car of flame up to the throne of God, 
 Long, long, with laboring breast, and lifted eyes, 
 Solicited in anguish. On the dead 
 Once more the prophet gazed. A rigor seemed 
 To settle on those features, and the hand, 
 In its immovable coldness, told how firm 
 Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. 
 The awful seer laid down his humbled lip 
 Low in the dust, and his whole being seemed 
 With concentrated agony to pour 
 Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife 
 Of intercession. Who shall dare to set 
 Limits to prayer, since it hath entered Heaven ! 
 And won a spirit down to its dense robe 
 Of earth again ? 
 
 Look ! look, upon the boy ! 
 There was a trembling of the parted lip, 
 A sob a shiver from the half-sealed eye 
 A flash like morning and the soul came back 
 To its frail tenement. 
 
 The prophet raised 
 
 The renovated child, and on that breast 
 Which gave the life-stream of its infancy 
 Laid the fair head once more. 
 
 If ye would know 
 Aught of that wildering trance of ecstasy, 
 
THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATII 193 
 
 Go ask a mother s heart, but question not 
 So poor a thing as language. Yet the soul 
 Of her of Zarephath, in that blest hour, 
 Believed and with the kindling glow of faith 
 Turned from vain idols to the living God. 
 
194 
 
 DIVINE GOODNESS. 
 
 Thy mercies are new every morning a x d fresh every moment. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 OH Thou, who bounteous to thsir need, 
 
 Dost all earth s thronging pilgrims feed, 
 
 Dost bid for them, in every clime, 
 
 The pregnant harvest know its time, 
 
 The flocks in verdant pastures dwell, 
 
 The corn aspire, the olive swell, 
 
 Fain would we bless that sleepless ^ye, 
 
 That doth our hourly wants descry. 
 
 Thou pour st us from the nested ( ">vn 
 
 The minstrel melody of love. 
 
 Thou giv st us of the fruitage fair 
 
 That summer s ardent suns prepare, 
 
 Of honey from the rock that flows, 
 
 And of the perfume of the rose, 
 
 And of the breeze whose balm repairs 
 
DIVINE GOODNESS. 196 
 
 The sick ning waste of toil and cares. 
 
 And though, perchance, the ingrate knee 
 
 Bends not in praise, or prayer to thee, 
 
 Though Sin that stole with traitor-sway 
 
 Even Peter s loyalty away, 
 
 May strongly weave its seven-fold snare, 
 
 And bring dejection and despair; 
 
 Yet not the morn with cheering eye 
 
 More duly lights the expecting sky, 
 
 Nor surer speeds on pinion light 
 
 Each measur d moment s trackless flight, 
 
 Than comes thy mercy s kind embrace 
 
 To feeble man s forgetful race. 
 
 17 
 
196 
 
 TWAS BUT A BABE. 
 
 I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven 
 
 From its young rooting; and with silent lip 
 
 They pointed to a new-made chasm among 
 
 The marble-pillared mansions of the dead. 
 
 Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch ? 
 
 The tearless crowd pass d on " twas but a babe." 
 
 A babe ! and poise ye, in the rigid scales 
 
 Of calculation, the fond bosom s wealth ? 
 
 Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh 
 
 Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt 
 
 Or the rude robber steals ? Ye mete out grief, 
 
 Perchance, when youth, maturity or age, 
 
 Sink in the thronging tomb ; but when the breath 
 
 Grows icy on the lip of innocence 
 
 Repress your measured sympathies, and say 
 
 " Twas but a babe." 
 
 What know ye of her love 
 Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim, 
 Over her drooping infant, with an eye 
 Bright as unchanging Hope, if his repose ? 
 What know ye of her woe who sought no joy 
 
TWAS BUT A BABE. 197 
 
 More exquisite, than on his placid brow 
 To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn 
 The angel-sweetness of his waking smile ? 
 Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave, 
 So narrow, and so noteless, might not close 
 Without a tear ? 
 
 And though his lip be mute, 
 Feeling the poverty of speech to give 
 Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow, 
 And the deep agonising prayer that loads 
 Midnight s dark wing to Him, the God of strength, 
 May satisfy thy question. 
 
 Ye, who mourn 
 
 Whene er yon vacant cradle, or the robes 
 That decked the lost one s form, call back a tide 
 Of alienated joy, can ye not trust 
 Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care 
 Passeth a mother s love ? Can ye not hope 
 When a few hasting years their course have run, 
 To go to him, though he no more on earth 
 Returns to you ? 
 
 And when glad faith doth ratch 
 Some echo of celestial harmonies, 
 Archangel s praises, with the high response 
 Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think 
 Think that vour babe is there. 
 
198 
 
 A MOTHER S COUNSELS. 
 
 DAUGHTER, the Book Divine, 
 
 To which we turn for aid, 
 When prosperous skies unclouded shine, 
 
 Or dark wing d storms invade, 
 Is ever open to thine eye, 
 
 Imprint it on thy soul, 
 And wisdom that can never die 
 
 Shall thy young thoughts control, 
 
 Sweetest, the cheek of bloom, 
 
 Alas ! how soon twill wear 
 The clay-cold coloring of the tomb : 
 
 Then while thine own is fair, 
 Low at his feet imploring fall, 
 
 Who loves the humble mind, 
 And whose high promise is, that all 
 
 Who early seek shall find. 
 
 Come, ere thy hand hath wove 
 The first, fresh wreaths of Spring, 
 
A MOTHER S COUNSELS. 199 
 
 Come, ere a worn and wither d love 
 
 Is all thou hast to bring, 
 Remember thy Creator s power, 
 
 While life from care is free, 
 That when the days of darkness lower, 
 
 He may remember thee. 
 
 Yes, give thy heart to Him, 
 
 While budding Hope is green, 
 And when thy mother s eye is dim 
 
 To every earthly scene, 
 When this fond arm that circles thee 
 
 Must chill and powerless lie, 
 Our parting tear, the pledge shall be 
 
 Of union in the sky 
 
200 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 THOU LT go ! Thou lt go ! 
 
 In vain, the stricken wife, 
 A poor unconscious infant in her arms, 
 And these young children, climbing to thy hand 
 Implore thy stay. Thine aged parents bend 
 In prayer, and sorrow. Hath the battle-field 
 Such charms for thee, that thou wilt tread on all 
 That love and nature give, and rush to reap 
 Its iron harvest ? 
 
 Lo ! you men, 
 
 Thy boon companions, neath the neighboring hedge 
 Do wait for thee. The vow hath past thy lips 
 And thou must go. 
 
 So, hence away, and share 
 Such pleasures, as thy chosen course may yield ; 
 The stirring drum, the pomp of measurM march, 
 The pride of uniform, the gazer s shout 
 Of admiration, the alternate rest 
 Of idleness in camps, and toil that wastes 
 
THE VOLUNTEER. 201 
 
 The nerveless limb, and starts the sleepless eye. 
 Take too, the stormy joy of deadly strife, 
 Spill blood, and trample on the mangled form 
 And like a demon, drink the groans of pain. 
 
 Yet sometimes, when the midnight bowl is drained 
 
 And thou art tossing in thy broken dream, 
 
 Bethink thee, soldier, of a cottage home 
 
 All desolate, its drooping vines untrained, 
 
 Its wintry hearth unfed, and she, with cheek 
 
 ^s pale as penury and woe can make, 
 
 (Why dost thou start ?) and her once blooming one? 
 
 Some at hard service, where their bitter bread 
 
 Is scantily doled out, and some who ask 
 
 Her shuddering heart, for what she cannot give. 
 
 Still doth the vision open ? 
 
 There are graves ! 
 
 The white-hair d father hath his rest in one, 
 And she, who died lamenting for the son 
 Who snatch d the morsel from her feeble hand, 
 Nor sought her blessing when he went to war, 
 Sleeps in the other. 
 
 Dreamer ! wake not yet. 
 
 Mar not the sequel. Toward the peaceful shades 
 Of his own village, comes a poor, lone man 
 Whom misery and vice have made their own. 
 His head is bandaged, and his swollen limbs 
 
202 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 Drag heavily. He hath no threshold stone, 
 No friend to welcome. 
 
 Is this he who scorn d 
 
 His heaven sworn duties, and his humble home, 
 And chose his pittance from the cannon s mouth ? 
 
203 
 
 BAPTISM OF THE FIRST BORN 
 
 " Come dearest, come, the Sabbath- bell 
 Hath almost rung its closing knell ; 
 Give me our babe, and haste away, 
 With gladness on its christening day." 
 
 Yet still the youthful mother prest 
 Her first-born darling to her breast, 
 And, careful o er the grassy way, 
 That tween the church and cottage lay, 
 The precious burden chose to take, 
 Scarce breathing, lest its sleep should break. 
 And those were near, who well might say 
 How late, the gayest of the gay, 
 Her footstep in the dance was light, 
 Her eye, in mirthful revels bright, 
 And she, the fairest of the fair, 
 Elate with joy, and free from care. 
 But now, while holier thoughts prevail, 
 Her chasten d beauty, lily-pale, 
 The fervor of the prayer that stole 
 In new devotion from her soul, 
 
204 BAPTISM OF THE FIRST BORN. 
 
 Gave higher charms to brow and cheek, 
 Such as an angel s love might speak. 
 Close in her steps, an aged pair, 
 With furrow d face, and silver hair, 
 Press toward the font, intent to see 
 The honor done to infancy. 
 
 Oh, Grandsire ! short the season seems, 
 An April day of showers and beams, 
 Since she, who totters by thy side, 
 Blush d in her loveliness, a bride, 
 Since here, with hope s bright visions fraught 
 Thy consecrated babes were brought. 
 The rite is o er, the blessing said, 
 The first-born finds his cradle-bed ; 
 Young Mother ! prompt must be thy part 
 To pour instruction o er his heart ; 
 For scarce upon our infant eyes 
 The sprinkled dew of baptism dries, 
 Ere the thick frost of manhood s care, 
 And strong Death s icy seal are there. 
 
205 
 
 "BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." 
 
 COME, gather to this burial-place, ye gay ! 
 
 Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow, 
 
 I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed 
 
 This day neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown, 
 
 Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand 
 
 On tress or feature, stamping the drear lines 
 
 Of chill decay, till death had nought to do, 
 
 Save that slight office which the passing gale 
 
 Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek 
 
 Shamed the young rose-bud ; in her eye was light 
 
 By gladness kindled ; in her footsteps grace ; 
 
 Song on her lips ; affections in her breast, 
 
 Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned, 
 
 All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand 
 
 From friendship s ardent pressure, with such smile 
 
 As if she were the gainer. To lie down 
 
 In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust, 
 
 Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn 
 
 Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask, 
 
 Where is her blessedness ? Go home, ye gay, 
 
206 BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. 
 
 Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down, 
 And ask of God. Urge your request like him 
 Who, on the slight raft, mid the ocean s foam, 
 Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope 
 That the world gives not, and a faith divine, 
 Ye will no longer marvel how the friend, 
 So beautiful, so lov d, so lured by all 
 The pageantry of earth, could meekly find 
 A blessedness in death. 
 
207 
 
 BERNARDINE DU BORN. 
 
 KING HENRY sat upon his throne, 
 
 And full of wrath and scorn, 
 His eye a recreant knight surveyed 
 
 Sir Bernardine du Born. 
 And he that haughty glance returned, 
 
 Like lion in his lair, 
 And loftily his unchanged brow 
 
 Gleamed through his crisped hair. 
 
 " Thou art a traitor to the realm, 
 
 Lord of a lawless band, 
 The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, 
 
 The troubler of our land ; 
 Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers, 
 
 Are forfeit to the crown, 
 And thou beneath the Norman axe 
 
 Shalt end thy base renown. 
 
 " Deignest thou no word to bar thy doom, 
 Thou with strange madness fired ? 
 18 
 
208 BERNARDINE DU BORN. 
 
 Hath reason quite forsook thy breast ?" 
 
 Plantagenet inquired. 
 Sir Bernard turned him toward the king 
 
 He blenched not in his pride ; 
 u My reason failed, my gracious liege, 
 
 The year Prince Henry died." 
 
 Quick at that name a cloud of woe 
 
 Pass d o er the monarch s brow, 
 Touched was that bleeding cord of love 
 
 To which the mightiest bow. 
 Again swept back the tide of yeais, 
 
 Again his first-born moved, 
 The fair, the graceful, the sublime ? 
 
 The erring, yet beloved. 
 
 And ever, cherished by his side, 
 
 One chosen friend was near, 
 To share in boyhood s ardent sport 
 
 Or youth s untamed career ; 
 With him the merry chase he sought 
 
 Beneath the dewy morn, 
 With him in knightly tourney rode, 
 
 This Bernardine du Born. 
 
 Then in the mourning father s soul 
 Each trace of ire grew dim, 
 
BERNARDINE DU BORN. 209 
 
 And what his buried idol loved 
 
 Seemed cleansed of guilt to him 
 And faintly through his tears he spake, 
 
 " God send his grace to thee, 
 And for the dear sake of the dead, 
 
 Go forth unscathed and free." 
 
210 
 
 THE KNELL 
 
 A SILVER sound was on the summer-air, 
 And yet it was not music. The sweet birds 
 Went warbling wildly forth, from grove and deli, 
 Their thrilling harmonies ; yet this low tone 
 Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul 
 There was a deep response, troubling the fount 
 Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew 
 The tomb s prelusive melody. I turned, 
 And sought the house of mourning. 
 
 Ah, pale friend ! 
 
 Who speak st not look st not dost not give the hand- 
 Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast, 
 Once its own throne ? 
 
 Thou silent, changeless one, 
 The seal is on thy virtues now no more 
 Like ours to tremble in temptation s hour, 
 Perchance to fall. Fear hath no longer power 
 To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold 
 Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee. 
 How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace ! 
 
THE KNELL. 211 
 
 Friend ! Friend ! I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast 
 
 been 
 
 The sharer of my sympathies, the soul 
 That prompted me to good, the hand that shed 
 Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes 
 Where we have dwelt together walking on 
 In friendship s holy concord, I am now 
 But a divided being. Who is left 
 To love, as thou hast loved ? 
 
 Yet still, to share 
 
 A few more welcomes from thy soft blue eye, 
 A few more pressures of thy snowy hand, 
 And ruby lip, could I enchain thee here 
 To all that change and plenitude of ill 
 Which we inherit ? Hence, thou selfish grief! 
 Thy root is in the earth, and all thy fruits 
 Bitter and baneful. Holy joy should spring 
 When pure hearts take their portion. 
 
 Go, beloved 
 
 First, for thou wert most worthy. I will strive, 
 As best such frail one may, to follow thee. 
 
 18* 
 
212 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF HENRY THE FIRST. 
 
 LIGHT sped a bark from Gallia s strand 
 
 Across the azure main, 
 And on her deck a joyous band, 
 
 A proud and courtly train, 
 Surrounded Albion s princely heir, 
 
 Who toward his realm returned ; 
 And music s cheering strain was there, 
 
 And hearts with pleasure burned. 
 
 It was a fair and glorious sight 
 
 That gallant bark to see, 
 With floating streamers, glittering bright 
 
 In pomp of chivalry ; 
 The smooth sea bless d her as she flew, 
 
 The gentle gale impelled, 
 As if each crested billow knew 
 
 What wealth her bosom held. 
 
 But strangely o er the summer sky 
 A sable cloud arose, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF HENRY THE FIRST. 213 
 
 And hollow winds, careering high, 
 
 Rushed on like armed foes. 
 Loud thunders roll, wild tempests rave, 
 
 Red lightnings cleave the sky, 
 What is yon wreck amid the wave ? 
 
 And whence that fearful cry ? 
 
 See ! see ! amid the foaming surge 
 
 There seems a speck to float, 
 And, with such speed as oars can urge, 
 
 Toils on the laboring boat. 
 The Prince is safe but to his ear 
 
 There came a distant shriek, 
 Which to his strained eye brought the tear, 
 
 And paleness to his cheek. 
 
 That voice ! twas by his cradle side, 
 
 When with sweet dream he slept, 
 It ruled his wrath, it soothed his pride, 
 
 When moody boyhood wept. 
 Twas with him in his hour of glee, 
 
 Gay sports, and pastimes rare ; 
 And at his sainted mother s knee, 
 
 Amid the evening prayer. 
 
 Plunging, he dared the breakers hoarse, 
 None might the deed restrain, 
 
214 THE CHILDREN OF HENRY THE FIRST. 
 
 And battled, with a maniac s force, 
 
 The madness of the main. 
 He snatched his sister from the wreck, 
 
 Faint was her accent dear, 
 Yet strong her white arms twined his neck, 
 
 Blest William ! art thou here ?" 
 
 The wild waves swelled like mountains on, 
 
 The blasts impetuous sweep; 
 Where is the heir of England s throne ? 
 
 G o, ask the insatiate deep ! 
 He sleeps in Ocean s coral grove, 
 
 Pale pearls his bed adorn, 
 A martyr to that hallowed love 
 
 Which with his life was born. 
 
 Woe was in England s halls that day, 
 
 Woe in her royal towers, 
 While low her haughty monarch lay, 
 
 To wail his smitten flowers : 
 And, though protracted years bestow 
 
 Bright honor s envied store, 
 Yet on that crowned and lofty brow 
 
 The smile sat never more. 
 
215 
 
 THE SEA-BOY. 
 
 Up and reef top-sails ho !" 
 
 The storm was loud, 
 
 And the deep midnight muffled up her head, 
 Leaving no ray. By the red binnacle 
 I saw the sea-boy. His young cheek was pale, 
 And his lip trembled. But he dared not hear 
 That hoarse command repeated. So he sprang 
 With slender foot, amid the slippery shrouds. 
 
 He, oft, by moonlight-watch, had lured my ear 
 With everlasting stories of his home 
 And of his mother. His fair brow told tales 
 Of household kisses, and of gentle hands 
 That bound it when it ached, and laid it down 
 On the soft pillow, with a curtaining care. 
 And he had sometimes spoken of the chcci 
 That waited him, when wearied from his school, 
 At winter s eve he came. Then he would pause, 
 For his high-beating bosom threw a chain 
 O er his proud lip, or else it would have sighed 
 A deep remorse for leaving such a home. 
 
216 THE SEA-BOY. 
 
 And he would haste away, and pace the deck 
 More rapidly, as if to hide from me 
 The gushing tear. I marked the inward strife 
 Unquestioning, save by a silent prayer, 
 That the tear wrung so bitterly, might work 
 The sea-boy s good and wash away all trace 
 Of disobedience. Now, the same big tear 
 Hung like a pearl upon him, as he climbed 
 And grappled to the mast. I watched his toil, 
 With strange foreboding, till he seemed a speck 
 Upon the ebon bosom of the cloud. 
 And I remembered that he once had said, 
 " / fear I shall not see my home again :" 
 And sad the memory of those mournful words 
 Dwelt with me, as he passed above my sight 
 Into thick darkness. 
 
 The wild blast swept on. 
 The strong ship tossed. 
 
 Shuddering, I heard a plunge- 
 A heavy plunge a gurgling mid the wave. 
 I shouted to the crew. In vain ! In vain ! 
 The ship held on her way. And never more 
 Shall that poor delicate sea-boy raise his head 
 To do the bidding of those roughened men, 
 Whose home is on the sea. And never more 
 May his fond mother strain him to her breast, 
 Weeping that hardship thus should bronze the brow 
 
THE dEA BOY. 217 
 
 To her so beautiful nor the kind sire 
 Make glad, by his forgiveness, the rash youth 
 Who wandered from his home, to throw the wealth 
 Of his warm feelings on the faithless sea 
 
218 
 
 MEETING OF THE SUSQUEHANNA WITH 
 THE LACKA WANNA. 
 
 RUSH on glad stream, in thy power and pride, 
 
 To claim the hand of thy promis d bride ; 
 
 She doth haste from the realm of the darken d mine, 
 
 To mingle her murmur d vows with thine ; 
 
 Ye have met ye have met, and the shores prolong 
 
 The liquid notes of your nuptial song. 
 
 Methinks ye wed, as the white man s son, 
 
 And the child of the Indian king have done ; 
 
 I saw thy bride, as she strove in vain, 
 
 To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain, 
 
 But she brings thee a dowry so rich and true 
 
 That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue. 
 
 Her birth was rude, in a mountain cell, 
 
 And her infant freaks there are none to tell ; 
 
 The path of her beauty was wild and free, 
 
 And in dell and forest, she hid from thee ; 
 
 Lut the day of her fond caprice is o er, 
 
 And she seeks to part from thy breast no more. 
 
SUSQUEIIANNA AND LACKAWANNA. 219 
 
 Pass on in the joy of thy blended tide, 
 Through the land where the blessed Miquon* died ; 
 No red man s blood with its guilty stain, 
 Hath cried unto God from that broad domain 
 With the seeds of peace they have sown the soil, 
 Bring a harvest of wealth, for their hour of toil. 
 
 On, on, through the vale where the brave ones sleep, 
 
 Where the waving foliage is rich and deep ; 
 
 I have stood on the mountain and roain d through the 
 
 glen 
 
 To the beautiful homes of the western men ; 
 Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see. 
 So fair, as the vale of W T yoming to me. 
 
 * A name given by the Aborigines to their friend William Penn 
 
 19 
 
220 
 
 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 " The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face 
 of Napoleon s sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed." 
 
 Jlnd who shall write thine epitaph ? thou man 
 Of mystery and might. 
 
 Shall orphan hands 
 
 Inscribe it with their fathers broken swords ? 
 Or the warm trickling of the widow s tear 
 Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
 As the keen torture of the water-drop 
 Doth wear the sentenc d brain ? 
 
 Shall countless ghosts 
 Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame, 
 With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy, 
 Who sent them to their audit unannealed, 
 And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer, 
 Given at the cannon s mouth ? 
 
 Thou who didst sit 
 Like eagle on the apex of the globe, 
 
NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 221 
 
 And hear the murmur of its conquer d tribes, 
 As chirp the weak-voic d nations of the grass, 
 Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, 
 Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner 
 Descries mid ocean s foam ? Thou who didst hew 
 A pathway for thy host above the cloud, 
 Guiding their footsteps o er the frost-work crown 
 Of the thron d Alps, why dost thou sleep, unmark d 
 Even by such slight memento as the hind 
 Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? 
 
 Bid the throng 
 
 Who pour d thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
 Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field, 
 Return and deck thy monument. Those forms. 
 O er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew d, 
 From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, 
 Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise, 
 As in the vision that the prophet saw, 
 Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps 
 Should pile their pillar d dust, might not the stars 
 Deem that again the puny pride of man 
 Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth, 
 To dwell with them ? But here, unwept, thou art, 
 Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair, 
 With neither living man, nor spectre lone, 
 To trace thine epitaph. 
 
 Invoke the climes 
 That serv d as playthings, in thy desperate game 
 
222 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew d 
 To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed 
 Upon their vitals. France ! who gave so free 
 Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw 
 That purple vintage shed o er half the earth, 
 Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. 
 Thou, too, whose pride adorn d dead Cesar s tomb, 
 And pour d high requiem o er the tyrant train 
 Who rul d thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts 
 Of sculpture and of classic eloquence 
 To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
 Thine ancient spirit quail d ; and to the list 
 Of mutilated kings, who glean d their meat 
 Neath Agag s table, add the name of Rome. 
 Turn, Austria ! iron-brow d and stern of heart, 
 And on his monument to whom thou gav st 
 In anger battle, and in craft a bride, 
 Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. 
 Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena s name, 
 Like the rein d war-horse, at the trumpet-blast, 
 And take her witness to that fame which soars 
 O er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
 Of Scandinavia s madman. 
 
 From the shades 
 
 Of letter d ease, O Germany! come forth 
 With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, 
 Such as thou spread st at Leipsic, gather tints 
 Of deeper character than bold romance 
 
NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 223 
 
 Hath ever imag d in her wildest dream, 
 
 Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves. 
 
 Hail, lotus- crown d ! in thy green childhood fed 
 
 By stiff-neck d Pharaoh, and the shepherd kings, 
 
 Hast thou no trait of him who drench d thy sands, 
 
 At Jaffa and Aboukir ? when the flight 
 
 Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 
 
 To the accusing Spirit? 
 
 Glorious isle ! 
 
 Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, 
 Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
 Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
 Ho ! fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, 
 Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack s lance, 
 Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, 
 And give the last line of our epitaph. 
 
 But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand 
 Receiv d the challenge. 
 
 From the misty deep 
 
 Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three, 
 Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, 
 Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 
 That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. 
 Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, 
 And cheer d his exile with the name of king, 
 And spread that ctirtain d couch which none disturb -, 
 Come, twine some bud of household tenderness, 
 19* 
 
224 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 
 
 Some tender leaflet, nurs d with nature s tears, 
 Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock d 
 His cradle at Ajaccio, turn d away ; 
 And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave 
 Plung d her slight annal with the haste of fear ; 
 And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and grey 
 Neath rude Atlantic s scourging, bade the moon, 
 With silent finger, point the traveller s gave 
 To an unhonored tomb. 
 
 Then Earth arose, 
 
 That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, 
 And, to the echoed question " Who shall write 
 Napoleon s epitaph?" as one who broods 
 O er unforgiven injuries, answer d 
 
225 
 
 DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL,* AT A 
 FESTIVAL. 
 
 I SAW her, where the summer flowers 
 Lay sprinkled o er the shaven green, 
 
 While birds sang gaily from their bowers, 
 And chrystal waters flow d between. 
 
 I saw her, but no song she heard, 
 No word of fond delight she spoke ; 
 
 No varying ray her spirit cheer d 
 That o er the glorious landscape broke 
 
 For while her young companions share 
 Those joys that ne er await the blind, 
 
 A moral night of deep despair 
 
 Descending, shrouds her lonely mind. 
 
 Yet deem not, though so dark her path, 
 Heaven strew d no comfort o er her lot, 
 
 * Julia Brace, from the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, at Hart- 
 ford, Connecticut. 
 
226 THE DEA.F, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Or in her bitter cup of wrath 
 
 The healing drop of balm forgot. 
 
 No! still with unambitious mind 
 The needle s patient task to ply, 
 
 At the full board her place to find, 
 Or close in sleep the placid eye, 
 
 With Order s unobtrusive charm 
 Her simple wardrobe to dispose, 
 
 To press of guiding care the arm, 
 
 And rove where autumn s bounty flows, 
 
 With touch so exquisitively true 
 That vision stands astonish d by, 
 
 To recognise with ardor due 
 Some friend or benefactor nigh, 
 
 Her hand mid childhood s curls to place. 
 
 From fragrant buds the breath to steal. 
 Of stranger-guest the brow to trace, 
 
 Are pleasures left for her to feel. 
 
 And often o er her hour of thought 
 Will burst a laugh of wildest glee, 
 
 As if the living gems she caught 
 On wit s fantastic drapery, 
 
THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL. 227 
 
 As if at length, relenting skies, 
 
 In pity to her doom severe, 
 Had bade a mimic morning rise, 
 
 The chaos of the soul to cheer. 
 
 But who, with energy divine, 
 
 May tread that undiscover d maze, 
 Where Nature in her curtain d shrine 
 
 The strange and new-born thought surveys ? 
 
 Where quick perception shrinks to find 
 
 On eye and ear the envious seal, 
 And wild ideas throng the mind, 
 
 That palsied speech must ne er reveal ; 
 
 Where Instinct, like a robber bold, 
 
 Steals sever d links from Reason s chain, 
 
 And leaping o er her barrier cold> 
 Proclaims the proud precaution vain. 
 
 Say, who shall with magician s wand 
 
 That elemental mass compose, 
 Where young affections slumber fond 
 
 Like germs unwak d mid wintry snows ? 
 
 Who, in that undecipher d scroll, 
 The mystic characters may see, 
 
228 THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Save He who reads the secret soul, 
 And holds of life and death the key ? 
 
 Then, on thy midnight journey roam, 
 Poor wandering child of rayless gloom, 
 
 And to thy last and narrow home, 
 Drop gently from this living tomb. 
 
 Yes, uninterpreted and drear, 
 Toil onward with benighted mind, 
 
 Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear, 
 And grope for truth thou may st not find. 
 
 No scroll of friendship, or of love, 
 
 Must breathe soft language o er thy heart, 
 
 Nor that blest Book which guides above, 
 Its message to thy soul impart. 
 
 But thou, who didst on Calvary die, 
 Flows not thy mercy wide and free ? 
 
 Thou who didst rend of Death the tie, 
 Is Nature s seal too strong for thee ? 
 
 And Thou, Oh Spirit pure ! whose rest 
 Is with the lowly contrite train, 
 
 Illume the temple of her breast, 
 And cleanse of latent ill the stain, 
 
TIIL DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL. 229 
 
 Thett she, whose pilgrimage below 
 Was night that never hoped a morn, 
 
 That underfilling day may know 
 Which of eternity is born. 
 
 The great transition who can tell ? 
 
 When from the ear its seal shall part, 
 Where countless lyres seraphic swell, 
 
 .And noly transport thrills the heart; 
 
 When the chain d tongue, forbid to pour 
 
 The broken melodies of time, 
 Shall to the highest numbers soar, 
 
 Of everlasting praise sublime : 
 
 When those veiled orbs, which ne er might trace 
 
 The features of their kindred clay, 
 Shall scan, of Deity, the face, 
 
 And glow with rapture s deathless ray. 
 
230 
 
 THE TOMB. 
 
 So parted they ; the angel up to Heaven, 
 And Adam to his bower." 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 THIS is the parting place; this narrow house, 
 
 With its turf roof and marble door, where none 
 
 Have entered and returned. If earth s poor gold 
 
 E er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself; 
 
 For thou didst bring none with thee to this world 
 
 Nor may st thou bear it hence. Honors hast thou, 
 
 Ambition s shadowy gatherings ? Shred them loose 
 
 To the four winds, their natural element. 
 
 Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties 
 
 Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ? 
 
 And was each wailing from their feeble lip 
 
 A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile, 
 
 And budding hope, a spring of ecstacy ? 
 
 Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them 
 
 A parent art no more ? Wert thou a wife ? 
 
THE TOMB. 231 
 
 And was the arm on which thy spirit leaned 
 Faithful in all thy need ? Yet must thou leave 
 This fond protection, and pursue alone 
 Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death. 
 Friendship s free intercourse the promised joys 
 Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love, 
 The cherished sympathies which every year 
 Struck some new root within thy yielding breast. 
 Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager 
 Unto the land of spirits. 
 
 Yea, even more ! 
 
 Lay down thy body! Hast thou worshipped it 
 With vanity s sweet incense, and wild waste 
 Of precious time ? Did beauty bring it gifts, 
 The lily brow, the full resplendent eye, 
 The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power 
 Woke man s idolatry ? Oh lay it down, 
 Earth s reptile banqueters have need of it. 
 
 Still may st thou bear, o er Jordan s stormy wave, 
 One blessed trophy ; if thy life hath striven 
 By penitence and faith such boon to gain, 
 The victor palm of Christ s atoning love : 
 And this shall win thee entrance when thou stand st 
 4 pilgrim at Heaven s gate. 
 
 20 
 
232 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 MORN on her rosy couch awoke, 
 
 Enchantment led the hour, 
 And mirth and music drank the dews 
 
 That freshen Beauty s flower. 
 Then from her bower of deep delight, 
 
 I heard a young girl sing, 
 " Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 
 
 For tis a holy thing." 
 
 The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, 
 
 And on with heaving breast, 
 I saw a weary pilgrim toil, 
 
 Unpitied and unblest; 
 Yet still in trembling measures flow d 
 
 Forth from a broken string, 
 " Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 
 
 For tis a holy thing." 
 
 Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 
 Mid agony severe, 
 
POETRY. 233 
 
 While there a willing- spirit went 
 
 Home to a glorious sphere ; 
 Yet still it sigh d, even when was spread 
 
 The waiting Angel s wing, 
 tf Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 
 
 For tis a holy thing." 
 
234 
 
 BAPTISM OP AN INFANT AT ITS* 
 MOTHER S FUNERAL. 
 
 WHENCE is that trembling of a father s hand, 
 Who to the man of God doth bring his babe, 
 Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice 
 That uttereth o er its brow the Triune Name 
 Falter with sympathy ? And most of all, 
 Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal 
 For the baptismal font ? 
 
 Again I asked. 
 
 But all the answer was those gushing tears 
 Which stricken hearts do weep. 
 
 For there she lay. 
 
 The fair, young mother in that coffin-bed, 
 Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat 
 With trembling tenderness, at every touch 
 Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 
 
 Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one, 
 
 And Sorrow took thee at the gate of life, 
 Into her cradle. Thou may st never know 
 The welcome of a nursing mother s kiss, 
 
BAPTISM OF AN INFANT. 235 
 
 When lost in wondering ecstacy, she marks 
 A thrilling growth of new affections spread 
 Fresh greenness o er her soul. 
 
 Thou may st not share 
 Her hallowed teachings, nor suffuse her eye 
 With joy, as the first germs of infant thought 
 Unfold, in lisping sound. 
 
 Yet may st thou walk 
 
 Even as she walked, breathing on all around 
 The warmth of high affections purified, 
 And sublimated, by that Spirit s power 
 Which makes the soul fit temple for its God. 
 
 So shalt thou, in a brighter world, behold 
 
 That countenance which the cold grave did veil 
 Thus early from thy sight, and the first tone 
 Bearing a mother s welcome to thine ear 
 Be wafted from the minstrelsy of Heaven. 
 
 20 
 
236 
 
 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 
 
 THE young babe sat on its mother s knee, 
 Shaking its coral and bells with glee, 
 When Hope drew near, with a seraph smile, 
 To press the lips that had breathed no guile, 
 
 Nor spoke the words of sorrow ; 
 Its little sister brought a flower, 
 And Hope, still lingering nigh 
 With sunny tress and sparkling eye, 
 Whispered of one in a brighter bower 
 It might pluck for itself to-morrow. 
 
 The boy came in from the wintry snow, 
 
 And mused by the parlour-fire, 
 But ere the evening lamps did glow, 
 A stranger came, and, bending low, 
 Kiss d his fair and ruddy brow ; 
 " What is that in your hand ?" she said ; 
 "My New-Year s Gift, with its covers red. 
 " Bring hither the book, my boy, and see, 
 Tne magic spell of Memory, 
 
THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 237 
 
 That page hath gold, and a way I ll find 
 
 To lock it safe in your docile mind ; 
 
 For books have honey, the sages say, 
 
 That is sweet to the taste when the hair is grey. w 
 
 The youth at midnight sought his bed, 
 
 But, ere he closed his eyes, 
 Two forms drew near with gentle tread, 
 
 In meek and saintly guise, 
 One struck a lyre of wondrous power, 
 
 With thrilling music fraught, 
 That chain d the flying summer hour, 
 
 And charm d the listener s thought ; 
 For still would its tender cadence be, 
 
 "Follow me! Follow me! 
 And every morn a smile shall bring, 
 As sweet as the merry lay I sing." 
 
 She ceas d, and with a serious air 
 
 The other made reply, 
 " Shall he not also be my care ? 
 May not I his journey share ? 
 
 Sister ! sister ! tell me why ? 
 Need Memory e er with Hope contend ? 
 Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?" 
 
 The youth beheld the strife, 
 And eagerly replied, 
 
238 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 
 
 " Come, both, and be my guide> 
 
 And gild the path of life ;" 
 So he gave to each a brother s kiss, 
 And laid him down, and his dream was bliss. 
 
 The man came forth to run his race, 
 And ever when the morning light 
 
 Rous d him from the trance of night, 
 When singing from her nest, 
 
 The lark went up with dewy breast, 
 Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace ; 
 
 And, as a mother cheers her son, 
 
 She girded his daily harness on. 
 
 But when the star of eve, from weary care, 
 
 Bade him to his home repair, 
 When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born, 
 
 The cricket wound its tiny horn, 
 Sober Memory spread her board 
 
 With knowledge richly stor d, 
 And supp d with him, and like a guardian bless d 
 His nightly rest. 
 
 The old man sat in his elbow-chair, 
 
 His locks were thin and grey, 
 
 Memory, that faithful friend was there, 
 
 And he in querulous tone did say, 
 
THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 239 
 
 " Hast thou not lost with careless key. 
 Something that I have entrusted to thee ?" 
 
 Her pausing answer was sad and low, 
 " It may be so ! It may be so ! 
 The lock of my casket is worn and weak, 
 And Time, with a plunderer s eye doth seek; 
 Something I miss, but I cannot say 
 What it is he hath stolen away, 
 For only tinsel and trifles spread 
 Over the alter d path we tread ; 
 But the gems thou didst give me when life was new, 
 
 Here they are, all told and true, 
 Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue." 
 
 But while in grave debate, 
 Mournful, and ill at ease, they sate, 
 
 Finding treasures disarrang d, 
 Blaming the fickle world, though they themselves were 
 
 chang d, 
 
 Hope on a buoyant wing did soar, 
 Which folded underneath her robe she wore, 
 And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight, 
 And jeoparded its strength, in a bold, heavenward flight. 
 
 The dying lay on his couch of pain, 
 And his soul went forth to the ano^l-train, 
 
240 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 
 
 Yet when Heaven s gate its golden bars undrew, 
 
 Memory walked that portal through, 
 And spread her tablet to the Judge s eye, 
 Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky 
 
 But Hope that glorious door 
 Pass d not : it was not hers to dwell 
 Where pure desires to full fruition swell. 
 
 Her ministry was o er : 
 To cheer earth s pilgrim to the sky, 
 To cleanse the tear-drop from his eye, 
 Was hers, then to immortal Joy 
 
 Resign her brief employ, 
 Yield her sweet harp, and die. 
 
241 
 
 MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB 
 
 No WORD ! no sound ! But yet a solemn rite 
 Proceedeth through the festive lighted hall. 
 Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take 
 That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death, 
 With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life. 
 No word ! no sound ! But still yon holy man 
 With strong and graceful tresture doth impose 
 The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer 
 Present it to be registered in Heaven. 
 
 Methinks this silence heavily doth brood 
 Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown d bride, 
 What means the sigh which from that ruby lip 
 Doth scape, as if to seek some element 
 Which angels breathe ? 
 
 Mute ! mute ! tis passing strange ! 
 Like necromancy all. And yet, tis well ; 
 For the deep trust, with which a maiden casts 
 Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven, 
 Into a mortal s hand, the confidence 
 With which she turns in every thought to him, 
 
242 MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 
 
 Her more than brother, and her next to God, 
 Hath never yet been shadowed forth in sound, 
 Or told in language. 
 
 So, ye voiceless pair, 
 
 Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm 
 Your silent altar in each other s hearts, 
 And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time 
 As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech 
 Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell 
 Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link 
 Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn 
 The ear sequestrate, and the tuneless tongue, 
 For there the eternal dialect of love 
 Is the free breath of every happy soul. 
 
243 
 
 TO A DYING INFANT. 
 
 Go to thy rest, my child ! 
 
 Go to thy dreamless bed, 
 Gentle and undefiled, 
 
 With blessings on thy head ; 
 Fresh roses in thy hand, 
 
 Buds on thy pillow laid. 
 Haste from this fearful land, 
 
 Where flowers so quickly fade. 
 
 Before thy heart might learn 
 
 In waywardness to stray, 
 Before thy foot could turn 
 
 The dark and downward way \ 
 Ere sin might wound the breast, 
 
 Or sorrow wake the tear, 
 Rise to thy home of rest, 
 
 In yon celestial sphere. 
 
 Because thy smile was fair 
 Thy lip and eye so bright, 
 21 
 
244 TO A DYING INFANT. 
 
 Because thy cradle-care 
 Was such a fond delight, 
 
 Shall Love, with weak embrace, 
 Thy heavenward flight detain ? 
 
 No ! Angel, seek thy place 
 Amid yon cherub-tram. 
 
245 
 
 THE DYING PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 I HAVE crept forth to die among the trees. 
 
 They have s\\eet voices that I love to hear, 
 
 Sweet, lute-like voices. They have been as friends 
 
 In my adversity when sick and faint 
 
 I stretched me in their shadow all day long, 
 
 They were not weary of me. They sent down 
 
 Soft summer breezes, fraught with pitying sighs, 
 
 To fan my blanching cheek. Their lofty boughs 
 
 Pointed with thousand fingers to the sky, 
 
 And round their trunks the wild vine fondly clung, 
 
 Nursing her clusters ; and they did not check 
 
 Her clasping tendrils, nor deceive her trust, 
 
 Nor blight her blossoms, and go towering up 
 
 In their cold stateliness, while on the earth 
 
 She sank to die. 
 
 But thou, rejoicing bird, 
 
 Why pourest thou such a rich and mellow lay 
 On my dull ear ? Poor bird ! I gave thee crumbs, 
 And fed thy nested little ones ! so thou 
 (Unlike to man !) thou dost remember it. 
 
246 THE DYING PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 O mine own race ! how often have ye sate 
 Gathered around my table, shared my cup, 
 And worn my raiment yea, far more than this, 
 Been sheltered in my bosom, but to turn 
 And lift the heel against me, and cast out 
 My bleeding heart in morsels to the worfd, 
 Like catering cannibals. 
 
 Take me not back 
 
 To those imprisoning curtains, broidered thick 
 With pains, beneath whose sleepless canopy 
 I ve pined away so long. The purchased care. 
 The practised sympathy, the fawning tone 
 Of him who on my vesture casteth lots, 
 The weariness, the -secret measuring 
 How long I have to live, the guise of grief 
 So coarsely worn I would not longer brook 
 Such torturing ministry. Let me die here 
 Tis but a little while. Let me die here. 
 Have patience, Nature, with thy feeble son, 
 So soon to be forgot, and from thine arms, 
 Thou gentle mother, from thy true embrace, 
 Let my freed spirit pass. 
 
 Alas ! how vain 
 
 The wreath that Fame would bind around our tomb 
 The winds shall waste it, and the worms destroy, 
 While from its home of bliss the disrobed soul 
 Looks not upon its greenness, nor deplores 
 Its withering loss. Thou who hast toiled to earn 
 
THE DYING PHILOSOPHER. 247 
 
 The fickle praise of far posterity, 
 
 Come, weigh it at the grave s brink, here with me, 
 
 If thou canst weigh a dream. 
 
 Hail, holy stars ! 
 
 Heaven s stainless watchers o er a world of woe, 
 Look down once more upon me. When again, 
 In solemn night s dark regency, ye ope 
 Your searching eyes, me shall ye not behold 
 Among the living. Let me join the song 
 With which ye sweep along your glorious way ; 
 Teach me your hymn of praise. What have I said ? 
 I will not learn of you, for ye shall fall. 
 Lo ! with swift wing I mount above your spheres, 
 To see the Invisible, to know the Unknown, 
 To love the Uncreated ! Earth, farewell ! 
 
248 
 
 DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 
 
 " THE way is long," the father said, 
 While through the western wild he sped, 
 
 With eager, searching eye ; 
 " Cheer ye, my babes," the mother cried, 
 And drew them closer to her side, 
 
 As frown d the evening sky. 
 
 Just then, within the thicket rude, 
 A log-rear d cabin s roof they view d, 
 
 And its low shelter blest, 
 On the rough floor, their simple bed, 
 In weariness and haste they spread, 
 
 And laid them down to rest. 
 
 On leathern hinge, the doors were hung. 
 Undeck d with glass the casement swung 
 
 The smoke-wreath stain d the wall ; 
 And here they found their only home, 
 Who once had ruPd the spacious dome, 
 
 Anil pac d the pictur d hall. 
 
DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 249 
 
 But hearts with pure affections warm, 
 Unmurmuring at the adverse storm. 
 
 Did in that cell abide, 
 And there the wife her husband cheer d, 
 And there her little ones she rear d, 
 
 And there in hope she died. 
 
 Still the lone man his toil pursued, 
 While neath his roof so low and rude, 
 
 A gentle daughter rose, 
 As peering through some rifted rock, 
 Or blooming on a broken stock, 
 
 The blushing sweet briar grows. 
 
 With tireless hand, the board she spread, 
 The Holy Book at evening read, 
 
 And when, with serious air, 
 He saw her bend so sweetly mild 
 And lull to sleep the moaning child, 
 
 He bless d her in his prayer. 
 
 But stern disease his footsteps staid, 
 And down the woodman s axe he laid, 
 
 The fever-flame was high ; 
 No more the forest fear d his stroke, 
 He fell, as falls the rugged oak, 
 
 Beneath the whirlwind s eye. 
 
P50 DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 
 
 His youngest girl, his fondest pride, 
 His baby, when the mother died, 
 
 How desolate she stands! 
 While gazing on his death struck eye 
 His kneeling sons with anguish cry, 
 
 And clasp his clenching hands. 
 
 Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ? 
 Who bows to chafe his temples cold 
 
 In beauty s opening prime ? 
 That blessed daughter meek of heart, 
 Who for his sake a matron s part 
 
 Had borne before her time. 
 
 That gasp, that groan, tis o er, tis o er, 
 The manly breast must heave no more. 
 
 The heart no longer pine : 
 Oh, thou, who feed st the raven s nest, 
 Confirm once more thy promise blest, 
 
 " The fatherless are mine." 
 
251 
 
 FILIAL CLAIMS. 
 
 WHO bendeth with meek eye, and bloodless cheek 
 
 Thus o er the new-born babe ? content to take, 
 
 As payment for all agony and pain, 
 
 Its first soft kiss, its first breath on her brow. 
 
 The first faint pressure of its tiny hand ? 
 
 It is not needful that I speak the name 
 
 Of that one being on this earth, whose love 
 
 Doth never falter. 
 
 Answer me, young man, 
 
 Thou, who through chance and change of time hast t:od 
 Thus far, when some with vengeful wrath have mark d 
 Thy waywardness, or in thy time of woe 
 Deserted thee, or with a rainbow smile 
 Lur d and forsook, or on thine errors scowl d 
 With unforgiving memory did she ? 
 Thy Mother ? 
 
 Child ! in whose rejoicing heart 
 The cradle-scene is fresh, the lulling hymn 
 Still clearly echoed, when the blight of age 
 Withereth that bosom where thine head doth lay, 
 
252 FILIAL CLAIMS. 
 
 When pain shall paralyse the arm that clasps 
 
 Thy form so tenderly, wilt thou forget? 
 
 Wilt thou be weary, though long years should ask 
 
 The patient offices of love to gird 
 
 A broken mind ? 
 
 Turn back the book of life 
 
 To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there ? 
 Lines from a Mothers pencil. When her scroll 
 Of life is finish d, when the hand of Death 
 Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break, 
 What should its last trace be ? 
 
 Thy bending form 
 
 In sleepless love, the dying couch beside, 
 Thy tender hand upon the closing eye, 
 Thy kiss upon the lips, thy prayer to Heaven, 
 The chasten d rendering of thy filial trust, 
 Back to the white-wing d angel ministry. 
 
253 
 
 THE ANGEL S SONG. 
 
 They heard a voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither." 
 
 Ye have a land of mist and shade, 
 
 Where spectres roam at will, 
 Dense clouds your mountain cliffs pervade. 
 
 And damps your valleys chill ; 
 But ne er has midnight s wing of woe 
 
 Eclipsed our changeless ray ; 
 " Come hither," if ye seek to know 
 
 The bliss of perfect day. 
 
 Doubt, like the bohan-upas, spreads 
 
 A blight where er ye tread, 
 And Hope, a wailing mourner, sheds 
 
 The tear o er harvests dead ; 
 With us, no traitorous foe assails 
 
 When love her home would make ; 
 In Heaven, the welcome never fails, 
 
 " Come," and that warmth partake. 
 
254 THE ANGEL S SONO. 
 
 Time revels mid your boasted joys, 
 
 Death dims your brighest rose, 
 And sin your bower of peace destroys 
 
 Where will ye find repose ? 
 Ye re wearied in your pilgrim-race, 
 
 Sharp thorns your path infest, 
 " Come hither," rise to our embrace, 
 
 And Christ shall give you rest. 
 
 Twas thus, methought, at twilight hour 
 
 The angel s lay came down ; 
 Like dews upon the drooping flower, 
 
 When droughts of s tlmmer frown ; 
 How richly o er the ambient air 
 
 Swelled out that music free ! 
 Oh ! when the pangs of death I bear, 
 
 Sing ye that song to me. 
 
255 
 
 THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 
 
 FROM A PICTURE. 
 
 THOU may st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse, 
 To bind those clustering tresses, or to press 
 The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel 
 Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck 
 To prop her weakness. That low whispered tone 
 No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye 
 Speaks, with its tender glance, of all thy care 
 By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task 
 Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew 
 From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip 
 With the cool water-drop and guide the breeze 
 That, fragrant, through her flowers, comes travelling on 
 Freshly to lift the poor heart s broken valve, 
 Which gasping waits its doom. 
 
 Mother ! thy lot 
 
 Hath been a holy one ; upon thy breast 
 To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom, 
 Refresh its languor with the rain of Heaven, 
 And give it back to God. The hour is come. 
 Thy sleepless night-watch o er her infancy 
 22 
 
256 THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 
 
 Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known 
 For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang, 
 But what the full fount of maternal love 
 Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands 
 Which memory from her precious casket strews. 
 Behold, her darkening eye doth search for thee ! 
 As the bowed violet through some chilling screen 
 Turns toward the sun that cheered it. Well thine heart 
 Hath read its language from her cradle-hour, 
 What saith it now ? 
 
 " Oh mother dear ; farewell ! 
 I go to Jesus. Early didst thou teach 
 My soul the way, from yonder Book of Heaven. 
 Come soon to me, sweet guide." 
 
 Ah, gather up 
 
 The glimmering radiance of that parting smile 
 Prolong the final kiss hang fondly o er 
 The quivering pressure of that marble hand, 
 Those last, deep tokens of a daughter s love. 
 Weep, but not murmur. She no more shall pine 
 Before thine eyes in smothered agony, 
 And waste away, and wear the hectic flush 
 That cheats so long, to wake a keener pain. 
 Beside thy hearth she is a guest no more ; 
 But in Heaven s beauty shalt thou visit her, 
 In Heaven s high health. 
 
 Call her no longer thine. 
 Thou could st not keep Consumption s moth away 
 
THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 257 
 
 From her frail web of life. Thou could st not guard 
 Thy darling from the lion. All thy love, 
 In the best armor of its sleepless might, 
 The spoiler trampled as a reed. Give thanks 
 That she is safe with Him who hath the power 
 O er pain, and sin, and death. Mourner, give thanks. 
 
258 
 
 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 " How can the Red men be forgotten, while so many ol our 
 states and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped 
 by names of their giving ?" 
 
 YE say, they all have passed away, 
 
 That noble race and brave, 
 That their light canoes have vanished 
 
 From off the crested wave; 
 That mid the forests where they roamed 
 
 There rings no hunter s shout ; 
 But their name is on your waters, 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 Tis where Ontario s billow 
 
 Like Ocean s surge is curl d, 
 Where strong Niagara s thunders wake 
 
 The echo of the world, 
 
INDIAN NAMES. 259 
 
 Where red Missouri bringeth 
 
 Rich tributes from the west, 
 And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
 
 On green Virginia s breast. 
 
 Ye say, their cone-like cabins, 
 
 That clustered o er the vale, 
 Have fled away like withered leaves 
 
 Before the autumn gale : 
 But their memory liveth on your hills 
 
 Their baptism on your shore, 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it - 
 
 Within her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Amid her young renown ; 
 Connecticut hath wreathed it 
 
 Where her quiet foliage waves, 
 And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
 Wachuset hides its lingering voice 
 
 Within his rocky heart, 
 And Alleghany graves its tone 
 
 Throughout his lofty chart; 
 
260 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 Monadnock on his forehead hoar 
 Doth seal the sacred trust, 
 
 Your mountains build their monument, 
 Though ye destroy their dust 
 
261 
 
 THE MARTYR OF SCIO. 
 
 BRIGHT summer reign d in Scio. Gay she hung 
 
 Her coronal upon the olive groves, 
 
 Flushed the rich clusters on the ripening vines, 
 
 And shook fresh fragrance from the citron boughs, 
 
 Till every breeze was satiate. But the sons 
 
 Of that fair isle bore winter in their soul. 
 
 Mid the proud temples of their ancestors, 
 
 And through the weeping mastic bowers, their step 
 
 Was like the man who hears the oppressor s voice 
 
 In Nature s softest echo ; for the Turk 
 
 In sullen domination sternly roamed 
 
 Where mighty Homer awed the listening world. 
 
 Once to the proud divan, with stately step, 
 A youth drew near. Surpassing beauty sate 
 Upon his princely brow, and from his eye 
 A glance like lightning parted as he spake. 
 
 u I had a jewel. From my sires it came 
 In long transmission ; and upon my soul 
 
262 THE MARTYR OF SC1O. 
 
 There was a bond to keep it for my sons. 
 
 Tis gone and in its place a false one shines, 
 
 I ask for justice." 
 
 Brandishing aloft 
 
 His naked scimitar, the Cadi cried, 
 By Allah and his Prophet ! guilt like this 
 Shall feel the avenger s stroke. Show me the wretrh 
 Who robbed thy casket." 
 
 Then the appellant tore 
 The turban from his head, and cast it down ; 
 "Lo! the false jewel see. And would st thou know 
 Whose fraud exchanged it for my precious gem ? 
 Thou art the man. My birth-right was the faith 
 Of Jesus Christ, which thou hast stolen away 
 With hollow words. Take back thy tinselled bait 
 And let me, sorrowing, seek my Saviour s fold. 
 Tempted I was, and madly have I fallen 
 Oh, give me back my faith." 
 
 And there he stood, 
 
 The stately-born of Scio, in whose veins 
 Stirred the high blood of Greece. There was a pause, 
 A haughty lifting up of Turkish brows, 
 In wonder and in scorn ; a hissing tone 
 Of wrath precursive, and a stern reply 
 
 u The faith of Moslem, or the sabre-stroke : 
 Choose thee, young Greek !" 
 
 Then rose his lofty form 
 In all its majesty, and his deep voice 
 
THE MARTYR OF SCIO. 263 
 
 Rang out sonorous as a triumph-song, 
 4 Give back my faith !" 
 
 A pale torch faintly gleamed 
 Throuch niche and window of a lonely church, 
 And thence the wailing of a stifled dirge 
 Rose sad o er midnight s ear. A corpse was there 
 And a young beauteous creature, kneeling low 
 In speechless grief. Her wealth of raven locks 
 Swept o er the dead man s brow, as there she laid 
 The withered bridal crown, while every hope 
 That at its twining woke, and every joy 
 Young love in fond idolatry had nursed, 
 Perished that hour. 
 
 Feebly she raised her child, 
 And bade him kiss his father. But the boy 
 Shrank back in horror from the clotted blood, 
 And wildly clasped his hands with such a cry 
 Of piercing anguish that each heart recoiled 
 From his impassioned woe. Yet there was one 
 Unmoved, one white-haired, melancholy man, 
 Who stood in utter desolation forth, 
 Silent and solemn, like some lonely tower. 
 Though from his tearless eye there flash d a flame 
 Of Helle s ancient glory unsubdued : 
 That Sciote martyr was his only son 
 
264 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 TOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, 
 
 Who build on the tossing and treacherous main ; 
 
 Toil on ! for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
 
 With your sand-based structures, and domes of rock ; 
 
 Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
 
 And your arches spring up through the crested wave 
 
 Ye re a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
 The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria s king; 
 -The turf looks green where the breakers rolled, 
 O er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold, 
 The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, 
 And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant kirk ? 
 
THE CORAL INSECT. 265 
 
 There are snares enough on the tented field ; 
 Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; 
 There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up ; 
 There s a poison drop in marl s purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath, 
 And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 
 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold, 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy s curls of gold ; 
 And the gods of ocean have frowned to see 
 The mariner s bed mid their halls of glee : 
 Hath earth no graves ? that ye thus must spread 
 The boundless sea with the thronging dead ? 
 
 Ye build ! ye. build ! but ye enter not in ; 
 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin 
 
 From the land of promise, ye fade and die, 
 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your wearied eye. 
 
 As the cloud-crowned pyramids founders sleep 
 
 Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 
 
 Ye slumber unmarked mid the desolate main, 
 
 While the wonder and pride of your works remain 
 
260 
 
 MISTAKES. 
 
 " Every thing that is high, is not holy ; nor every desire pure ; 
 nor all that is sweet, good ; nor every thing that is dear to man, 
 pleasing to God." THOMAS A KEMPIS. 
 
 MIGHT we but view the shore 
 Of this dim world, as from heaven s hill it gleams, 
 How should we blame the tear unduly shed, 
 And tax the truant joy! Plow should we see 
 Amaz d, our own mistakes : the lowly tomb 
 ( Of our lost idols blooming thick with flowers 
 Such as the seraph s bosom bears above, 
 And the steep cliff where we have madly blown 
 Ambition s victor-trump, with storm-clouds crown d 
 To wreck the unwary soul : wealth s hoarded gold, 
 Eternal poverty ; and the meek prayer 
 Of him who knew not where to lay his head, 
 An heritage of glory. 
 
 Each desire 
 Fed to fruition, till the satiate heart 
 
MISTAKES. 
 
 Is gorg d with richness, sows it not the seeds 
 Of sickness there ? while he whose only rest 
 Was on a spear-point, who might ask for bread 
 Only to find a stone, gain d he not thus 
 A mansion in the amaranthine bowers 
 Of love divine ? 
 
 Prosperity, alas ! 
 
 Is often but another name for pride, 
 And selfishness, which scorns another s woe ; 
 While our keen disappointments are the food 
 Of that humility which entereth Heaven, 
 Finding itself at home. The things we mourn, 
 Work our eternal gain. Then let our joys 
 Be tremulous as the Mimosa s leaf, 
 And each affliction with a serious smile 
 Be welcom d in at the heart s open door, 
 As the good patriarch met his muffled guests 
 And found them angels. 
 
 23 
 
268 
 
 ONLY THIS ONCE." 
 
 EXODUS, x. 17. 
 
 a ONLY this once." the wine-cup glowed 
 All sparkling with its ruby ray, 
 
 The bacchanalian welcome flowed, 
 And Folly made the revel gay. 
 
 Then he, so long, so deeply warned, 
 The sway of conscience rashly spurned, 
 
 His promise of repentance scorned, 
 And, coward-like, to vice returned. 
 
 "Only this once." The tale is told 
 He wildly quaffed the poisonous tide ; 
 
 With more than Esau s madness, sold 
 The birth-right of his soul and died. 
 
 I do not say that breath forsook 
 The clay, and left its pulses dead, 
 
 But reason in her empire shook, 
 And all the life of life was fled. 
 
ONLY THIS ONCE. 269 
 
 Again his eyes the landscape viewed, 
 
 His limbs again their burden bore. 
 And years their wonted course renewed, 
 
 But hope and peace returned no more. 
 
 Then angel eyes with pity wept 
 
 When he whom virtue fain would save, 
 
 His sacred vow so falsely kept, 
 
 And strangely sought a drunkard s grave. 
 
 " Only this once." Beware Beware ! 
 
 Gaze not upon the blushing wine, 
 Repel temptation s siren snare, 
 
 And prayerful, seek for strength divine. 
 
270 
 
 POMPEII. 
 
 On reading the " Tour in Italy and Switzerland" of the late Rev. 
 E. D Griffin. 
 
 IT was the evening of the day of God, 
 And silence reigned around. The waning lamp 
 Gleamed heavily, and gathering o er my heart 
 There seemed a musing sadness. 
 
 Then thou cam st, 
 
 Ethereal spirit ! on thy classic wing, 
 Bidding me follow thee. 
 
 And so I sought 
 
 The ruined cities of Italia s plain, 
 And with thee o er Pompeii s ashes trod, 
 Courting the friendship of a buried world. 
 
 Tis fearful to behold the tide of life 
 In all the tossings of its fervid strength 
 Thus petrified, and every painted bark, 
 That spread its gay sail o er the rippling surge 
 Sealed to its depths. 
 
POMPFTT. 2 
 
 Thou haggard skeleton, 
 
 Clutching with bony hand thy hoarded gold. 
 What boots it thus those massy keys to guard 
 When life s frail key turns in its ward no more ? 
 Say ! hadst thou nought amid yon wreck, more dear 
 Than that encumbering dross ? no priceless wealth 
 Of sweet affinity, no tender claim, 
 No eager turning of fond eyes to thine, 
 In that last hour of dread extremity ? 
 
 Lo ! yon grim soldier, faithful at his post, 
 Bold and unblenching, though a sea of fire 
 Closed o er him with its suffocating wave. 
 The reeking air grew hot, the blackened heavens 
 Shrank like a shriveled scroll, and mother earth, 
 Forgetful of her love, a traitress turned. 
 Yet still lie fled not ; though each element 
 Swerved from the eternal law, he firmly stood 
 A Roman Sentinel. 
 
 Thus may we stand 
 In duty s armor, at our hour of doom, 
 Though on the climax of our joy, stern Death 
 Should steal unlocked for, as the lightning flash 
 Rending the summer-cloud. 
 
 But now, adieu, 
 
 My sainted guide. The midnight hour doth warn 
 Me from thy cherished pages, though mcthinks 
 The beauty of thy presence, and thy voice, 
 Whose tones melodious, charmed a listening throng, 
 23* 
 
272 POMPEII. 
 
 Still linger near. It is not meet for us 
 To call thee brother, we who dwell in clay, 
 And find the impress of the earth so strong 
 Upon our purest gold. 
 
 Spirit of bliss ! 
 
 Twining thyself around the living heart 
 By holiest memories, my prayer this night 
 Shall be a hymn of gratitude for thee. 
 
273 
 
 FEMALE EDUCATION FOR GREECE 
 
 WHY break st thou thus the tomb of ancient night, 
 Thou blind old bard, majestic and alone ? 
 Whose sightless eyes have iill d the world with light, 
 Such light as fades not with the set of sun, 
 Light that the kindled soul doth feed upon, 
 When with her harp she soars o er mortal things, 
 And from heaven s gate doth win some echoed tcne, 
 And fit it deftly to her raptur d strings, 
 And wake the sweet response, tho earth with discord 
 rings. 
 
 And lo ! the nurtur d in the Theban bower, 
 Impetuous Pindar, mad with tuneful ire, 
 Whose hand abrupt could rule with peerless power 
 The linked sweetness of the Doric lyre ; 
 lie, too, whom History graves with pen of fire 
 First on her chart, the eloquent, the mild, 
 Down at whose feet she sitteth as her sire, 
 Listing his legends like a charmed child, 
 Clear as the soul of truth, yet rob d in fancy wild. 
 
271 FEMAT.F. F.THTATTON FOR 
 
 And them, meek martyr to the hemlock draught, 
 Whose fearless voice for truth and virtue strove, 
 Whose stainless life, and death serene, have taught 
 The Christian world to wonder and to love, 
 Come forth, with Plato, from thy hallo w d grove, 
 And bring that golden chain by Time unriven, 
 Which round this pendent universe ye wove, 
 For still our homage to your lore is given, 
 And your pure wisdom priz d, next to the page of heaven. 
 
 See, gathering round, high shades of glorious birth 
 Do throng the scene. Hath aught disturbed their resi 
 Why brings Philosophy her idols forth 
 With pensive brow, in solemn silence drest ? 
 And see he comes, who o er the sophist s crest 
 Did pour the simple element of light, 
 Reduce the complex thought to reason s test, 
 And stand severe in intellectual might, 
 Undazzled, undeceiv d, the peerless Stagyrite. 
 
 Those demi-gods of Greece! How sad they 
 Where, temple-crown d, the Acropolis aspires, 
 Or green Hymettus rears her honied grove, 
 Or glows the Parthenon neath sunset fires, 
 Or where the olive, ere its prime, expires 
 By Moslem hatred scath d. Melhinks they seem 
 Westward to gaze, with unreveal d desires, 
 
FEMALE EDUCATION FOR GREECE. ^7 
 
 Whether they roam by pure Ilyssus stream, 
 Or haunt with troubled step the shades of Academe 
 
 Seek ye the West ? that land of noteless birth, 
 That when proud Athens rul d with regal sway 
 All climes and kindreds of the awe-struck earth. 
 Still in its cold, mysterious cradle lay, 
 Till the world-finder rent the veil away, 
 And quelPd the red-brow d hunters savage tone ? 
 Turn ye to MS, young emmets of a day, 
 Who flit admiring round your ancient throne ? 
 Seek ye a boon of us, the nameless, the unknown ? 
 
 We, who have blest you with our lisping tongue, 
 And to your baptism bow d when life was new, 
 And, when upon our mother s breast we hung, 
 Your flowing nectar with our life-stream drew, 
 Who dipp d our young feet in Castalian dew, 
 And pois d with tiny arm that lance and shield 
 Before whose might the boastful Persian flew, 
 We, who Ulysses trac d o er flood and field, 
 What can ye ask of us, we would not joy to yield ? 
 
 Ye ask no warrior s aid, the Turk hath fled, 
 And on your throne Bavaria s prince reclines, 
 No gold or gems, their dazzling light to shed, 
 Pearl from the sea, nor diamond from the mines; 
 Ye ask that ray from Learning s lamp which shines, 
 
276 FEMALE EDUCATION FOR GREECE. 
 
 To guide your sons, so long in error blind, 
 The cry speeds forth from yon embowering vines, 
 "Give bread and water to the famish d mind, 
 And from its durance dark, the imprison cl soul unbind." 
 
 Behold the Apostle of the Cross sublime ! 
 The warned of heaven, the eloquent, the bold, 
 Who spake to Athens in her hour of prime, 
 Braving the thunders of Olympus old, 
 And spreading forth the Gospel s snowy fold, 
 Where heathen altars pour d a crimson tide, 
 And stern tribunals their decrees unroll d ; 
 How would his zeal rebuke our ingrate pride, 
 If ye should sue to us and coldly be denied. 
 
 Explores your eagle-glance that weaker band 
 Who bear the burdens of domestic care ? 
 Who guide the distaff with a patient hand, 
 And trim the evening hearth with cheerful air ? 
 Point ye the Attic maid, the matron fair, 
 The blooming child devoid of letter d skill ? 
 What would ye ask ? Wild winds the answer bear, 
 In blended echoes from the Aonian hill, 
 " Give them the book of God ?" Immortal shades ! we 
 will 
 
277 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 I CAME, but she was gone. 
 
 In her fair home, 
 
 There lay her lute, just as she touch d it last, 
 At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups 
 FilPd with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat 
 Lay the still-open work-box, and that book 
 Which last she read, its pencil d margin mark d 
 By an ill-quoted passage trac d, perchance 
 With hand unconscious, while her lover spake 
 That dialect, which brings forgetfulness 
 Of all beside. It was the cherish d home, 
 Where from her childhood, she had been the star 
 Ol hope and joy. 
 
 I came and she was gone. 
 Yet I had seen her from the altar led, 
 With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, 
 The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek, 
 And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought 
 Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 
 
278 THE BRIDE. 
 
 And there was silence mid the gather d throng. 
 The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw 
 Their breath supprest, to see the mother s lip 
 Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire 
 Shrink as with smother d sorrow, when he gave 
 His darling to an untried guardianship, 
 And to a far off clime. 
 
 Haply his thought 
 
 Travers d the grass-grown prairies, and the shore 
 Of the cold lakes ; or those o erhanging cliffs, 
 And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar 
 Her log-rear d mansion from the anxious eye 
 Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt 
 How strong and beautiful is woman s love, 
 That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, 
 The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, 
 Yea! and its own life also lays them all, 
 Meek and unblenching, on a mortal s breast, 
 Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope 
 Which hath its root in God. 
 
 Mock not with mirth, 
 A scene, like this, ye laughter-loving ones; 
 The licens d jester s lip, the dancer s heel 
 What do they here ? 
 
 Joy, serious and sublime, 
 Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, 
 Should swell the bosom, when a maiden s hand, 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 279 
 
 FilPd with life s dewy flow rets, girdeth on 
 That harness, which the ministry of Death 
 Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power 
 May stamp the sentence of Eternity. 
 
 24 
 
280 
 
 THE GIFT OK APOLLO. 
 
 A legend of ancient mythology relates, that the inhabitants ol 
 Methymnia, on the island of Lesbos, received from Apollo a genius 
 for music and poetry, as a mark of his gratitude for having extended 
 the rights of burial to the sever d head of Orpheus. 
 
 WHEN Orpheus limbs, by Thracian madness torn, 
 Down the cold Hebrus sounding floods were borne. 
 The blood-stain d lips in tuneful measures sigh d, 
 And murmur d music charm d the listening tide. 
 
 Thus roam d the head, complaining and distrest, 
 Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest, 
 And with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore 
 The mangled victim to their verdant shore, 
 With fragrant streams the quivering temples lave, 
 And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave, 
 Spread a soft pillow in the earth s green breast, 
 And with low dirges lull its woes to rest. 
 
TIIE GIFT OF APOLLO. 281 
 
 Then from the tossing surge, his lyre they gain, 
 A treasur d trophy for Apollo s fane, 
 Round its fair frame funereal garlands bind, 
 And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign d. 
 
 But when its chords the gales of evening sweep, 
 Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep. 
 " Eurydice !" in trembling love they sigh. 
 " Eurydice !" the long-drawn aisles reply, 
 And through the temple steals, in echoes low. 
 The mournful sweetness of remember d woe. 
 
 Methymnia s sons, with new-felt warmth inspir d, 
 
 By all Apollo s soul of song were fir d, 
 
 Pour d their rich offerings round his golden shrine, 
 
 Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine, 
 
 While he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid 
 
 The men, whose pious rites appeas d his favourite s shade. 
 
282 
 
 METHUSELAH. 
 
 "And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and 
 nine years and he died. 1 GENESIS. 
 
 AND was this all ? He died ! He who did wait 
 The slow unfolding of centurial years, 
 And shake that burden from his heart, which turns 
 Our temples -white, and in his freshness stand 
 Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew gray 
 4 Left he no trace upon the page inspired, 
 Save this one line He died ? 
 
 Perchance he stood 
 Till all who in his early shadow rose 
 Faded away, and he was left alone, 
 A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man, 
 To fear that death, remembering all beside, 
 Had sure forgotten him. 
 
 Perchance he roved 
 Exulting o^er the ever-verdant vales, 
 
METHUSELAH. 
 
 283 
 
 While Asia s sun burned fervid on his brow ; 
 Or neath some waving palm-tree sate him down, 
 And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride 
 That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth iiiJc 
 To live for ever. 
 
 What majestic plans, 
 
 What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves, 
 Might in that time-defying bosom spring, 
 Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits 
 For younger generations of bold thought 
 To wear their harvest diadem ; while we, 
 In the poor hour-glass of our seventy years, 
 Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hopes, 
 Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust. 
 
 Yet whatsoe er his lot, in that dim age 
 Of mystery, when the unwrinkled world had drank 
 No deluge-cup of bitterness, whate er 
 Were earth s illusions to his dazzled eye, 
 Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote, 
 With icy pen on life s protracted scroll, 
 Naught but this brief unflattering line He died. 
 
 Ye gay flower-gatherers on time s crumbling brink, 
 This shall be said of you, howe er ye vaunt 
 Your long to-morrows in an endless line 
 Howe er amid the gardens of your joy 
 Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale King pass, 
 This shall be said of you at last He died ; 
 Oh, add one sentence more He lived to God 
 24* 
 
284 
 
 A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 COME, gather closer to my side, 
 
 My little smitten flock, 
 And I will tell of him who brought 
 
 Pure water from the rock 
 Who boldly led God s people forth 
 
 From Egypt s wrath and guile, 
 And once a cradled babe did float, 
 
 All helpless on the Nile. 
 
 You re weary, precious ones, your eyes 
 
 Are wandering far and wide 
 Think ye of her who knew so well 
 
 Your tender thought to guide ? 
 Who could to Wisdom s sacred lore 
 
 Your fixed attention claim ? 
 Ah ! never from your hearts erase 
 
 That blessed Mother s name. 
 
A FATHER TO HI* M V| IIRRLRSS CHILDREN 28- 
 
 Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 
 
 My youngest infant clove, 
 Come press your velvet cheek to mine, 
 
 And learn the lay of love ; 
 My sheltering arms can clasp you all, 
 
 My poor deserted throng, 
 Cling as you used to cling to her 
 
 Who sings the angel s song. 
 
 Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain, 
 
 Come, warble loud and clear ; 
 Alas ! alas ! you re weeping all, 
 
 You re sobbing in my ear ; 
 Good-night go say the prayer she taught, 
 
 Beside your little bed, 
 The lips that used to bless you there 
 
 Are silent with the dead. 
 
 A father s hand your course may guide 
 
 Amid the thorns of life, 
 His care protect those shrinking plants 
 
 That dread the storms of strife ; 
 But who, upon your infant hearts, 
 
 Shall like that mother write ? 
 Who touch the strings that rule the soul ? 
 
 Dear, smitten flock, good nighl; 
 
286 
 
 THE FAITHFUL DOG. 
 
 SEE! how he strives to rescue from the flood, 
 The drowning 1 child, who, venturous in his play. 
 Flung d from the slippery footing. With what joy 
 The brave deliverer, feels those slender arms 
 Convulsive twining round his brawny neck, 
 And saves his master s boy. 
 
 A zeal like this, 
 
 Hath oft, amid St. Bernard s blinding snows, 
 Tracked the faint traveller, or unseal d the jaws 
 Of the voracious avalanche, plucking thence 
 The hapless victim. 
 
 If thou hast a dog, 
 
 Of such a noble race, let him not lack 
 Aught of the kind requital, that delights 
 His honest nature. When he comes at eve, 
 Laying his ample head upon thy knee, 
 And looking at thee, with a glistening eye, 
 Repulse him not, but let him, on the rug 
 Sleep fast and warm, beside thy parlour fire. 
 The lion-guard of all thou lov st, is he, 
 
THE FAITHFUL DOG. 
 
 Yet bows his spirit at thy least command, 
 And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back 
 He bears thy youngest darling, and endures 
 Long, with a wagging tail, the teazing sport 
 Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him, 
 That they are thine. 
 
 Tis but an olden theme 
 To sing the faithful dog. The storied page 
 Full oft hath told his tried fidelity, 
 In legend quaint. Yet if in this our world 
 True friendship is a scarce and chary plant 
 It might be well, to stoop and sow its seed 
 Even in the humble bosom of a brute. 
 Slight nutriment it needs : the kindly tone, 
 The sheltering roof, the fragments from thy board, 
 The frank caress, or treasured word of praise 
 For deeds of loyalty. 
 
 So mayest thou win 
 
 A willing servant, and an earnest friend, 
 Faithful to death. 
 
288 
 
 SILENT DEVOTION. 
 
 " The Lord is in his holy temple ; let all the Earth keep silence 
 oefore him." 
 
 THE Lord is on his holy throne, 
 
 He sits in kingly state ; 
 Let those who for his favor seek, 
 
 In humble silence wait. 
 
 Your sorrows to his eye are known, 
 
 Tour secret motives clear , 
 It needeth not the pomp of words, 
 
 To pour them on his ear. 
 
 Doth Death thy bosom s cell invade? 
 
 Yield up thy flower of grass : 
 Swells the world s wrathful billow high ? 
 
 Bow down, and let it pass. 
 
SILENT DEVOTION. 289 
 
 Press not thy purpose on thy God, 
 
 Urge not thine erring will, 
 Nor dictate to the Eternal mind, 
 
 Nor doubt thy Maker s skill. 
 
 True prayer is not the noisy sound 
 
 That clamorous lips repeat, 
 But the deep silence of a soul 
 
 That clasps Jehovah s feet 
 
son 
 
 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON 
 
 On the laying of the Corner-stone of her Monument at Fredericks- 
 Durg, Virginia. 
 
 LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
 In her soft ministry around thy bed, 
 Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed, 
 And pearled with dews. 
 
 She bade bright Summer bring 
 Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, 
 And Autumn cast his reaper s coronet 
 Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
 Sternly of man s neglect. 
 
 But now we come 
 
 To do thee homage mother of our chief! 
 Fit homage such as honoreth him who pays. 
 
 Methinks we see thee as in olden time 
 Simple in garb majestic and serene, 
 Unmoved by pomp or circumstance in truth 
 Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal 
 
THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 29, 
 
 Repressing vice and making folly grave. 
 Thou didst not deem it woman s part to waste 
 Life in inglorious sioth to sport awhile 
 Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave, 
 Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, 
 Building no temple in her children s hearts, 
 Save to the vanity and pride of life 
 Which she had worshipped. 
 
 For the might that clothed 
 The Pater Patria?," for the glorious deeds 
 That make Mount Vernon s tomb a Mecca shrine 
 To all the earth, what thanks to thee are due, 
 Who, mid his elements of being, wrought, 
 We know not Heaven can tell. 
 
 Rise, sculptured pile 
 
 And show a race unborn who rests below ; 
 And say to mothers what a holy charge 
 Is theirs with what a kingly power their love 
 Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. 
 Warn them to wake at early dawn and sow 
 Good seed before the world hath sown her tares ; 
 Nor in their toil decline that angel bands 
 May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
 And gather to his garner. 
 
 Ye, who stand, 
 
 With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, 
 Who nobly reared Virginia s godlike chief 
 Yc, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
 25 
 
292 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, 
 
 What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
 
 A second Washington ; or leave your name 
 
 Wrought out in marble with a nation s tears 
 
 Of deathless gratitude; yet may you raise 
 
 A monument above the stars a soul 
 
 Led by your teachings, and your prayers to God. 
 
293 
 
 CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA 
 
 WINDS ! what have ye gathered from Afric s strand, 
 As ye swept the breadth of that fragrant land ? 
 The breath of the spice-bud, the rich perfume 
 Of balm and of gum and of flowret s bloom ? 
 " We have gather d nought, save a pagan prayer, 
 And the stifling sigh of the heart s despair." 
 
 Waves ! what have ye heard on that ancient coast 
 Where Egypt the might of her fame did boast, 
 Where the statue of Memnon saluted the morn, 
 And the pyramids tower in their giant scorn ? 
 u We have heard the curse of the slave-ship s crew, 
 And the shriek of the chain d as the shores withdrew." 
 
 Stars ! what have ye seen with the glancing eye 
 From your burning thrones in the sapphire-sky i 
 " We have mark d young hope as it brightly glow d, 
 On Afric s breast whence the blood-drop flow d, 
 And we chanted the hymn which we sang at first, 
 When the sun from the midnight of Chaos burst." 
 
294 
 
 THE MOURNING LOVER. 
 
 THERE was a noble form, which oft I marked 
 As the full blossom of bright boyhood s charms 
 Ripened to manly beauty. Nature made 
 His eloquent lip and fervid eye to win 
 Fair woman s trusting heart. 
 
 Yet not content, 
 
 Because ambition s fever wrought within, 
 He went to battle, and the crimson sod 
 Told where his life-blood gushed. 
 
 The maid who kept 
 
 In her young heart the secret of his love, 
 With all its hoarded store of sympathies 
 And images of hope, think ye she gave, 
 When a few years their fleeting course had run, 
 Her heart again to man ? 
 
 No ! no ! She twined 
 Its riven tendrils round a surer prop, 
 And reared its blighted blossoms toward that sky 
 Which hath no cloud. She sought devotion s balm, 
 And, with a gentle sadness, turned her soul 
 
THE MOURNING LOVER. 295 
 
 From gaiety and song. Pleasure, for her, 
 
 Had lost its essence, and the viol s voice 
 
 Gave but a sorrowing sound. Even her loved plants 
 
 Breathed too distinctly of the form that bent 
 
 With hers to watch their budding. Mid their flowers, 
 
 And through the twining of their pensile stems, 
 
 The semblance of a cold, dead hand would rise, 
 
 Until she bade them droop and pass away 
 
 With him she mourned. 
 
 And so, with widowed heart, 
 She parted out her pittance to the poor, 
 Sat by the bed of sickness, dried the tear 
 Of the forgotten weeper, and enrob d 
 Herself in mercy, like the Bride of Heaven. 
 Fears pass d away, and still she seemed unchanged. 
 The principle of beauty hath no age : 
 It lookcth forth, even though the eye be dim, 
 The forehead frost-crowned, yea, it looketh forth, 
 Wherever there doth dwell a truthful soul, 
 That in its chastened cheerfulness would shod 
 Sweet charity, on all whom God hath made. 
 
 Years pass d away, and mid her holy toils 
 The hermit-heart found rest. And oft it seemed, 
 When on her self-denying course she went, 
 As if an angel folded his pure wing 
 Around her breast, inspiring it to hold 
 A saint s endurance. 
 
 25 
 
296 THE MOURNING LOVER. 
 
 Of her spirit s grief 
 
 She never spake. But as the flush of health 
 Receded from her cheek, her patient eye 
 Gathered new lustre, and the mighty wing 
 Of that supporting angel seemed to gird 
 Closer her languid bosom : while in dreams 
 A tuneful tone, like his who slumbered deep 
 Amid his country s dead, told her of climes 
 Where vows are never sundered. 
 
 One mild eve, 
 
 When on the foreheads of the sleeping flowers 
 The loving spring-dews hung their diamond wreaths, 
 She from her casket drew a raven curl, 
 Which once had clustered round her lost one s brow, 
 And press d it to her lips, and laid it down 
 Upon her Bible, while she knelt to pour 
 The nightly incense of a stricken heart 
 At her Redeemer s feet. Gray morning came, 
 And still her white cheek on that holy page 
 Did calmly rest. Hers was that quiet sleep 
 Which hath no wakening here. Fled from her brow 
 Was every trace of pain, and in its stead 
 Methought the angel, who so long had been 
 Her comforter, had left a farewell-gift 
 That smile which in the Court of ITeaven doth beam. 
 
297 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 A daughter of the late Dr. Mason F. Cogswell, of Hartford, 
 Conn., who was deprived of the powers of hearing and speech, 
 cherished so ardent an affection for her father, that, after his 
 death, she said, in her strong language of gesture, " her heart 
 had so grown to his, it could not be separated." She was sud 
 denly called in a few days to follow him : and from the abodes 
 of bliss, where we trust she has obtained a mansion, may we 
 not imagine her thus addressing the objects of her fondest 
 earthly affections? 
 
 SISTERS ! there s music here ; 
 
 From countless harps it flows, 
 Throughout this bright celestial sphere 
 Nor pause nor discord knows. 
 The seal is melted from my ear 
 
 By love divine, 
 And what through life I pined to hear, 
 
 Is mine ! Is mine ! 
 
 The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir, 
 And the full deep response of David s sacred lyre 
 
298 LAYS FROM ABOVE. 
 
 Did kind earth hide from me 
 
 Her broken harmony, 
 
 That thus the melodies of heaven might roll, 
 And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wonder 
 ing soul ? 
 
 Joy ! I am mute no more, 
 My sad and silent years, 
 With all their loneliness are o er, 
 Sweet sisters ! dry your tears : 
 Listen at hush of eve listen at dawn of day 
 List at the hour of prayer can ye not hear my lay? 
 Untaught, unchecked it came, 
 
 As light from chaos beamed, 
 Praising his everlasting name, 
 
 Whose blood from Calvary streamed 
 And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the 
 redeemed. 
 
 Brother ! my only one ! 
 
 Belov d from childhood s hours, 
 With whom, beneath the vernal sun, 
 I wandered when our task was done 
 And gathered early flowers , 
 
 I cannot come to thee, 
 Though twas so sweet to rest 
 
 Upon thy gently-guiding arm thy sympathizing breast: 
 Tis better here to be. 
 
LAYS FROM ABOVE. 299 
 
 No disappointments shroud 
 
 The angel-bowers of joy, 
 Our knowledge hath no cloud. 
 
 Our pleasures no alloy. 
 The fearful word to part, 
 
 Is never breathed above, 
 Heaven hath no broken heart 
 
 Call me not hence, my love. 
 
 O, mother ! He is here 
 
 To whom my soul so grew, 
 That when death s fatal spear 
 Stretched him upon his bier, 
 
 I fain must follow too ! 
 His smile my infant griefs restrained 
 
 His image in my childish dream 
 And o er my young affections reigned, 
 
 With gratitude unuttered and supreme. 
 But yet till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant 
 
 show, 
 I know not half the unmeasured debt a daughter s heart 
 
 doth owe. 
 
 Ask ye, if still his heart retains its ardent glow ? 
 Ask ye, if filial love 
 Unbodied spirits prove ? 
 Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know. 
 
300 LAYS FROM ABOVE. 
 
 I bend to soothe thy woes, 
 
 How near thou canst not see 
 
 I watch thy lone repose, 
 
 Alice doth comfort thee; 
 To welcome thee I wait blest mother ! come to me. 
 
301 
 
 DREAM OF THE DEAD. 
 
 SLEEP brought the dead to me. Their brows were kino 
 And their tones tender, and, as erst, they blent 
 Their sympathies with each familiar scene. 
 It was my earthliness, that robed them still 
 In their material vestments ; for they seemed 
 Not yet to have put their glorious garments on. 
 Methought, twere better thus to dwell with them, 
 Than with the living. 
 
 Twas a chosen friend, 
 
 Beloved in school-day s happiness, who came, 
 And put her arm through mine, and meekly walked, 
 As she was wont, where er I willed to lead, 
 To shady grove or river s sounding shore, 
 Or dizzy clif^ to gaze enthralled, below, 
 On wide-spread landscape and diminished throng. 
 One, too, was there, o er whose departing steps 
 Night s cloud hung heavy ere she found the tomb ; 
 One, to whose ear no infant lip, save mine, 
 E er breathed the name of mother. 
 
302 DREAM OF THE DEAD. 
 
 In her hour 
 
 Of conflict with the spoiler, that fond word 
 Fell with my tears upon her brow in vain 
 She heard not, heeded not. But now she flew, 
 Upon the wing of dreams, to my embrace, . 
 Full of fresh life, and in that beauty clad 
 Which charmed my earliest love. Speak, silent shade 
 Speak to thy child ! But with capricious haste 
 Sleep turned the tablet, and another came, 
 
 A stranger matron, sicklied o er and pale, 
 And mournful for my vanished guide I sought. 
 Then, many a group in earnest converse flocked. 
 
 Upon whose lips I knew the burial-clay 
 Lay thick ; for I had heard its hollow sound, 
 
 In hoarse reverberation, "dust to dust!" 
 They put a fair, young infant in my arms, 
 
 And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed 
 
 Like other infants. First with fear it shrank, 
 
 And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread 
 
 Its little hands in sportive laughter forth. 
 
 So I awoke, and then those gentle forms 
 
 Of faithful friendship and maternal love 
 
 Did flit away, and life, with all its cares, 
 
 Stood forth in strong reality. 
 
 Sweet dream. 
 
 And solemn ! let me bear thee in my soul 
 
 Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate 
 
 My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names. 
 
DREAM OF THE DEAD. 303 
 
 Sinless, and passionless, and pallid train ! 
 The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead ! 
 Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede, 
 Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point 
 Divides you from us, though we fondly look 
 Through a long vista of imagined years, 
 And, in the dimness of far distance, seek 
 To hide that tomb, whose crumbling verge we tread 
 
304 
 
 THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY. 
 
 1 We cannot let him go. He says he is going to return to Eng 
 land the ship is here to take him away. But no we will keep 
 him and make him our slave ; not our slave to fetch wood and draw 
 water, but our talking -slave. Yes he shall be our slave, to talk to 
 and to teach us. Keep him we will." Speech of the Rev. Mr. 
 Yates, at the Anniversary of the Church Missionary Society, Lon 
 don, May, 1835. 
 
 TWAS night, and in his tent he lay. 
 
 Upon a heathen shore, 
 While wildly on his wakeful ear 
 
 The ocean s billows roar ; 
 Twas midnight, and the war-club rang 
 
 Upon his threshold stone, 
 And heavy feet of savage men 
 
 Came fiercely tramping on. 
 
 Loud were their tones in fierce debate,- 
 
 The chieftain and his clan, 
 " He shall not go he shall not go, 
 
 That missionary man; 
 
THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY. 305 
 
 For him the swelling sail doth spread, 
 
 The tall ship ride the wave, 
 But we will chain him to our coast, 
 
 Yes, he shall be our slave : 
 
 Not from the groves our wood to bear, 
 
 Nor water from the vale, 
 Nor in the battle-front to stand, 
 
 Where proudest foe-men quail, 
 Nor the great war-canoe to guide, 
 
 Where crystal streams turn red : 
 But he shall be our slave to break 
 
 The soul its living bread." 
 
 Then slowly peer d the rising moon, 
 
 Above the forest-height, 
 And bathed each cocoa s leafy crown 
 
 In tides of living light : 
 To every cabin s grassy thatch 
 
 A gift of beauty gave, 
 And with a crest of silver cheer d 
 
 Pacific s sullen wave. 
 
 But o er that gentle scene a shout 
 
 In sudden clangor came, 
 " Come forth, come forth, thou man of God, 
 
 And answer to our claim :" 
 
306 THE NEW-ZEALAM) MISSIONARY. 
 
 So down to those dark island-men, 
 He bow d him as he spake, 
 
 " Behold, your servant will I be 
 For Christ, my master s sake." 
 
307 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE 
 
 KNOW ye a prince hath fallen ? They who sit 
 On gilded throne, with rubied diadem, 
 Caparisoned and guarded round, till death 
 Doth stretch them neath some gorgeous canopy, 
 Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind 
 Call them not kings they are but crowned men. 
 Know ye a prince hath fallen ? 
 
 Nature gave 
 
 The signet of her royalty, and years 
 Of mighty labor won that sceptred power 
 Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims 
 Homage and empire, such as time s keen tooth 
 May never waste. Yea and the grace of God 
 So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled 
 To deeds of Christian love, that there is reared 
 A monument for him, which hath no dread 
 Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth. 
 
 I see him mid the Shetlands, spreading forth 
 The riches of the Gospel kneeling down 
 To light its lamp in every darkened hut : 
 26* 
 
308 DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE. 
 
 Not in the armor of proud learning braced, 
 
 But with a towel girded as to wash 
 
 The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn. 
 
 I see him lead the rugged islander 
 
 Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God, 
 
 Counting his untaught soul more precious far 
 
 Than all the lore of all the lettered world. 
 
 I hear his eloquence but deeper still, 
 And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge 
 O er the hoarse wave. "All that we boast of man, 
 Is as the flower of grass." 
 
 Farewell Farewell ! 
 
 Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great 
 And good of every nation. Yea ! pass on 
 Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws 
 Unholy shadow o er the heaven-warmed breast, 
 Doth melt to nothingness and every surge 
 Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths, 
 Earth s charity was drowned, is sweetly lost 
 In the broad ocean of eternal love. 
 
309 
 
 MARRIAGE HYMN 
 
 NOT for the summer-hour alone, 
 When skies resplendent shine, 
 
 And youth and pleasure fill the throne. 
 Our hearts and hands we join ; 
 
 But for those stern and wintry days 
 
 Of peril, pain, and fear, 
 When Heaven s wise discipline doth make 
 
 This earthly journey drear. 
 
 Not for this span of life alone, 
 
 Which as a blast doth fly, 
 And like the transient flower of grass 
 
 Just blossom, droop, and die ; 
 
 But for a being \vithout end, 
 
 This vow of love we take : 
 Grant us, oh God ! one home at last, 
 
 For our Redeemer s sake. 
 
310 
 
 DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE. 
 
 WHY is the green earth broken ? Yon tall grass, 
 Which in its ripeness woo d the mower s hand, 
 And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom d, 
 Why are their roots uptorn ? Why swells a mound 
 Of new-made turf among them ? 
 
 Ask of him 
 
 Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long 
 At morning s dawn, and evening s pensive hour, 
 Whose bosom s planted hopes might scarcely boast 
 More firmness, than yon riven flower of grass. 
 
 Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed, 
 When Joy s young harvest fails ? as clings the bee 
 To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower ? 
 
 Still is remembrance grief. The tender smile 
 
 Of young, confiding Love, its winning tones, 
 
 Its self-devotion, its delight to seek 
 
 Another s good, its ministry to soothe 
 
 The hour of pain, come o er the hermit heart 
 
 To claim its bitterest tear. 
 
DEATH OF A \OUNG WIFE. 311 
 
 But that meek Faith, 
 Which all distrustful of its holiest deeds 
 So strongly clasp d a Saviour s feet, when Death 
 Rang the crush d heart-strings like a broken harp, 
 That Hope which shed its seraph-benison 
 On all who wept around, that smile which left 
 Heaven s stainless semblance on the breathless clay, 
 These are the tokens to the soul bereav d, 
 To gird itself invincibly, and seek 
 A deathless union with the parted bride. 
 
312 
 
 THE LITTLE HAND. 
 
 THOU wak st, my baby boy, from sleep, 
 And through its silken fringe 
 
 Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep, 
 Gleams forth with azure tinge. 
 
 With what a smile of gladness, meek, 
 
 Thy radiant brow is drest, 
 While fondly to a mother s cheek 
 
 Thy lip and hand are prest. 
 
 That little hand ! what prescient wit 
 
 Its history may discern, 
 When time its tiny bones hath knit 
 
 With manhood s sinews stern ? 
 
 The artist s pencil shall it guide ? 
 
 Or spread the adventurous sail ? 
 Or guide the plough with rustic pride, 
 
 And ply the sounding flail ? 
 
THE LITTLE HAND. 313 
 
 Through music s labyrinthine maze, 
 
 With dexterous ardor rove, 
 And weave those tender, tuneful lays 
 
 That beauty wins from love ? 
 
 Old Coke s or Blackstone s mighty tome, 
 
 With patient toil turn o er ? 
 Or trim the lamp in classic dome. 
 
 Till midnight s watch be o er ? 
 
 Well skilled, the pulse of sickness press ? 
 
 Or such high honor gain 
 As, o er the pulpit, raised, to bless 
 
 A pious listening train ? 
 
 Say, shall it find the cherished grasp 
 
 Of friendship s fervor cold ? 
 Or, shuddering, feel the envenomed clasp 
 
 Of treachery s serpent-fold ? 
 
 Yet, oh ! may that Almighty Friend. 
 
 From whom existence came. 
 That dear and powerless hand defend 
 
 From deeds of guilt and shame. 
 
 Grant it to dry the tear of woe, 
 Bold folly s course restrain. 
 
314 THE LITTLE HAND. 
 
 The alms of sympathy bestow, 
 The righteous cause maintain 
 
 Write wisdom on the wing of time, 
 Even mid the morn of youth. 
 
 And with benevolence sublime, 
 Dispense the light of truth 
 
 Discharge a just, an useful part 
 Through life s uncertain maze. 
 
 Till coupled with an angel s heart, 
 It strike the lyre of praise. 
 
315 
 
 BABE BURIED AT SEA. 
 
 THE deep sea took the dead. It was a babe 
 Like sculptur d marble, pure and beautiful 
 That lonely to its yawning gulfs went down. 
 Poor cradled nursling no fond arm was there 
 To wrap thee in its folds ; no lullaby 
 Came from the green sea-monster, as he laid 
 His shapeless head, thy polished brow beside, 
 One moment wondering at the beauteous spoil 
 On which he fed. Old Ocean heeded not 
 This added unit to his myriad dead ; 
 But in the bosom of the tossing ship 
 Rose up a burst of anguish, wild and loud, 
 From the vex d fountain of a mother s love, 
 -^The lost! The lost! Oft shall her startled dream, 
 Catch the drear echo of the sullen plunge 
 That whelm d the uncofTm d body oft her eye 
 Strain wide through midnight s long unslumbering watch 
 Remembering how his soft sweet breathing seem d 
 Like measured music in a lily s cup, 
 And how his tiny shout of rapture swelled, 
 27 
 
316 BABE BURIED AT SEA. 
 
 When closer to her bosom s core, she drew 
 His eager lip. 
 
 Who thus, with folded arms, 
 And head declined, doth seem to count the waves, 
 And yet to heed them not ? The sorrowing sire, 
 Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his child 
 Sank down into the waters. Busy thought 
 Turns to his far home, and those little ones. 
 Whom sporting mid their favorite lawn he left, 
 And troubled fancy shows the weeping there, 
 When he shall seat them once more on his knee, 
 And tell them how the baby that they lovM, 
 Hid its pale cheek within its mother s breast, 
 And pin d away and died yet found no grave 
 Beneath the church-yard turf, where they might plant 
 The lowly mound with flowers. 
 
 But tell them too, 
 
 Oh father ! as a balsam for their grief, 
 That He who guards the water-lily s germ, 
 Through the long winter, and remembereth well 
 To bring its lip of snow and broad green leaf 
 Up from the darkness of its slimy cell 
 To meet the summer sun will not forget 
 Their little brother, in his ocean bed, 
 But raise him from the deep, and call him forth 
 With brighter beauty, and a glorious form, 
 Never to fade, nor die. 
 
317 
 
 THE BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 WHO asks if I remember thee ? or speak thy treasur d 
 
 name ? 
 Doth the frail rush forget the stream from whence its 
 
 greenness came? 
 Doth the wild, lonely flower that sprang within some 
 
 rocky dell 
 Forget the first, awakening smile that on its bosom fell ? 
 
 Did Israel s exil d sons, when far from Zion s hill away, 
 Forget the high and holy house, where first they learn d 
 
 to pray ? 
 Forget around their Temple s wreck to roam in mute 
 
 despair, 
 And o er its hallow d ashes pour a grief that none might 
 
 share ? 
 
 Remember thee ? Remember thee ? though many a year 
 
 hath fled 
 Since o er thy pillow cold and low, the uprooted turf was 
 
 spread, 
 
318 THE BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 Yet oft doth twilight s musing hour, thy graceful form 
 
 restore, 
 And morning breathe the music-tone, like Memnon s harp 
 
 of yore. 
 
 The simple cap that deck d thy brow, is still to Memory 
 
 dear, 
 Her echoes keep thy cherish d song that lull d my infant 
 
 ear; 
 The book, from which my lisping tongue was by thy 
 
 kindness taught, 
 Gleams forth, with all its lettered lines, still fresh with 
 
 hues of thought. 
 
 The flowers, the dear, familiar flowers, that in thy garden 
 
 grew, 
 From which thy mantel-vase was fill d methinks, they 
 
 breathe anew; 
 
 Again, the whispering lily bends, and ope those lips of rose, 
 As if some message of thy love, they linger d to disclose. 
 
 Tis true, that more than fourscore years had bow d thy 
 
 beauty low, 
 
 And mingled, with thy cup of life, full many a dreg of woe, 
 But yet thou hadst a better charm than youthful bloom 
 
 hath found, 
 And balm within thy chasten d heart, to heal another s 
 
 wound. 
 
THE BENEFACTRESS. 319 
 
 Remember thee ? Remember thee ? though with the blest 
 
 on high, 
 
 Thou hast a mansion of delight, unseen by mortal eye, 
 Comes not thy wing to visit me, in the deep watch of 
 
 night, 
 When visions of unutter d things do make my sleep so 
 
 bright ? 
 
 I feel thy love within my breast, it nerves me strong and 
 
 high 
 As cheers the wanderer o er the deep, the pole-star in the 
 
 sky, 
 And when my weary spirit quails, or friendship s smile 
 
 is cold, 
 I feel thine arm around me thrown, as oft it was of old. 
 
 Remember thee ! Remember thee ! while flows this pur 
 ple tide, 
 
 I ll keep thy precepts in my heart, thy pattern for my 
 guide, 
 
 And, when life s little journey ends, and light forsakes 
 my eye, 
 
 Come, hovering o er my bed of pain, and teach me how 
 to die. 
 
 27 1 
 
320 
 
 THE BROKEN VASE. 
 
 So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase, 
 Beneath my footsteps. Tis a pity, sure, 
 That aught so beautiful, should find its fate, 
 From careless fingers. 
 
 Fain would I divine 
 
 Thy history. Who shap d thy graceful form, 
 And touch d thy pure, transparent brow with tints 
 Of varied hue, and gave the enamel d robe, 
 Deep-wrought with gold ? 
 
 Thou wert a costly gift. 
 
 Perchance, a present to some fair young bride, 
 Who mid her wedding-treasures nicely pack d 
 Thee in soft cotton, that the jarring wheel, 
 O er the rough road careering, might not mar 
 Thy symmetry. Within her new abode, 
 She proudly plac d thee, rich with breathing flowers, 
 And as the magic shell from ocean borne 
 Doth hoard the murmur of its coral- caves, 
 So thou didst tell her twilight reverie, tales 
 Of her far home, and seem to breathe the tones 
 
TITE BROKEN VASE. 321 
 
 Of her young, sportive sisters. 
 
 Tis in vain ! 
 
 No art may join those fragments, or cement 
 Their countless chasms. 
 
 And yet there s many a wreck 
 Of costlier things, for which the wealth of Earth 
 May yield no reparation. 
 
 He, who hangs 
 
 His all of happiness on beauty s smile, 
 And, mid that dear illusion, treads on thorns, 
 Heeding no wound, or climbs the rocky steep 
 Unconscious of fatigue, hath oft-times mark d 
 A dying dolphin s brightness at his feet, 
 And found it but the bubble of his hope, 
 Disparting like the rainbow. 
 
 They who run 
 
 Ambition s race, and on their compeers tread 
 With fever d eagerness to grasp the goal, 
 Beheld the envied prize, like waxen toy, 
 Melt in the passion-struggle. 
 
 He, who toils 
 
 Till lonely midnight, o er the waning lamp, 
 Twining the cobweb of poetic thought, 
 Or forging links from Learning s molten gold, 
 Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim, 
 Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delight 
 To the cold-bosom d public, oft perceives 
 Each to his " farm and merchandise" return 
 
THE BROKEN VASE. 
 
 Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance 
 Doth hear the hammer of harsh criticism, 
 Grinding his ore to powder, finer far 
 Than the light sand of Congo s yellow stream. 
 Yea, mid earth s passing pilgrims, many a one 
 Of its new gained possessions, fondly proud, 
 Doth, like the Patriarch, find his seven years toil 
 Paid with a poor deceit. 
 
 Crush d Vase, farewell. 
 
 I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn d 
 That the heart s treasures be not rashly risk d 
 In earthen vessels, but in caskets stor d, 
 Above the wrecking ministry of Time. 
 
323 
 
 THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 
 
 AMID those hills, with verdure spread, 
 The red-brow d hunter s arrow sped, 
 And o er those waters, sheen and blue, 
 He boldly launched his bark canoe, 
 While through the forests glanc d like light 
 The flying wild deer s antler bright. 
 Ask ye for hamlet s peopled bound, 
 With cone-roofed cabins circled round ? 
 For chieftain brave ? for warrior proud, 
 In nature s majesty unbowed ? 
 You ve seen the fleeting shadow fly, 
 The foam upon the billows die, 
 The floating vapour leave no trace, 
 Such was their path that fated race. 
 
 Say ye, that kings, with lofty port, 
 Here held their stern and simple court? 
 That here, with gestures rudely bold 
 Stern orators the throng controll d ? 
 
 Methinks, even now, on tempest wings, 
 The thunder of their war-shout rings, 
 
324 THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 
 
 Methinks again with reddening spire 
 The groves reflect their council fire. 
 No ! No ! in darkness rest the throng, 
 Despair hath checked the tide of song, 
 
 Dust dimm d their glory s ray. 
 But can these staunch their bleeding wrong, 
 Or quell remembrance fierce and strong ? 
 
 Recording angel, say ! 
 
 I mark d where once a fortress frown d, 
 High o er the blood-cemented ground, 
 And many a deed that savage tower 
 Might tell, to chill the midnight hour ; 
 But now, its ruins strangely bear 
 Fruits, that the gentlest hand might share; 
 For there, a hallowed dome* imparts 
 The lore of Heaven to listening hearts ; 
 And forms like those which lingering staid, 
 Latest neath Calvary s awful shade, 
 
 And earliest pierced the gathered gloom 
 
 i 
 To watch a Saviour s lowly tomb, 
 
 Such forms have soothed the Indian s ire, 
 And bade for him, that dome aspire. 
 
 * On the ruins of a fort in the territory of the once powerful tribe 
 of Mohegans, in the vicinity of Norwich, Connecticut, a small and 
 neat church has been erected, and the services of a missionary en 
 gaged, principally through the influence of the benevolence of 
 females. 
 
THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 325 
 
 Now, where tradition, ghostly pale, 
 With ancient horrors loads the vale, 
 And shuddering weaves, in crimson loom 
 Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom, 
 There shall the Saviour s ritual rise, 
 And peaceful hymns invoke the skies. 
 
 Crushed race ! so long condemned to moan. 
 Scorned, rifled, spiritless, and lone, 
 From pagan rites, from sorrow s maze, 
 Turn to these temple-gates with praise : 
 Yes, turn and bless the usurping band 
 That rent away your fathers land ; 
 Forgive the wrong suppress the blame, 
 And view with Faith s fraternal claim, 
 Tour God your hope your heaven the same. 
 
326 
 
 THE THRUSH. 
 
 " I LL pay my rent in music," said a thrush 
 Who took his lodging neath my eaves in spring, 
 Where the thick foliage droop d. And well he kept 
 His simple contract. Not for quarter-day 
 He coldly waited, nor a draft requir d 
 To stir his memory, nor my patience tir d 
 With changeful currencies, but every morn 
 Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep 
 With the wild ringing of his tuneful coin. 
 
 Often, at summer morn, a burst of song 
 Melodious trilling thro his dulcet pipes 
 Falling and caught again, and still prolong d, 
 Betray d in what green nook the warbler sat, 
 Each feather quivering from excess of joy, 
 While from his open beak and brightening eye 
 I seem d to read the assurance, " this was pour d 
 For jour especial benefit." The lay 
 With overpowering shrillness, more than once 
 Did summon me to lay my book aside 
 And wait its close ; nor was that pause a loss, 
 But seem d to tune and shape the inward ear 
 To wisdom s key-tone. 
 
THE THRUSH. 327 
 
 Then I had my share 
 
 In softer songs, that cheer d his brooding mate 
 Who in the patience of good hope, did keep 
 Her lengthen d vigil. And the voice of love 
 That flow d so fondly from his bursting soul, 
 Made glad mine own. 
 
 At length, there came a strain 
 From blended throats, that to their callow young, 
 Breath d tenderness untold ; and the weak chirp, 
 Of new-born choristers, so deftly train d 
 Each in the sweet way that he ought to go, 
 Mix d with that breath of household charities 
 Which makes the spirit strong. And so I felt 
 My debt was fully paid, and deem d myself 
 Most fortunate, in these our days to find 
 Such honest tenant. 
 
 But when autumn bade 
 
 The northern birds to spread their parting wing, 
 And that small house was vacant, and o er hedge, 
 And russet grove, and forest grey with years 
 The hush of silence settled, I grew sad 
 To miss my kind musician, and was fain 
 To patronize with a more fervent zeal 
 Such fire-side music, as makes winter short, 
 And storms unheard. 
 
 Yet leave within our hearts, 
 Sweet melodists, the spirit of your praise, 
 Until ye come again, and the brown nest 
 28 
 
328 THE THRUSH. 
 
 That now its downy lining to the winds 
 Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return 
 With the loud welcome home. 
 
 For he who touch d 
 
 Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower 
 With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons 
 In all the varied garniture that decks 
 Life s banquet-board; and he s the wisest guest 
 Who taketh gladly what his God doth send, 
 Keeping each instrument of joy, in tune, 
 That helps to fit him for the choir of Heaven. 
 
329 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 FROM A PICTUHE. 
 
 How doth yon picture s art relume 
 Of childhood s scenes the buried bloom ! 
 How from oblivion s whelming stream 
 Each floating flower and leaf redeem ! 
 From neighbouring spire, the iron chime, 
 That told the school s allotted time, 
 The lowly porch where woodbine crept, 
 The floor, with careful neatness swept, 
 The hour-glass in its guarded nook, 
 Which oft our tiny fingers shook, 
 By stealth, if flowed too slow away 
 The sands that held us from our play ; 
 The murmur d task, the frequent tear, 
 The timid laugh, prolonged and dear, 
 These all on heart, and ear, and eye, 
 Come thronging back, from years goi t e by. 
 
 And there thou art ! in peaceful ag e 
 With brow as thoughtful, wild, and sage, 
 As when upon thy pupil s heart 
 Thy lessons breathed yes, there ihou art ! 
 And in thy hand that sacred Boot , 
 Whereon it was our pride to look, 
 
330 THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 Whose truth around thy hoary head, 
 A never-fading halo shed, 
 Whose glorious hopes in holy trust 
 Still blossom o er thy mouldering dust. 
 Even thus it is, where er we range 
 Throughout this world of care and change, 
 Tho Fancy every prospect gild, 
 Or Fortune write each wish fulfill d, 
 Still, pausing mid our varied track, 
 To childhood s realm we turn us back, 
 And wider as the hand of time 
 Removes us from that sunny clime, 
 And nearer as our footsteps urge 
 To weary life s extremest verge, 
 With fonder smile, with brighter beam. 
 Its far-receding landscapes gleam, 
 And closer to the withered breast, 
 Its renovated charms are pres . 
 
 And thus the stream, as on it flows, 
 Neath summer suns, or wintry snows, 
 Through vale, or maze, or desert led, 
 Untiring tells its pebbly bed, 
 How passing sweet the buds ihaijlrst 
 Upon its infant marge were nurst, 
 How rich the violet s breath perfumed 
 That near its cradle fountain bloomed, 
 And deems no skies were e er so fair 
 As kindled o er its birth-place there. 
 
331 
 
 DEATH OF THE WIDOW S SON. 
 
 HE languished by the way-side, and fell down 
 Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers 
 Pluck d for his lady-love. He died ere they 
 Upon their rootless stalks had withered. 
 In his fair home there was a widow d form, 
 To whom the echo of his coming step 
 Had been as music. Now, alone she sits, 
 Tearful and pale ! The world, henceforth, to her 
 Is desolate and void. 
 
 Young Love may weep, 
 
 But sunbeams dry its tears, and the quick pulse 
 Of hope, in beauty s bosom doth o ercome 
 The syncope of grief. 
 
 But unto age 
 
 So utterly bereav d what now remains, 
 Save with bow d head and finger on its lip, 
 In silent meekness, and in sanctity, 
 The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view, 
 To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars 
 Time s crumbling shore, from vast Eternity 
 
 28* 
 
332 
 
 PARTING OF A MOTHER WITH HER CHILD. 
 
 HE knew her not, that fair, young boy, 
 
 Though cradled on her breast, 
 He learn d his earliest infant joy, 
 
 And took his nightly rest, 
 For stern disease had blanch d the brow 
 
 Once to his gaze so dear, 
 And to a whisper chang d the voice 
 
 That best he loved to hear. 
 
 So, stranger-like, he wondering gazed, 
 
 While wild emotions swell, 
 As with a deathlike, cold embrace, 
 
 She breathed her last farewell, 
 And to the Almighty s hand gave back 
 
 The idol of her trust, 
 And with a glorious hope went down 
 
 To slumber in the dust. 
 
 Go, blooming babe, and early seek 
 
 The path she trod below, 
 And, still with Christian meekness, strive 
 
 To pluck the sting from woe 
 
PARTING OF A MOTJiER WITH HER CHILD. 333 
 
 That so, to that all-glorious clime, 
 
 Unmarked by pain or care, 
 Thou, in thy Saviour s strength mayest come 
 
 And know thy mother there. 
 
334 
 
 ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs, 
 With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
 Whence are ye ? 
 
 Did some white-wing d messenger 
 On mercy s mission, trust your timid germ 
 To the cold cradle of eternal snows, 
 And, breathing on the callous icicles, 
 Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ? 
 
 Tree nor shrub 
 
 Dare the drear atmosphere, no polar-pine 
 Uplifts a veteran front, yet there ye stand, 
 Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb d ice, 
 And looking up with stedfast eye to Him, 
 Who bids ye bloom unblanch d amid the realm 
 Of desolation. 
 
 Man who, panting, toils 
 O er slippery steeps, or treads the dizzy verge. 
 Of yawning gulfs, dow r n which the headlong plunge 
 Is to eternity, looks shuddering up 
 And marks ye in your placid loveliness, 
 
ALPINE FLOWERS. 33-5 
 
 Fearless, yet frail ; and clasping his chill hands, 
 Blesses your penciPd beauty. Mid the pomp 
 Of mountain-summits rushing toward the sky, 
 And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe, 
 He bows to bind ye, drooping, to his breast, 
 Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing d gale, 
 And freer dreams of heaven. 
 
336 
 
 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE 
 BODY. 
 
 COMPANION dear ! the hour draws nigh 
 
 The sentence speeds to die, to die. 
 
 So long in mystic union held, 
 
 So close with strong embrace compelled, 
 
 How canst thou bear the dread decree, 
 
 That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? 
 
 To Him who on this mortal shore, 
 
 The same encircling vestment wore, 
 
 To Him I look, to Him I bend, 
 
 To Him thy shuddering frame commend. 
 
 If I have ever caus d thec pain, 
 
 The throbbing breast, the burning brain, 
 
 With cares and vigils turn d thee pale, 
 
 And scorn d thee when thy strength did fail 
 
 Forgive ! Forgive ! thy task doth cease, 
 
 Friend ! Lover ! let us part in peace. 
 
 If thou didst sometimes check my force, 
 
 Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 
 
FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 337 
 
 Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, 
 Or bow my drooping wing to dust 
 I blame thee not, the strife is done, 
 I knew thou wert the weaker one, 
 The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
 Constrained to hold the breath of God. 
 Well hast thou in my service wrought, 
 Thy brow hath mirror d forth my thought, 
 To wear my smile thy lip hath glow d, 
 Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed, 
 Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies 
 Of sweetly varied melodies, 
 Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, 
 Thy feet upon mine errands run 
 Yes, thou hast mark d my bidding well, 
 Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell. 
 
 Go to thy rest, A quiet bed 
 
 Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread, 
 
 Where I no more thy sleep may break 
 
 With fever d dream, nor rudely wake 
 
 Thy wearied eye. 
 
 Oh, quit thy hold, 
 
 For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, 
 And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
 Have bound me pitying in thy chain, 
 Though angels urge me hence to soar, 
 Where I shall share thine ills no more. 
 Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain 
 
FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 
 
 Remember we shall meet again. 
 
 Quell with this hope the victor s sting, 
 
 And keep it as a signet-ring, 
 
 When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, 
 
 And nought but ashes mark thy rest, 
 
 When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, 
 
 And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, 
 
 Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, 
 
 Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
 
 Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, 
 
 Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, 
 
 And, I with hovering wing elate, 
 
 The bursting of thy bonds shall wait, 
 
 And breathe the welcome of the sky . 
 
 " No more to part, no more to die, 
 
 Co-heir of Immortality." 
 
 

Sigourney 
 
 
 Select 
 
 poems 
 
 3 
 
 - 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CAIylFORNIA LIBRARY 
 

 BUB