University of California Berkeley 
 

SPECIMENS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AMERICAN POETS; 
 
 WITH CRITICAL NOTICES, 
 
 AND 
 
 A PREFACE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR T. AND J. ALLMAN, 
 
 PRINCES STREET, HANOVER SQUARE. 
 1822. 
 
J. M'Crsery, looks Court, 
 Chancery Lane, London. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 AIRS OF PALESTINE, by J. Pierpont 25 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN, by J. K. Paulding 74 
 
 FANNY, Anonymous 110 
 
 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 Lines 159 
 
 Melancholy 161 
 
 A Western War Song 163 
 
 The Heroes of the West 165 
 
 Turn not to the East 168 
 
 To **** 169 
 
 To * * * in apology for neglecting an Invitation . . 170 
 
 Ostracismo di Scipione 171 
 
 Translation 172 
 
 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Ariadne to Theseus 174 
 
 Tea 180 
 
 Pleasure and Love 181 
 
 The Humming Bird ib. 
 
 Heart's-Ease 182 
 
 Song on the Death of a Young Lady 183 
 
 Love and Beauty 184 
 
 The Wild Flower 185 
 
 To a Lady after her Marriage 186 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The Ages 191 
 
 To a Water-Fowl 206 
 
 Translation of a Fragment of Siraonides 207 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood .... 208 
 
 The Yellow Violet 210 
 
 Song 212 
 
 Green River ib. 
 
 Thanatopsis 215 
 
 YAMOYDEN, by J. W. Eastburn and his Friend. 
 
 Proem 221 
 
 Canto II 226 
 
 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 Scenes of my Youth 251 
 
 Saturday Niglit 253 
 
 Home 251 
 
 Lines to a Stone from Loch Katrine 255 
 
 Lines to the Western Mummy 257 
 
 Sonnet 259 
 
 Versification of a Remark in Pliny 260 
 
 Time and Pleasure 263 
 
 Hope and Memory 265 
 
 Autumn 269 
 
 The Paint King 272 
 
 The Wreath of Love . 280 
 
 Lines upon seeing an Infant asleep in its Mother's arms 281 
 
 To the #)olian Harp 282 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE literary history of America furnishes an am* 
 pie field for curious inquiry. Even in its present 
 state of infancy, it is full of interest ; while its 
 future progress affords a subject for the widest 
 speculation. America is an anomaly in the history 
 of letters. There is no other instance of a nation 
 starting at once into independence and dominion. 
 She commenced her career, not like the Empires 
 of the ancient world, in obscurity and ignorance, 
 but possessing all the arts of life, and all the intel- 
 ligence and knowledge of an old nation. She was 
 a portion of England, detached indeed from our 
 island, and severed from it by the Ocean, but she 
 carried with her our literature, our sciences, and 
 our arts, and, more than all, that spirit of freedom, 
 which ultimately secured her independence. The 
 basis of all she possesses is English, and indeed, it 
 may be asserted, that every thing that is excellent, 
 and every thing that is evil in her government, her 
 
11 PREFACE. 
 
 laws, her literature, and her manners, may be 
 attributed mainly to the operation of English prin 
 ciples and feelings. 
 
 To those who are intimately acquainted with 
 the two nations, numerous proofs of this truth will 
 occur. In the establishment of the American go 
 vernment, the working of that strong democratic 
 spirit, which is supposed to influence one branch 
 of our own constitution, is clearly visible; and 
 amongst the descendants of the original settlers, 
 we may observe the same shades of political cha 
 racter, which distinguished a large body of our fel 
 low-countrymen during the seventeenth century. 
 But while the Americans, in the formation of their 
 new Empire, thus appropriated many of the insti 
 tutions of their mother country, they in some 
 cases received them, perhaps necessarily, subject 
 to all their weaknesses, and all their vices. A more 
 remarkable instance of this cannot be mentioned, 
 than the practice of slavery, which is still retained 
 amongst them a strange contradiction to their 
 principles and professions. It cannot be denied, 
 that this reproach descended upon them from our 
 selves ; but as we have at length obliterated the 
 ignominious stains, we are at liberty to express our 
 regret and astonishment, that a nation which lays 
 
PREFACE. Ill 
 
 almost an exclusive claim to be called free, should 
 endure to behold thousands of human beings pin 
 ing in servitude, even in its very bosom. But 
 America is not stationary in improvement ; she has 
 already done much to abolish this evil, and in pro 
 cess of time, there seems little doubt that it will be 
 entirely removed. In the administration of the 
 law more particukrly, the resemblance between the 
 two countries, even after a disjunction of half a 
 century, is remarkable. It might have been ex 
 pected, that on the establishment of a separate do 
 minion, the Americans would have endeavoured to 
 free themselves from the intricate meshes of our 
 English law, and to have substituted a system of 
 intelligible and simple jurisprudence.* The evil 
 consequences of their mistake, in neglecting this 
 opportunity, are, however, at length apparent ; for 
 bulky and voluminous as are the records of our 
 own law, the legal authorities of America far ex 
 ceed them. Up to the period of the Revolution, 
 the decisions of the English courts are considered 
 as binding authorities, and from that time they are 
 allowed to be quoted as illustrations, though not as 
 authorities. Our legal text-writers also are re-pub- 
 
 * The American Criminal Code forms an exception to these 
 observations. 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 lished with regularity on the other side of the 
 Atlantic. In addition to these foreign authorities, 
 the body of their domestic law is immense. The 
 statutes and the reports of cases decided by the 
 tribunals of the separate states, form a collection 
 of no ordinary magnitude, while the general sta 
 tutes of the United States extend over the whole 
 Union. It is evident, however, that this evil can 
 not be of very long continuance, and that its very 
 extent will be the means of its extinction. 
 
 But the closest resemblance between the two 
 countries, may be traced in their literature ; and 
 this feature of similarity will, in all probability, con 
 tinue to be the most durable. The government 
 of a state may be subverted in a day, but it requires 
 a long course of years to effect any change in the 
 intellectual condition of a people. Literature is 
 the most stable of all things ; in its strength alone 
 the triumphs of kings and conquerors have sur 
 vived. Crowns are shattered, and palaces are 
 wasted into dust, and the record of them is only 
 found in the lines of the Historian. The intellect 
 of Tacitus has survived the golden House of Nero. 
 This is the victory of mind over matter, which 
 gives to the imperishable part of man an immorta 
 lity even upon earth. The true glory of a nation, 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 therefore, must ever consist in the progress its in 
 habitants have made in intellectual pursuits. But 
 America has hitherto scarcely had an opportunity 
 of developing her faculties as an independent na 
 tion. She has not yet, nor could she have, ac 
 quired a literature of her own. Still, even at the 
 commencement of her separation from the mother- 
 country, the foundation of a national literature was 
 no doubt laid; but whether the superstructure shall 
 surpass, or equal our own venerable fabric, will 
 long remain a matter of doubt. All that we can at 
 present do, is to conjecture what changes the poli 
 tical state, and the national character of America, 
 as far as it has been developed, are likely to pro 
 duce. 
 
 It is not intended in this place to enter into the 
 much-debated question, to what causes the literary 
 characters of nations are to be attributed ; it will 
 be sufficient to notice some of the most powerful 
 circumstances which affect the intellectual condi 
 tion of the United States. A liberal form of go 
 vernment has been asserted by many philosophical 
 writers on this subject, to be necessary to the pro 
 gress of letters. This opinion, however, must be 
 taken with some qualification, for otherwise, as a 
 celebrated Italian author has remarked, we assert 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 a sophism which is confuted by public experience. 
 If it be true that the most illustrious periods of in 
 tellectual excellence, have been equally distinguish 
 ed by the political servitude of the people, how can 
 this fact be reconciled with the opinion that there 
 is an inseparable connexion between freedom and 
 literature ? Perhaps the truth may be found to be,, 
 that a free form of government is necessary to the 
 creation and progress of intellectual pursuits, but 
 that when once firmly established in the affections 
 of a people, they are capable of being forced to 
 perfection by the cherishing influence which the 
 accidental patronage and encouragement of a 
 powerful sovereign can so well bestow. The mind 
 of Rome was formed and moulded in the time of 
 the Republic, but it expanded into its full beauty, 
 as the ancient spirit of freedom expired. Upon a 
 slight examination, this will be found to be the na 
 tural consequence of the change. Under a popu 
 lar or a liberal form of government, the minds of 
 the citizens find a healthful employment in political 
 discussions, and a never-failing source of interest 
 in contending for their individual share of power. 
 By these means the intellect is rendered acute and 
 powerful. On the establishment, however, of a 
 despotic sovereignty, all the energy and force of 
 
PREFACE. Vl 
 
 mind which a state of freedom had engendered 
 and nourished, must be either suffered to lie dor 
 mant, or must be exerted upon different objects. 
 The lighter pursuits of literature will then natu 
 rally engage the attention of men ; the mind will 
 seek that stimulus in elegant amusements, which it 
 formerly found in graver avocations, and the ruling 
 power of the state will gladly encourage such oc 
 cupations as tend to divert into a harmless and 
 useful channel, that force of intellect, from which* 
 if properly exerted, tyrannical governments have 
 so much to dread. 
 
 So far, therefore, as the form of government 
 exerts an influence over the intellectual condition 
 of a people, the inhabitants of the United States 
 have every thing in their favour. Literature 
 amongst them is yet in its infancy, at least a na 
 tional literature ; and it would be impossible that it 
 should ever increase and strengthen in the absence 
 of that high and liberal habit of thought which 
 freedom alone can inspire. Were America at pre 
 sent in a state of servitude and debasement, from 
 either foreign or domestic oppression, it would be 
 vain to expect from her the creation of a national 
 literature, which is the product only of free and 
 enlightened minds. What may be the effec of 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 a change in the government of America at some 
 future period, when a love of letters has become 
 firmly seated in the minds of the people, it is im 
 possible to say; but, arguing from the analogy 
 of other nations, it is probable the consequence 
 would be, what Greece and Rome exhibited, a 
 transitory and fictitious splendour, serving only to 
 display more palpably, the darkness and desola 
 tion which ever follow the pageant of tyranny. 
 But let us hope that such a period as this is far 
 distant, and that America may be enabled to afford 
 an instance of a free country, extending its protec 
 tion to letters, with all the munificence of the most 
 politic despot. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no nation which, by the con 
 stitution of its government, furnishes so many oc 
 casions for the developement of mental power, as 
 America. The legislative assemblies of the seve 
 ral States present a constant theatre for the dis 
 play of genius and superior ability, while the ab 
 sence of all titular distinctions amongst the citizens, 
 seems to make mental pre-eminence one of the 
 great objects of ambition. Moreover, the complete 
 licence of the press, and consequently the great 
 facility of appearing before the public, must cer 
 tainly be considered as favourable to the growth of 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 a rising literature. These remarks, of course, 
 only apply to the individual case of a country situ 
 ated as America now is ; it is not intended to refer 
 them to nations which have already formed a lite 
 rature of their own, and which have become at 
 tached, wisely perhaps, to their ancient institutions, 
 as best suited to their peculiar situation. 
 
 The next inquiry, and perhaps the most impor 
 tant of all, is into the spirit of the national occu 
 pations of the Americans, upon which, very prin 
 cipally, their habits of mind must depend. The 
 intellect of man is governed by the circumstances 
 in which he is placed. It is capable of the highest 
 degree of cultivation, or of the lowest debasement 
 of ignorance. To its improvement, the exercise 
 of its powers is absolutely necessary. There are 
 some employments which scarcely afford any occu 
 pation for the mind j some again which only call 
 forth the meanest qualities of the intellect ; while 
 others are absolutely injurious to the progress of 
 mental cultivation, and have even a contractile and 
 degrading influence on the understanding. The 
 labours of the mechanic and the artisan produce 
 only a negative effect on the mind; they simply 
 retard the acquisition of knowledge, but they sub 
 stitute no interest inimical to it in the mind. The 
 B 3 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 object of a daily labourer is subsistence, not riches. 
 But from his earliest initiation into the mysteries of 
 commerce, the young merchant is taught to con* 
 sider riches as the boundary of his hopes. He is 
 educated in this faith, and habit establishes it as a 
 permanent conviction. " Custom," says Lord Ba 
 con, " is the principal magistrate of man's life ;" 
 and the merchant has been always accustomed to 
 see that deference and respect paid to the posses 
 sors of wealth, which amongst persons of more 
 cultivated understanding, are the reward only of 
 superior learning and excellence. 
 
 It is not intended in this place to support so 
 wide a proposition, as that the pursuits of com 
 merce are necessarily destructive to the culti 
 vation of the intellectual powers : all that is 
 meant to be maintained is, that such is their ten 
 dency. Of course the effects they produce on in 
 dividual character must vary according to the 
 counteracting or accelerating influence of custom 
 and education. Most undoubtedly numerous in 
 stances might be pointed out of men of the highest 
 ability and the strictest integrity, who have passed 
 their lives in mercantile employments, and have yet 
 rendered no slight assistance to the cause of litera 
 ture and science. It is however observable, that 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 few of our men of genius have proceeded from the 
 counting-house or the mart, while almost every 
 other branch of life, even the meanest, has present 
 ed some ornament to our literary world. We have 
 had poets from the loom and the plough, but none 
 from the counter. 
 
 To America these few observations are more 
 particularly applicable. She is strictly and essen 
 tially a mercantile country. Her interests, both 
 public and private, require that she should be so. 
 Her situation compels her to it. Nor is this to be 
 regretted. But while this fact is admitted, it must 
 be remembered, that so far as these pursuits pre 
 dominate, the interests of literature must necessa 
 rily suffer. In process of time, however, the same 
 causes which have destroyed the stability and al 
 tered the characters of the greatest empires, will 
 display their power over her. The thirst of con 
 quest, perhaps, may ultimately induce strange re 
 volutions in her state, and even her riches, the ne 
 cessary result of her present situation, may alone 
 be sufficient to effect an alteration, in which the 
 interests of letters will be materially concerned. 
 What was accomplished in Rome by arms, may be 
 effected in America by commerce. In the infancy 
 of neither country did the arts flourish freely and 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 vigorously ; but luxury and refinement, by what 
 ever means produced, whether by the subjugation 
 of neighbouring nations, or by the more peaceful 
 occupations of commerce, will naturally bring in 
 their train an attachment to all the more elegant 
 and intellectual pursuits of life. 
 
 In addition to the direct influence which the 
 mercantile character of the Americans thus exerts 
 over their literature, it affects it also collaterally 
 in a very powerful manner. The busy avocations 
 of a mercantile life leave but little time on the 
 hands of the citizens. The great patrons of lite 
 rature in a country are those, who in the dearth of 
 more active engagements, naturally seek for the 
 interest and occupation which letters and science 
 supply. In England, this class of people is very 
 large, consisting both of those whom their birth 
 and dignity prohibit from intermingling in the or 
 dinary avocations of life, and of those whose riches 
 entitle them to a similar exemption. In America, 
 on the contrary, where there is an increasing call 
 for labour and exertion of every^kind, this class is 
 necessarily small. The encouragement of litera 
 ture is not, it is true, in the present age, confined 
 to any one portion of society, but the most effec 
 tual patronage will of course proceed from those 
 
PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 who have both leisure and means to bestow it. 
 Nor are the Americans, as a people, inattentive to 
 the progress of letters. Reading is a favourite 
 amusement with them. In consequence, however, 
 of their devotion to commerce, their studies are 
 necessarily of the lightest nature, of which their 
 attachment to periodical literature, and the re 
 printing of our English Reviews and Magazines, 
 is a strong proof. 
 
 Another powerful cause which operates to retard 
 the progress of America in these pursuits, is the fa 
 cility with which her citizens are supplied with the 
 productions of the English press. The public appe 
 tite only demands a certain portion of viands ; and 
 when all that is excellent and delicate is imported 
 from a foreign country, the home-made commodity, 
 especially if of an inferior quality, will with diffi 
 culty find a market. In some degree, however, 
 this must have a favourable effect ; for though it 
 may tend for a time to depress the exertions of 
 native merit, it must, if our literature be really va 
 luable, improve the taste and correct the judgment 
 of the Americans. The extent of this influence 
 can only be known by comparing the number of 
 English works republished in America, with that 
 of their own authors. The most careless exami- 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 nation of the advertisements which appear on the 
 cover of an American volume, will in a moment 
 convince any one of the very great disproportion 
 between the number of the British and the Ame 
 rican authors. Nor is there any thing degrading 
 to the character of America in thus taking advan 
 tage of the knowledge and intelligence of another 
 country. If her merchants consider it an honor 
 able employment to introduce into their country 
 the productions of our manufactures, it is surely at 
 least as worthy of praise to traffic with us for our 
 intellectual commodities. 
 
 The observations which have been made with 
 regard to the state of literature generally in Ame 
 rica, will apply with still greater force to the pro 
 gress of poetical studies. There is no intellectual 
 occupation which requires such high, peculiar, and 
 exclusive qualifications as the labours of the poet; 
 and amongst such qualifications all those which 
 form the basis of what may be called the literary 
 character must necessarily be reckoned. To these, 
 indeed, the heart and the feelings of a poet must 
 be added; but without literary refinement, the 
 finest imaginations and the richest veins of feeling 
 will be comparatively worthless. The greatest of 
 our poets have invariably been men of the highest 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 cultivation of mind, or have supplied by an extra 
 ordinary acuteness of observation the deficiencies 
 of their more limited acquirements. Every thing, 
 therefore, which tends to check the progress of 
 general literature, must also operate prejudicially 
 upon the poetical character of the Americans ; and 
 some of those causes, which we have already men 
 tioned as influencing their intellectual improvement, 
 will act much more powerfully upon the loftier and 
 nobler pursuits of poetry. In science, and in the 
 graver paths of literature, it may be easily conceiv 
 ed that the Americans may be very little swayed 
 by English influence ; but in matters of taste, where 
 the general tone of feeling has long been borrowed 
 from another country, it is difficult to imagine how 
 the public mind can be imbued with new shades of 
 sentiment. When once we have erected a stand 
 ard of taste or of fashion, and have constituted 
 some one our arbiter elegantiarum, it is inconceiv 
 able with what subserviency we obey the decrees 
 that are issued. France has for centuries given 
 fashions to Europe, which have still been followed 
 in spite of their mutability. We have never at 
 tempted to rival the shape of a Parisian bonnet ; 
 but in those pursuits in which we have not pro 
 posed our neighbours as models to ourselves, in 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 discoveries, in arts, and in literature, we may be al 
 lowed to say, without any great degree of national 
 vanity, that we have very frequently surpassed 
 them. America and England stand very nearly in 
 the same situation with respect to poetical taste. 
 The standard of excellence is measured by English 
 estimation, and this will continue as long as the 
 popular sentiment remains unaltered. How a 
 change can be accomplished, it is not easy to 
 foresee ; but as long as our own poets excel their 
 transatlantic brethren, they will necessarily be, in 
 America itself, the models of taste. 
 
 Other causes have also been assigned, to account 
 for the dearth of poetical genius in that country ; 
 and it has been said, that the absence of all those 
 local associations with which the countries of the 
 old world abound, must deprive the Americans of 
 many high sources of poetical feelings. Perhaps 
 more influence is attributed to this circumstance 
 than it can justly claim. We do not find that those 
 countries which are richest in ancient and glorious 
 associations, present any proof of the truth of this 
 doctrine ; and indeed the great natural advantages 
 which America possesses in the beauty of her 
 scenery, where nature is seen on her most magni 
 ficent scale, may be thought sufficient to counter- 
 
PREFACE. XVii 
 
 balance the advantages which the old nations de 
 rive from being the birth-place of illustrious men, 
 and the theatre of noble actions. 
 
 But, dismissing these speculations, it will be 
 well to inquire, what are the ideas of the Ameri 
 cans themselves on the state of their literature, and 
 more especially of their poetry. Amongst so ac 
 tive-minded and ambitious a people, a love of lite 
 rary superiority is sure to obtain a place. In throw 
 ing off their dependence on the old world, they 
 naturally wish to free themselves from all obliga 
 tions, and they seem to acknowledge with some 
 degree of unwillingness the literary dominion which 
 the mother country still exercises over them. But 
 while they are unable to deny the value of the in 
 tellectual benefits which they receive from us, they 
 endeavour to supersede the necessity of such sup 
 plies, by forcing their own literature to a preco 
 cious maturity. The motives of this attempt are 
 perhaps patriotic and honorable, but the step is 
 unwise. The mind of a nation can no more ac 
 quire knowledge and cultivation per saltum than 
 that of an individual; and it is in vain for the 
 Americans to expect they can arrive at any distin 
 guished stage of literary excellence, without hav 
 ing traversed the intermediate ground. How wil- 
 
XV111 PREFACE. 
 
 ling the American writers are to discountenance 
 the reliance of their countrymen on English taste, 
 and to persuade themselves that it is an act of duty 
 to set up a national standard of their own, may be 
 perceived in many of their works. Thus Mr. 
 Paulding, in the advertisement to his Poem of the 
 Backwoodsman, tells us that the object of his 
 poem was to indicate to the youthful writers of his 
 own country the rich poetic resources in which it 
 abounds, as well as to call their attention home, for 
 the means of attaining to novelty of subject, if not 
 to originality in style and sentiment an idea which 
 he has afterwards embodied in verse. 
 
 Yes ! the bright day is dawning, when the West 
 No more shall crouch before old Europe's crest, 
 When men who claim thy birth-right, Liberty ! 
 Shall burst their leading-strings, and dare be free ; 
 Nor while they boast thy blessings, trembling stand, 
 Like dastard slaves before her, cap in hand ; 
 Cherish her old absurdities, as new. 
 And all her cast-off follies here renew ; 
 
 ****** 
 When mind at last shall break its rusty chain. 
 And here our chosen monarch freely reign. 
 
 It is very probable that, in that constant change 
 of the empire both of power and intellect, which 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 must ever be taking place amongst the nations of 
 the earth, the continent of America may one time 
 become the chosen seat of both; but it must be re 
 membered, that the same fortune which has trans 
 ferred them to its shore, may lead them once again 
 to the plains of Africa. This Columbian millenium 
 will arrive no sooner for the strenuous attempts of 
 the American literati to cast off the influence of 
 British taste and example, unless the falseness of 
 the taste and the evil of the example be first satis 
 factorily proved. The anomalous situation of Ame 
 rica has placed her in a dilemma. She must either 
 read, admire, and imitate our English writers, and 
 thus probably remain for ages without a distinc 
 tive and national literature of her own, or she must 
 abandon and abjure those foreign models, and thus 
 run no inconsiderable risk of acquiring a rude and 
 degenerate taste. The latter alternative is in gene 
 ral, however much they depart from it in practice, 
 the theory of the Americans, especially of their 
 poets. Thus Mr. Maxwell tells us, in his familiar 
 and not very flowing lines. 
 
 And here, my friend, a question 1 would ask 
 (I think to answer it would be a task,) 
 Why do our bards abandon themes like these 
 And go three thousand miles across the seas, 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 To look for better with abortive pains, 
 
 And ape the English in their borrowed strains ? 
 
 Yet though I scorn the imitating elf, 
 
 I own I had the folly once myself 
 
 Indeed it is scarcely possible to turn over the 
 pages of any American poem without meeting with 
 complaints of the want of encouragement with 
 which native talent has to contend. The author 
 of the Bridal of Vaumond seems to have been in 
 clined to throw down his lyre in disgust. 
 
 Ah ! why attempt the bootless reed ! 
 Why seek the rhymer's sacred meed 
 In days when chivalry has fled, 
 Her soul, her fire, her bards are dead ! 
 In climes remote from classic seas, 
 Where vainly on the hollow breeze 
 
 Echoes the fainter lay ; 
 Where men are dull to poet's dream, 
 Or list perverse to every theme, 
 
 Save that their sons essay. 
 
 But though it may perhaps be admitted, that 
 America will long continue without distinguishing 
 herself as a country eminently poetical, yet it by 
 no means follows that she is unlikely to make a 
 progress in such pursuits. She possesses, and she 
 
PREFACE. XXI 
 
 will doubtless continue to possess men of genius, 
 whose productions will be alike honorable to them 
 selves and to their country. If the writings of her 
 poets do not bear the stamp of first-rate power and 
 originality, yet they are many of them not only 
 highly pleasing, from the ability which they dis 
 play, but most curious, from their peculiar tone of 
 feeling and variety of local description. To an 
 Englishman more especially they cannot fail to be 
 interesting, as marking the literary progress of a 
 nation, which in spite of all jarring interests and 
 unhappy jealousies is still bound to us by the near 
 ties of a common ancestry, a common language, and 
 in general of common feelings. We ought to re 
 gard the advances of the Americans in all honor 
 able pursuits as an eldest son would watch the for 
 tunes of a younger brother, whose interests will 
 always be dear to him, in spite of any dissensions 
 which may have separated them from one another. 
 To cherish and promote the existence of feelings 
 like these, is peculiarly the duty of the writers of 
 both nations. Surely nothing is so strangely fo 
 reign to the true character of literature, which is 
 one of the arts and ornaments of peace, as to fos 
 ter the spirit of animosity and national antipathy, 
 which rival nations are so apt to feel ; and yet we 
 
XXII PREFACE. 
 
 have seen amongst the authors of both countries 
 men who have gladly stepped forward into this 
 disgraceful arena, and made use of the weapons of 
 literature, with which vice and folly alone should 
 Tbe attacked, for the purpose of exciting all the 
 worst passions in the minds of their adversaries. 
 Fair and candid criticism, however repugnant its 
 judgments may be to the pride or opinions of others, 
 should be, and generally is, received in the spirit 
 in which it is given ; but remarks, which are dic 
 tated by malignity, or the insolence of confident 
 superiority, must necessarily provoke vindictive 
 feelings. It would be well in such cases if the in 
 jured party had a sufficient sense of his own dignity 
 to forbear a reply, especially when that reply con 
 sists in gross and indecent recrimination. It is to 
 be hoped, however, that both the English and 
 American authors will discover how little is to be 
 gained by contentions like these. 
 
 It only remains to say a few words on the ob 
 jects and nature of the present volume. The in 
 creasing curiosity which the English public have 
 lately displayed regarding the productions of Ame 
 rican literature, has induced a belief that a selec 
 tion from the works of the most respectable Poets 
 of that country would not be unacceptable on this 
 
PREFACE. XX111 
 
 side of the Atlantic. Although many of the prose 
 writings of the Americans are well known in this 
 country, we seem to have been deterred from the 
 perusal of their poetical compositions, perhaps by 
 the severe castigation which an unfortunate Colum 
 bian Bard received from one of our most celebrated 
 Journals. It is for the purpose of giving an op 
 portunity of judging whether it be fair to allow 
 this sweeping censure to involve all the poets of 
 America, that the present selections are offered to 
 the public. They have been collected from such 
 sources as were accessible to the editor, and they 
 will probably be found to contain all the most in 
 teresting specimens of American genius which 
 have yet been published. Of their merits various 
 opinions will be formed : it would be ridiculous to 
 arrogate for them more than is due ; but it may be 
 safely affirmed, without fear of contradiction, that 
 of the pieces here presented to the English reader, 
 all are interesting and pleasing, and many of them 
 highly poetical. 
 
 In a selection like the present, several volumes 
 have been examined, portions of which, though 
 individually possessing very considerable claims to 
 attention, have necessarily been omitted. 
 
THE 
 
 AIRS OF PALESTINE; 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT, ESQ. 
 
 1 HE " Airs of Palestine" is not entirely unknown 
 to the English reader. It has been noticed with 
 various comments in the pages of our periodical 
 criticism, and has attracted some attention in other 
 quarters. It seems also, from the circumstance of 
 its having passed through three editions, to have 
 excited a considerable interest in America. It was 
 written, we are told, in the cause of charity, and it 
 was intended that the recitation of it should form 
 a part of the performances of an Evening Concert 
 of Sacred Music, for the benefit of the poor. 
 Upon its style and merits many observations need 
 not be made. Mr. Pierpont is evidently a faithful 
 scholar of the school of Pope, and there is cer 
 tainly very considerable harmony in his versifica 
 tion. One innovation, however, he has indulged 
 in the pretty frequent use of double rhymes, 
 
26 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 which, when skilfully introduced, undoubtedly re 
 lieve the tediousness of the heroic verse ; but, in 
 some instances, the author of the " Airs of Pales 
 tine" has employed them, where they are un 
 fortunately little adapted to the solemnity of the 
 subject. Upon the whole, Mr. Pierpont is perhaps 
 one of the most correct of all the American poets, 
 and if he does not attempt so much as his com 
 peers, he generally displays more taste and judg 
 ment. The whole of the " Airs of Palestine" is 
 given. The title of the work is as follows : " Airs 
 of Palestine, a Poem, by John Pierpont, Esq., 
 Third Edition, revised, I2mo. Boston, 1817." 
 
 AT the dun cloud that, slowly rising, holds 
 
 The Summer tempest in its gloomy folds, 
 
 Though o'er the ridges of its thundering breast, 
 
 The King of Terrors rides, and shakes his lightning crest, 
 
 Fearless we gaze, when those dark folds we find 
 
 Fring'd with the golden light that glows behind. 
 
 So, when one language bound the human race, 
 
 On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base, 
 
 Gloomily rose the minister of wrath ; 
 
 Dark was his frown, destructive was his path ; 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 27 
 
 That tower was blasted by the touch of Heaven ; 
 That bond was burst that race asunder driven : 
 Yet, round the Avenger's brow, that frown'd above, 
 Play'd Mercy's beams the lambent light of Love. 
 All was not lost, though busy Discord flung 
 Repulsive accents from each jarring tongue; 
 All was not lost ; for Love one tie had twin'd, 
 And Mercy dropp'd it, to connect mankind : 
 One tie, whose airy filaments invest, 
 Like Beauty's zone, the calm or stormy breast; 
 Wake that to action, rule of this the strife, 
 And, through the mazy labyrinths of life, 
 Supply a faithful clue, to lead the lone 
 And weary wanderer to his Father's throne. 
 
 That tie is Music. How supreme her sway ! 
 How lovely is the Power that all obey ! 
 Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock; 
 Her voice is echo'd by the desert rock ; 
 For her, the asp withholds the sting of death, 
 And bares his fangs but to inhale her breath ; 
 The royal lion leaves his desert lair, 
 And, crouching, listens when she treads the air; 
 And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill, 
 Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still. 
 Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal 
 Along his heart That heart will never feel. 
 'Tis hers to chain the passions, soothe the soul, 
 To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl 
 c 2 
 
28 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 From Murder's hand ; to smooth the couch of Care, 
 Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there ; 
 Of Pain's hot brow to still the bounding throb, 
 Despair's long sigh, and Griefs convulsive sob. 
 How vast her empire ! Turn through earth, through air, 
 Your aching eye, you find her subjects there ; 
 Nor is the throne of heaven above her spell, 
 Nor yet beneath it is the host of hell. 
 
 To her, Religion owes her holiest flame : 
 Her eye looks heaven-ward, for from heaven she came. 
 And when Religion's mild and genial ray, 
 Around the frozen heart begins to play, 
 Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light ; 
 The fire is kindled, and the flame is bright ; 
 And that cold mass, by either power assail'd, 
 Is warm'd made liquid and to heaven exhal'd. 
 
 Here let us pause : the opening prospect view : 
 How fresh this mountain air ! how soft the blue, 
 That throws its mantle o'er the length 'ning scene ! 
 Those waving groves those vales of living green 
 Those yellow fields that lake's cerulean face, 
 That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace 
 Of roaring torrents, lull'd by her to rest ; 
 That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast: 
 How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky ! 
 How rich the light that gives it to the eye ! 
 
 Where lies our path ? though many a vista call, 
 We may admire, but cannot tread them all. 
 
ATRS OF PALESTINE. 29 
 
 Where lies our path ? a poet, and inquire 
 What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre? 
 See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow ; 
 See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; 
 There Ossa rises ; there Olympus towers ; 
 Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers, 
 Forever verdant ; and there Peneus glides 
 Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. 
 Your theme is Music : Yonder rolls the wave, 
 Where dolphins snatch'd Arion from his grave, 
 Enchanted by his lyre : Cithaeron's shade 
 Is yonder seen, where first Amphion play'd 
 Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth, 
 Charm'd stones around him, and gave cities birth. 
 And fast by Haemus, Thracian Hebrus creeps 
 O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps, 
 Whose gory head, borne by the stream along, 
 Was still melodious, and expired in song. 
 There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell ; 
 There be thy path for there the Muses dwell. 
 
 No, no a lonelier, lovelier path be mine ; 
 Greece, and her charms, I leave, for Palestine. 
 There, purer streams through happier valleys flow, 
 And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. 
 I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ; 
 I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; 
 I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews ; 
 I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse : 
 
30 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose, 
 
 A nd deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose, 
 
 Here arching vines their leafy banner spread, 
 Shake their green shields, and purple odours shed ; 
 At once repelling Syria's burning ray, 
 And breathing freshness on the sultry day. 
 Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing, 
 Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring ; 
 And here as musing on my theme divine, 
 I gather flowers to bloom along my line, 
 And hang my garland in festoons around, 
 Enwreath'd with clusters, and with tendrils bound ; 
 And fondly, warmly, humbly hope, the Power, 
 That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower, 
 Drew living water from this rocky shrine, 
 Purpled the clustering honours of the vine, 
 And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither, 
 To weave a garland, will not let it wither : 
 Wond'ring, 1 listen to the strain sublime, 
 That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, 
 Wafted in grand simplicity along, 
 The undying breath, the very soul of song. 
 Down that long vale of years are sweetly roll'd 
 The mingled voices of the bards of old ; 
 Melodious voices ! bards of brightest fire ! 
 Where each is warm, how melting is the quire ! 
 Yet, though so blended is the concert blest, 
 Some master tones are heard above the rest. 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 31 
 
 O'er the cleft sea the storm in fury rides : 
 Israel is safe, and Egypt tempts the tides : 
 Her host, descending, meets a wat'ry grave, 
 And o'er her monarch rolls the refluent wave. 
 The storm is hush'd : the billows foam no more, 
 But sink in smiles : there's Music on the shore. 
 On the wide waste of waters, dies that air 
 Unheard ; for all is death and coldness there. 
 But see ! the robe that brooding Silence throws 
 O'er Shur reclining in profound repose, 
 Is rent, and scattered, by the burst of praise, 
 That swells the song th' astonish'd Hebrews raise. 
 The desert wak'd at that proud anthem, flung 
 From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue : ' 
 The first to Liberty that e'er was sung. 
 
 But if, when joy and gratitude inspire, 
 Such high-ton'd triumph walks along the lyre, 
 What are its breathings, when pale Sorrow flings 
 Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings ? 
 
 At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns 
 His life and empire in prophetic lines. 2 
 Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends, 
 And conscious earth, as when the dew descends, 
 Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell, 
 Her herbs shoot greener, at that fond farewell. 
 Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows : 
 And as that harp, which God alone bestows, 
 Is swept in concert with that sinking breath, 
 Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death. 
 
32 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 It was the touch of death ! Sweet be thy slumbers, 
 
 Harp of the prophet ! but those holy numbers, 
 
 That death-denoting, monitory moan, 
 
 Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan. 
 
 From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw, 
 
 O'er Jordan's wave, where Canaan met his view. 
 
 His sunny mantle, and his hoary locks 
 
 Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks. 
 
 Where is that mantle ? Melted into air. 
 
 Where is the prophet? God can tell thee where. 
 
 So, on the brow of some romantic height, 
 A fleecy cloud hangs hov'ring in the light, 
 Fit couch for angels ; which while yet we view, 
 Tis lost to earth, and all around is blue. 
 
 Who is that Chief, already taught to urge 
 The battle stream, and roll its darkest surge, 
 Whose army marches thro' retiring seas, 
 Whose gory banner spreading on the breeze, 
 Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers, 9 
 And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers? 
 The moon can answer ; for she heard his tongue, 
 And cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung. 4 
 The sun can tell : O'er Gibeon's vale of blood, 
 Curving their beamy necks, his coursers stood, 
 Held by that hero's arm, to light his wrath, 
 And roll their glorious eyes upon his crimson path. 
 What mine, exploding, rends that smoking ground ? 
 What earthquake spreads those smouldering ruins round? 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 33 
 
 The sons of Levi, round that city, bear 
 The ark of God, their consecrated care, 
 And, in rude concert, each returning morn, 
 Blow the long trump, and wind the curling horn. 
 No blackening thunder smok'd along the wall : 
 No earthquake shook it : Music wrought its fall. 
 
 The reverend hermit, who from earth retires, 
 Freezes to love's, to melt in holier fires, 
 And builds on Libanus his humble shed, 5 
 Beneath the waving cedars of his head ; 
 Year after year, with brighter views revolving, 
 Doubt after doubt, in stronger hopes dissolving ; 
 Though neither pipe, nor voice, nor organ's swell, 
 Disturb the silence of his lonely cell ; 
 Yet hears enough, had nought been heard before, 
 To wake a holy awe, and teach him to adore. 
 For, ere the day with orisons he closes, 
 JEre on his flinty couch his head reposes, 
 A couch more downy in the hermit's sight, 
 Than beds of roses to the Sybarite ; 
 As lone he muses on those naked rocks, 
 Heaven's last light blushing on his silver locks, 
 Amid the deepening shades of that wild mountain, 
 He hears the burst of many a mossy fountain, 
 Whose crystal rills in pure embraces mingle, 
 And dash, and sparkle down the leafy dingle, 
 There lose their liquid notes : with grateful glow, 
 The hermit listens, as the waters flow, 
 c 3 
 
34 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 And says there's Music in that mountain stream, 
 The storm beneath him, and the eagle's scream. 
 
 There lives around that solitary man, 
 The tameless Music, that with time began ; 
 Airs of the Power, that bids the tempest roar, 
 The cedar bow, the royal eagle soar ; 
 The mighty Power, by whom those rocks were piFd, 
 Who moves unseen, and murmurs thro' tne wild. 
 What countless chords does that dread Being strike ! 
 Various their tone, but all divine alike : 
 There, Mercy whispers in a balmy breath, 
 Here, Anger thunders, and the note is death ; 
 There, 'tis a string that soothes with slow vibration, 
 And here, a burst that shakes the whole creation. 
 
 By Heaven forewarn'd, his hunted life to save, 
 Behold Elijah stands by Horeb's cave; 
 Griev'd that the God, for whom he'd warmly striven, 
 Should see his servants into exile driven, 
 His words neglected, by those servants spoken, 
 His prophets murdered, and his altars broken. 
 His bleeding heart a soothing strain requires : 
 He hears it : softer than jEolian lyres, 
 " A still, small voice/' like Zephyr's dying sighs, 
 Steals on his ear : he may not lift his eyes, 
 But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings, 
 And hears a whisper from the King of kings. 6 
 
 Yet, from that very cave, from Horeb's side, 
 Where spreads a desert prospect, wild and wide, 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 35 
 
 The prophet sees, with reverential dread, 
 Dark Sinai rear his thunder-blasted head ; 
 Where erst was pour'd on trembling Israel's ear, 
 A stormier peal, than Moses quak'd to hear. 
 In what tremendous pomp Jehovah shone, 
 When on that mount he fix'd his burning throne ! 7 
 Thick, round its base, a shuddering gloom was flung 
 Black, on its breast, a thundercloud was hung : 
 Bright, through that blackness, arrowy lightnings came, 
 Shot from the glowing vail, that wrapp'd its head in 
 
 flame. 
 
 And when that quaking mount the Eternal trod, 
 Scorch'd by the foot of the descending God, 
 Then, blasts of unseen trumpets, long and loud, 
 Swelled by the breath of whirlwinds, rent the cloud, 
 And Death and Terror stalk'd beneath that smoky 
 
 shroud. 
 
 Seest thou that shepherd boy, of features fair, 
 Of eye serene, and brightly flowing hair, 
 That leans, in thoughtful posture, on his crook, 
 And, statue-like, pores o'er the pebbly brook ? 
 Yes : and why stands he there, in stupor cold ? 
 Why not pursue those wanderers from his fold ? 
 Or, mid the playful children of his flocks, 
 Toss his light limbs, and shake his amber locks,. 
 Rather than idly gaze upon the stream ? 
 That boy is lost in a poetic dream : 
 And, while his eye follows the wave along,. 
 His soul expatiates in the realms of song. 
 
36 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 For oft, where yonder grassy hills recede, 
 I've heard that shepherd tune his rustic reed ; 
 And then such sweetness from his fingers stole, 
 I knew that Music had possessed his soul. 
 Oft, in her temple shall the votary bow, 
 Oft, at her altar, breathe his ardent vow ; 
 And oft suspend, along her coral walls, 
 The proudest trophies that adorn her halls. 
 Even now, the heralds of his monarch tear 
 The son of Jesse from his fleecy care, 8 
 And to the hall the ruddy minstrel bring, 
 Where sits a being, that was once a king. 
 Still, on his brow the crown of Israel gleams, 
 And cringing courtiers still adore its beams, 
 Though the bright circle throws no light divine, 
 But rays of hell, that melt it while they shine. 
 
 As the young harper tries each quivering wire, 
 It leaps and sparkles with prophetic fire, 
 And, with the kindling song, the kindling rays 
 Around his fingers tremulously blaze, 
 Till the whole hall, like those blest fields above, 
 Glows with the light of melody and love. 
 
 Soon as the foaming demon hears that psalm, 
 Heaven on his memory bursts, and Eden's balm : 
 He sees the dawnings of too bright a sky; 
 Detects the angel in the poet's eye ; 
 With grasp convulsive, rends his matted hair; 
 Through his strain'd eye-balls shoots a fiend-like glare ; 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 37 
 
 And flies, with shrieks of agony, that hall, 
 The throne of Israel, and the breast of Saul ; 
 Exil'd to roam, or, in infernal pains, 
 To seek a refuge from that shepherd's strains. 
 
 The night was moonless: Judah's shepherds kept 
 Their starlight watch : their flocks around them slept. 9 
 To heaven's blue fields their wakeful eyes were turn'd, 
 And to the fires that there eternal burn'd. 
 Those azure regions had been peopled long, 
 With Fancy's children, by the sons of song : 
 And there, the simple shepherd, conning o'er 
 His humble pittance of Chaldean lore, 
 Saw, in the stillness of a starry night, 
 The Swan and Eagle wing their silent flight ; 10 
 And, from their spangled pinions, as they flew, 
 On Israel's vales of verdure shower the dew : 
 Saw there, the brilliant gems, that nightly flare, 
 In the thin mist of Berenice's hair ; 
 And there, Bootes roll his lucid wain, 
 On sparkling wheels, along the ethereal plain ; 
 And there, the Pleiades, in tuneful gyre, 
 Pursue forever the star-studded Lyre ; 
 And there, with bickering lash, heaven's Charioteer 
 Urge round the Cynosure his bright career. 
 
 "While thus the shepherds watch'd the host of night, 
 O'er heaven's blue concave flash'd a sudden light 
 The unrolling glory spread its folds divine, 
 O'er the green hills and vales of Palestine ; 
 
38 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 And lo ! descending angels, hovering there, 
 Stretch'd their loose wings, and in the purple air, 
 Hung o'er the sleepless guardians of the fold: 
 When that high anthem, clear, and strong, and bold 
 On wavy paths of trembling ether ran : 
 " Glory to God ; Benevolence to man ; 
 Peace to the world :" and in full concert came, 
 From silver tubes, and harps of golden frame, 
 The loud and sweet response, whose choral strains 
 Lingered and languished on Judaea's plains. 
 Yon living lamps, charm'd from their chambers blue, 
 By airs so heavenly, from the skies withdrew : 
 ^VH ? all, but one, that hung and burn'd alone, 
 And with mild lustre over Bethlehem shone. 
 Chaldea's sages saw that orb afar, 
 Glow unextinguished ; 'twas Salvation's Star. 
 
 Hear'st thou that solemn symphony, that swells 
 And echoes through Philippi's gloomy cells? 
 From vault to vault the heavy notes rebound, 
 And granite rocks reverberate the sound. 
 The wretch, who long, in dungeons cold and dank, 
 Had shook his fetters, that their iron clank 
 Might break the grave-like silence of that prison, 
 On which the Star of Hope had never risen ; 
 Then sunk in slumbers, by despair opprest, 
 And dream'd of freedom in his broken rest ; 
 Wakes at the music of those mellow strains, 
 Thinks it some spirit, and forgets his chains. 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. '39 
 
 'Tis Paul and Silas; who, at midnight, pay 
 
 To Him of Nazareth a grateful lay. 
 
 Soon is that anthem wafted to the skies : 
 
 An angel bears it, and a God replies. 
 
 At that reply, a pale, portentous light 
 
 Plays through the air, then leaves a gloomier night. 
 
 The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch, 
 
 The rocking walls confess an earthquake's march, n 
 
 The stars look dimly thro' the roof : behold, 
 
 From saffron dews and melting clouds of gold, 
 
 Brightly uncurling on the dungeon's air, 
 
 Freedom walks forth serene : from her loose hair, 
 
 And every glistening feather of her wings, 
 
 Perfumes that breathe of more than earth she flings, 
 
 And with a touch dissolves the prisoner's chains, 
 
 Whose song had charm'd her from celestial plains. 
 
 Tis night again : for Music loves to steal 
 Abroad at night; when all her subjects kneel, 
 In more profound devotion, at her throne : 
 And, at that sober hour, she'll sit alone, 
 Upon a bank, by her sequestered cell, 
 And breathe her sorrows through her wreathed shell. 
 A gain 'tis night the diamond lights on high 
 Burn bright, and dance harmonious through the sky ; 
 And Silence leads her downy footed hours, 
 Round Sion's hill, and Salem's holy towers. 
 The Lord of Life, with his few faithful friends, 
 Drown'd in mute sorrow, down that hill descends. 
 
40 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes 
 Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes ; 12 
 And climb the steep, where oft the midnight air 
 Received the Sufferer's solitary prayer. 
 There, in dark bowers imbosomed, Jesus flings 
 His hand celestial o'er prophetic strings ; 
 Displays his purple robe, his bosom gory, 
 His crown of thorns, his cross, his future glory: 
 And, while the group, each hallowed accent gleaning, 
 On pilgrim's staff, in pensive posture leaning 
 Their reverend beards, that sweep their bosoms, wet 
 With the chill dews of shady Olivet- 
 Wonder and weep, they pour the song of sorrow, 1S 
 With their lov'd Lord, whose death shall shroud the 
 
 morrow. 
 Heavens ! what a strain was that ! those matchless 
 
 tones, 
 
 That ravish " Princedoms, Dominations, Thrones ;" 
 That, heard on high, had hush'd those peals of praise, 
 That seraphs swell, and harping angels raise, 
 Soft, as the wave from Siloa's fount that flows, 
 Through the drear silence of the mountain rose. 
 How sad the Saviour's song ! how sweet ! how holy 1 
 The last he sung on earth : how melancholy! 
 Along the valley sweep the expiring notes : 
 On Kedron's wave the melting music floats : 
 From her blue arch, the lamp of evening flings 
 Her mellow lustre, as the Saviour sings : 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 41 
 
 The moon above, the wave beneath is still, 
 And light and music mingle on the hill. 
 
 The glittering guard, whose viewless ranks invest 
 The brook's green margin, and the mountain's crest, 
 Catch that unearthly song, and soar away, 
 Leave this dark orb for fields of endless day, 
 And round th' Eternal's throne on buoyant pinions play. 
 
 Ye glowing seraphs, that enchanted swim, 
 In seas of rapture, as ye tune the hymn 
 Ye bore from earth O say, ye choral quires, 
 Why in such haste to wake your golden lyres ? 
 Why, like a flattering, like a fleeting dream, 
 Leave that lone mountain, and that silent stream? 
 Say, could not then the " Man of Sorrows" claim 
 Your shield of adamant, your sword of flame ? 
 Hell forc'd a smile, at your retiring wing, 
 And man was left to crucify your King. 
 
 But must no other sweets perfume my wreath, 
 Than Carmel's hill and Sharon's valley breathe ? 
 Are holy airs borne only through the skies, 
 Where Sinai thunders, and where Horeb sighs ? 
 And move they only o'er Arabia's sea, 
 Bethesda's pool, the lake of Galilee ? 
 And does the hand that bids Judaea bloom, 
 Deny its blossoms to the desert's gloom ? 
 No : turn thine eye, in visionary glance, 
 To scenes beyond old Ocean's blue expanse. 
 Where vast La Plata rolls his weight along, 
 Through worlds unknown to science and to song, 
 
4*2 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 And sweeping proudly o'er his boundless plain, 
 Repels the foaming billows of the main. 
 Let Fancy lap thee in Paraguay's bowers, 
 And scatter round thee Nature's wildest flowers : 
 For Nature there, since first her opening eye 
 Hail'd the bright orb her Father hung on high, 
 Still, on her bosom wears the enamelled vest, 
 That bloom'd and budded on her infant breast ; 
 Still, to the sportive breeze that round her blows, 
 Turns her warm cheek, her unshorn tresses throws ; 
 With grateful hand her treasur'd balm bequeaths, 
 For every sigh the enamour'd rover breathes, 
 And even smiles to feel the flutterer sip 
 The virgin dew that cools her rosy lip. 
 There, through the clouds, stupendous mountains rise, 
 And lift their icy foreheads to the skies ; 
 There, blooming valleys and secure retreats 
 Bathe all thy senses in voluptuous sweets : 
 Reclining there, beneath a bending tree, 
 Fraught with the fragrant labours of the bee, 
 Admire, with me, the birds of varied hue, 
 That hang, like flowers of orange and of blue, 
 Among the broad magnolia's cups of snow, 
 Quaffing the perfumes, from those cups that flow. 
 But, is all peace beneath the mountain shade ? 
 Do Love and Mercy haunt that sunny glade, 
 And sweetly rest upon that lovely shore, 
 When light retires, and nature smiles no more ? 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 43 
 
 No : there, at midnight, the hoarse tiger growls : 
 There, the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls : 
 And there, in painted pomp, the yelling Indian prowls. 
 
 Round the bold front of yon projecting cliff, 
 Shoots, on white wings, the missionary's skiff, 
 And, walking steadily along the tide, 
 Seems, like a phantom, o'er the wave to glide, 
 Her light cymar unfolded to the breeze, 
 That breaks not, tho* it moves, the mirror of the seas. 
 
 Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears 14 
 His reverend front, plough'd by the share of years. 
 He takes his harp : the spirits of the air 
 Breathe on his brow, and interweave his hair, 
 In silky flexure, with the sounding strings : 
 And hark ! the holy missionary sings. 
 Tis the Gregorian chant : with him unites, 
 On either hand, his quire of neophytes, 
 While the boat cleaves its liquid path along, 
 And waters, woods, and winds protract the song. 
 
 Those unknown strains the forest war-whoop hush : 
 Huntsmen and warriors from their cabins rush, 
 Heed not the foe, that yells defiance nigh, 
 See not the deer, that dashes wildly by ; 
 Drop from their hand the bow and rattling quiver, 
 Crowd to the shore, and plunge into the river, 
 Breast the green waves, the enchanted bark that toss, 
 Leap o'er her sides, and kneel before the cross. 
 
 Hear yon poetic pilgrim of the west, 
 Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest. 15 
 
44 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, 
 Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, 
 And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws ; 
 Who hangs the canvas where Atala glows, 
 On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, 
 That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded ; 
 Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines, 
 Beneath the shade of ever whispering pines, 
 A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss, 
 That Time already sprinkles on the cross, 
 Rais'd o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps, 
 And Superstition o'er her victim weeps ; 
 Whom now, the silence of the dead surrounds, 
 Among Scioto's monumental mounds ; 
 Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears 
 A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, 
 To swell the mass, that Time and Ruin throw, 
 O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below, 
 By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, 
 Lost in those towering tombs of other times ; 
 For where no bard has cherish'd Virtue's flame, 
 ISTo ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame. 
 With sacred lore, this traveller beguiles 
 His weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles. 
 Whether he kneels in venerable groves, 
 Or through the wide and green savanna roves, 
 His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears 
 The faintest cadence of Idumea's airs. 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 45 
 
 Now, he recals the lamentable wail, 
 That pierc'd the shades of Rama's palmy vale, 16 
 When Murder struck, thron'd on an infant's bier, 
 A note, for Satan's, and for Herod's ear. 
 Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, 
 Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, 
 The pilgrim stands ; and o'er his memory rushes 
 The mingled tide of tears, and blood, that gushes 
 Along the valleys, where his childhood stray'd, 
 And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. 
 How fondly then, from all but Hope exil'd, 
 To Zion's wo recurs Religion's child ! 
 He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters 
 Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters ; 
 While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, 
 Wrapp'd in the mist, that o'er the river hung, 
 Felt but the breeze, that wanton'd o'er the billow, 
 And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. 
 
 And could not Music soothe the captive's wo ? 
 But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe ? 
 
 While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, 
 Balanc'd between a revery and a dream, 
 Backward he springs : and, through his bounding heart, 
 The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. 
 For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, 
 Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, 
 Just in the act,, with greenly venom'd fangs, 
 To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs. 
 
46 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ; 
 
 His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides ; 
 
 Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, 
 
 And freezing poisons thicken on his gums ; 
 
 His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry; 
 
 A spark of hell lies burning on his eye : 
 
 While, like a vapour, o'er his writhing rings, 
 
 Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings. 
 
 Soon as dumb Fear removes her icy fingers, 
 From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers, 
 The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight, 
 Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, 
 From his soft flute throws Music's air around, 
 And meets his foe, upon enchanted ground. 
 See ! as the plaintive melody is flung, 
 The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue ; 
 The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold 
 Throws changeful clouds of azure, green and gold : 
 A softer lustre twinkles in his eye ; 
 His neck is burnished with a glossier dye ; 
 His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, 
 And his relaxing circles roll in light. 
 Slowly the charm retires : with waving sides, 
 Along its track the graceful listener glides ; 
 While Music throws her silver cloud around, 
 And bears her votary off, in magic folds of sound. 
 
 On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, 
 And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 47 
 
 Rolling- his crystal tide through classic vales, 
 
 Alone, at night, the Italian boatman sails. 
 
 High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, 
 
 Night's queen : he sees her image on that tide, 
 
 Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest 
 
 Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest; 
 
 Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, 
 
 Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore ; 
 
 Now, far before him, on a liquid bed 
 
 Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. 
 
 How mild the empire of that virgin queen ! 
 
 How dark the mountain's shade ! how still the scene ! 
 
 Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep 
 
 On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, 
 
 Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir 
 
 The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, 
 
 Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, 
 
 Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis a convent's bell : its midnight chime, 
 For music measures even the march of Time : 
 O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, 
 Gray turrets rise : the eye can catch no more. 
 The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, 
 Suspends his oar : a low and solemn swell, 
 From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, 
 Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. 
 What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night? 
 A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, rob'd in white, 
 
48 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, 
 
 To charm the parting spirit of the dead. 
 
 Triumphant is the spell ! with raptur'd ear, 
 
 That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ; 
 
 Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss, 
 
 A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ? 
 
 On Caledonia's hills, the ruddy morn 
 Breathes fresh: the huntsman winds his clamorous 
 
 horn. 
 
 The youthful minstrel from his pallet springs, 
 Seizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings. 
 Lark-like he mounts o'er gray rocks, thunder-riven, 
 Lark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest- driven, 
 And lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs, 
 Whose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes. 
 With airy foot he treads that giddy height ; 
 His heart all rapture, and his eye all light ; 
 His voice all melody, his yellow hair 
 Floating and dancing on the mountain air, 
 Shaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls, 
 That gather clustering on his golden curls ; 
 And, for a moment, gazes on a scene, 
 Ting'd with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening 
 
 green ; 
 
 Then plays a mournful prelude, while the star 
 Of morning fades : but when heaven's gates unbar, 
 And on the world a tide of glory rushes, 
 Burns on the hill, and down the valley blushes; 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 49 
 
 The mountain bard in livelier numbers sings, 
 While sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings ; 
 And his young bosom feels the enchantment strong, 
 Of light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song. 
 
 From rising morn, the tuneful stripling roves, 
 Through smiling valleys and religious groves ; 
 Hears there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat, 
 Here, the lone turtle pour her mournful note, 
 Till night descends, and round the wanderer flings 
 The dewdrops dripping from her dusky wings. 
 Far from his native vale, and humble shed, 
 By nature's smiles, and nature's music led, 
 This child of melody has thoughtless stray'd, 
 Till darkness wraps him in her deep'ning shade. 
 The scene he smil'd on, when array'd in light, 
 Now lowers around him with the frown of night. 
 
 With weary foot the nearest height he climbs, 
 Crown'd with huge oaks, giants of other times ; 
 Who feel, but fear not autumn's breath, and cast 
 Their summer robes upon the roaring blast; 
 And glorying in their majesty of form, 
 Toss their old arms, and challenge every storm. 
 Below him, Ocean rolls : deep in a wood, 
 Built on a rock, and frowning o'er the flood, 
 Like the dark Cyclops of Trinacria's isle, 
 Rises an old and venerable pile : 
 Gothic its structure ; once a cross it bore, 
 And pilgrims throng'd to hail it and adore. 
 
50 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 Mitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar, 
 
 The solemn organ led the chanting quire, 
 
 When in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung, 
 
 And o'er the dead, a requiescat rung. 
 
 Now, all is still : the midnight anthem hush'd : 
 
 The cross is crumbled, and the crosier crush'd. 
 
 And is all still ? No : round those ruin'd altars, 
 
 With feeble foot as our musician falters, 
 
 Faint, weary, lost, benighted, and alone, 
 
 He sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone. 
 
 Here nameless fears the young enthusiast chill : 
 
 They're superstitious, but religious still. 
 
 He hears the sullen murmur of the seas, 
 
 That tumble round the stormy Orcades ; 
 
 Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar, 
 
 Their sparkling surges to that savage shore : 
 
 And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves 
 
 Through rifted rocks, and hollow rumbling caves. 
 
 Round the dark windows clasping ivy clings, 
 Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings : 
 Its green leaves rustle : heavy winds arise : 
 The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs. 
 Now Fancy sees th' ideal canvas stretch'd, 
 And o'er the lines that Truth has dimly sketch'd, 
 Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly 
 Hurtled along before her phrenzied eye. 
 The scudding cloud that drives along the coast, 
 Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost, 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 51 
 
 Who sails serenely in his gloomy pall, 
 
 O'er Morven's woods and Tura's mouldering wall, 
 
 To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall. 
 
 Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill, 
 
 Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill ? 
 
 No 'tis the mountain blast, that nightly rages, 
 
 Around those walls, gray with the moss of ages. 
 
 Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light 
 
 Shines in yon vault, before a spectre white ? 
 
 No : 'tis a glow-worm, burning greenly there, 
 
 Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air. 
 
 What mighty organ swells its deepest tone, 
 
 And sighing, heaves a low funereal moan, 
 
 That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms, 
 
 And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs ? 
 
 Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides ! 
 
 The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides ; 
 
 Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave ; 
 
 Or shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave. 
 
 Yet ! 'tis some Spirit that those skies deforms, 
 And wraps in billow^ clouds that hill of storms. 
 Yes : 'tis a Spirit in those vaults that dwells, 
 Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells. 
 Yes : 'tis some Spirit on the blast that rides, 
 And wakes the eternal tumult of the tides. 
 That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream, 
 Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream, 
 D 2 
 
52 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 Lur'd his young foot to every vale that rung, 
 And charm'd his ear in every bird that sung ; 
 With rarious concerts cheer'd his hours of light, 
 But kept the mightiest in reserve till night ; 
 Then, thron'd in darkness, peaPd that wildest air, 
 Froze his whole soul, and chain'd the listener there. 
 
 That Mighty Spirit once from Teman came : 
 Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame. 17 
 Bow'd the perpetual hills : the rivers fled : 
 Green Ocean trembled to his deepest bed : 
 Earth shrunk aghast, eternal mountains burn'd, 
 And his red axle thunder'd as it turn'd. 
 
 O, Thou Dread Spirit ! Being's End and Source ! 
 O ! check thy chariot in its fervid course. 
 Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire, 
 And with one smile immortalize our lyre. 
 Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne, 
 Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown, 
 Swelling one ceaseless song of praise to thee, 
 Eternal Author of Eternity ! 
 Still hast thou stoop'd to hear a shepherd play, 
 To prompt his measures, and approve his lay. 
 Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest ! 
 Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest ! 
 How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim, 
 From Zion's hill to Mount Moriah came, 
 Beneath the wings of Cherubim to rest, 
 In a rich vail of Tyrian purple drest ; 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 53 
 
 When harps and cymbals join'd in echoing clang, 
 When psalteries tinkled, and when trumpets rang, 
 And white rob'd Levites round thine altar sang ! 
 Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd, 
 Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud, 
 And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud. 18 
 And now, Almighty Father, well we know, 
 When humble strains from grateful bosoms flow, 
 Those humble strains grow richer as they rise, 
 And shed a balmier freshness on the skies. 
 
 What though no Cherubim are here display'd, 
 No gilded walls, no cedar colonnade, 
 No crimson curtains hang around our quire, 
 Wrought by the ingenious artisan of Tyre ; 
 No doors of fir on golden hinges turn ; 
 No spicy gums in golden censers burn ; 
 No frankincense, in rising volumes, shrouds 
 The fretted roof in aromatic clouds ; 
 No royal minstrel, from his ivory throne, 
 Gives thee his father's numbers or his own ; 
 If humble love, if gratitude inspire, 
 Our strain shall silence even the temple's quire, 
 And rival Michael's trump, nor yield to Gabriel's lyre. 
 
 In what rich harmony, what polished lays, 
 Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays 
 Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! 
 Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. 
 The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore, 
 The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar, 
 
54 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods, 
 
 The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods, ^, 
 
 The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann'd, 
 
 The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spann'd, 
 
 The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen, 
 
 The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men, 
 
 The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree, 
 
 Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free ; 
 
 The scorching bolt, that from thine armoury hurPd, 
 
 Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world ; 
 
 All these are music to Religion's ear : 
 
 Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. 
 
 Thy hand invested in their azure robes, 
 
 Thy breath made buoyant yonder circling globes, 
 
 That bound and blaze along the elastic wires, 
 
 That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres, 
 
 And in that high and radiant concave tremble, 
 
 Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble, 
 
 To catch the notes, from those bright spheres that flow, 
 
 Which mortals dream of, but which angels know. 
 
 Before thy throne, three sister Graces kneel ; 
 Their holy influence let our bosoms feel ! 
 FAITH, that with smiles lights up our dying eyes ; 
 HOPE, that directs them to the opening skies ; 
 And CHARITY, the loveliest of the three, 
 That can assimilate a worm to thee. 
 For her our organ breathes; to her we pay 
 The heart-felt homage of an humble lay ; 
 
AIRS OF PALESTINE. 
 
 And while to her symphonious chords we string, 
 And Silence listens while to her we sing, 
 While round thine altar swells our evening song, 
 And vaulted roofs the dying notes prolong, 
 The strain we pour to her, wilt thou approve, 
 For LOVE is CHARITY, and THOU art LOVE. 
 
56 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1 THE desert wak'd at that proud anthem flung 
 From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue. 
 
 For the song of Moses on this occasion, see a:odu5,xr. 122. 
 
 2 At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns 
 His life and empire in prophetic lines. 
 
 See the whole of the pathetic and eloquent valedictory ad 
 dress of Moses to the Israelites, in the 32nd chapter of Deu 
 teronomy, from the beginning to the 43rd verse. His death, and 
 other events here mentioned, follow in regular course. 
 
 3 Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers, 
 And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers. 
 
 For the account of the destruction of Jericho, by the Jews 
 under the command of Joshua, see Joshua, vi. particularly ver. 20. 
 " So the people shouted, when the priests blew the trumpets ; 
 and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the 
 trumpets, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the 
 wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, 
 every man straight before him ; and they took the city." 
 
 4 And cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung. 
 
 Then spake Joshua to the Lord, in the day when the Lord de 
 livered up the Amovites before the children of Israel, " Sun,, 
 stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou Moon, in the valley of 
 Ajalon. And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the 
 people had avenged themselves upon their enemies." Joshua, x. 
 12, 13. 
 
NOTES. 57 
 
 b And builds on Libanus his humble shed. 
 
 Horeb et Sinai, le Carmel et le Liban, le torrent de Cedron, 
 et la vallde de Josaphat, redise encore la glorie de Hiabitant de 
 la cellule et de I'anachortte du rocker. Ginie du Christianisme> 
 torn. iv. p. 48. Lyons Edition. 
 
 6 But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings, 
 And hears a whisper from the King of kings. 
 
 " And after the earthquake, a fire ; but the Lord was not in the 
 fire ; and after the fire, a still small voice. And it was so, when 
 Elijah heard it, that he wrapped iiis face in his mantle, and went 
 out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And behold, there 
 came a voice unto him, and said, What dost thou here, Elijah?" 
 1 Kings, xix. 12, 13. 
 
 7 In what tremendous pomp Jehovah shone, 
 When on that mount he fix'd his burning throne ! 
 
 See the sublime account of the descent of God upon Mount 
 Sinai. Exodus, xix. particularly from the 16th to the 19th verse, 
 as also Heb. xii. 1821. 
 
 8 Even now, the heralds of his monarch tear 
 The son of Jesse from his fleecy care. 
 
 " Wherefore SHU! sent out messengers unto Jesse, and said, 
 Send me David thy son, -which is with the sheep. And Jesse 
 took an ass, laden with bread, and a bottle of wine, and a kid, 
 and sent them by David his son unto Saul. And David came 
 to Saul, and stood before him ; and he loved him greatly, and he 
 became his armour bearer. And Saul sent to Jesse, saying, Let 
 David, I pray thee, stand before me; for he hath found favour 
 in my sight. And it came to pass, that when the evil spirit from 
 D 3 
 
58 NOTES. 
 
 God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with 
 his hand ; so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit 
 departed from him." 1 Sam. xvi. 1923. 
 
 9 The night was moonless : Judah's shepherds kept 
 Their starlight watch : their Hocks around them slept. 
 
 " And there were in the same country, shepherds abiding in the 
 field, keeping watch over their flocks, by night. And lo, the 
 angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord 
 shone about them." See the whole account, Luke, ii. 8 15. 
 
 10 Saw, in the stillness of a starry night, 
 
 The Swan and Eagle wing their silent flight. 
 
 To the reader, who is but superficially acquainted with astro 
 nomy, no explanatory note is here necessary. To others it is 
 enough to observe, that the Swan, the Eagle, Berenice's lock, 
 Bootes, the Pleiades, the Lyre, and Auriga or the Charioteer, 
 are the names of constellations, or the parts of constellations, 
 visible in the northern hemisphere of course in Palestine. 
 Cynosure is the classical name of the Pole-star. 
 
 1 1 The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch, 
 The rocking walls confess an earthquake's march. 
 
 " And when they had laid many stripes upon them," (Paul and 
 Silas) " they cast them into prison, charging the jailer to keep 
 them safely ; who having received such a charge, thrust them into 
 the prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at mid- 
 night Paul and Silas prayed, and sang- praises unto God, and the 
 prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earth, 
 quake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and 
 immediately the doors were opened, and every one's bands were 
 loosed." Acts, xvi, 2326. 
 
NOTES. 59 
 
 12 They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes 
 Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes. 
 
 The valley of Jehoshaphat is between Jerusalem and the 
 Mount of Olives, on the east. Through this valley flows the 
 brook Kedron, or Cedron : on the eastern bank of this river 
 stands the tomb of Jehoshaphat. 
 
 they pour the song of sorrow, 
 
 With their lov'd Lord. ~ 
 
 In this deeply interesting scene, I have taken the liberty of 
 varying the order in which the events of the evening before the 
 crucifixion occurred ; in that I have supposed the hymn to be 
 sung after crossing the Kedron, and ascending the Mount of 
 Olives rather than in the supper chamber, as stated by Mat 
 thew. With this acknowledgment, I presume the license will be 
 excused. I considered the scene thus laid, more poetical, and 
 not less solemn or religious. See Matth. xxvi. 30, 31. 
 
 14 Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears 
 His reverend front. 
 
 Let not the Protestant reader be alarmed at seeing a Jesuit in 
 company with Music and Religion. I do assure him, it is a sup- 
 posable case. I am not ignorant of the fact, that many accounts 
 of the arts and ambition of this order of Christians, have been 
 given to the world, which are not the most favourable to the 
 purity or disinterestedness of their piety ; and I am well aware, 
 that, if poetry and fiction are synonymous terms, there is but 
 little poetry in too many of these accounts. But let the Protes 
 tant reader recollect, that most of these views have been drawn 
 by Protestant pencils. " Let us lions be the painters," say the 
 Jesuits, and we will shew you a very different picture. One of 
 their pieces of coloured canvas I will lay before my readers, as 
 
60 NOTES. 
 
 well to shew that I do not think the above request unreasonable, 
 as to explain what may want explanation, in this scene of my 
 poem: 
 
 " II restait encore, aux pieds des Cordilieres, vers le cote qu 1 
 regarde 1'Atlantique, entre VOrenoque et Rio de la Plata, un pays 
 immense, rempli de Sauvages, ou les Espagnols n'avaient point 
 port 6 la devastation. Ce fut dans ces paisses forets que les 
 missionnaires entreprirent de former une rpubliqtie chrtienne et 
 de donner du moins a un petit nombre d'Indiens, le bouheur 
 qu'ils n'avaient pu procurer a tous. 
 
 " Us commencement par obtenir de la cour d'Espagne la Iibert6 
 de tous les Sauvages qn'ils parviendraient a reunir. A cette 
 nouvelTe, les colons se souleverent ; ce ne fut qu'a force d'esprit 
 et d'adresse que les Je"suites surprirent, pour ainsi dire, la per 
 mission de verser leur sang dans les forets du Nouveau-Monde. 
 Enfin, ayant triomphe de la oupidito et de la malice humaine ; 
 nu' di( ant un des plus nobles desseins qn'ait jamais concus un 
 coeur d'homme, ils s'embarqnerent pour Rio de la Plata. 
 
 " C'est dans ce grand tieuve que vient se perdre cet autre 
 flenve, qui a donne son nom au pavs et aux missions, dont noiu 
 retrains rhistoire. Paraguay, dans la langue des Sauvages, 
 signifie le Fl*uve couronnt, parce qu'il prend sa source dans le 
 lac Xarayes, qui lui sert comme de couronne. Avant d'aller 
 grossir Rio de la Plata, il recoit les eaux du Parama et de VUrct- 
 guay. Des foists qui renferment dans leur sein d'autres forets 
 tombes de vieillesse, des marais et des plaines entierement 
 inond^es dans la saison des pluies, des montagnes qui elevant des 
 deserts, sur des deserts, forment une partie des vastes regions 
 que le Paraguay arrose. Le gibier de toute espce y abonde, 
 ainsi que les tigres et Jes ours. Les bois sont remplis d'abeilles, 
 qui font une cire fort blanche, et un miel tres parfumc. On y 
 voit des oiseaux d'nn plumage 6clatant, et qui ressemblent a de 
 graudes fleurs rouges et bleues, sur la verdure des arbres. Ua 
 
NOTES. 61 
 
 missionnaire Franoais, qui sY-tait egare dans ces solitudes, en fait 
 la peinture suivante. 
 
 " Je continual ma route sans savoir a quel terme elle devait 
 aboutir, et sans qu'il y eat personne qui put me 1'enseigner. Je 
 trouvais quelquefois au milieu de ces bois des endroits enchanted. 
 Tout ce que l'6tude et 1'industrie des hommes ont pu imaginer 
 pour rendre un lieu agrable, n'approche point de ce que la sim 
 ple nature y avait rassemb!6 de beauts. 
 
 " Ces lieux charmans rne rappelerent les ides que j'avais eues 
 autrefois, en lisant les vies des anciens solitaires de la Thba'ide ; 
 il me vint en pense de passer le reste de mes jours dans ces 
 fordts ou la Providence m'avait conduit, pour y vaquer unique- 
 inent a 1'affaire de mon saint, loin de tout commerce avec les 
 hommes ; mais cottime je ti'i'tais pas le maitre de ma destined, et 
 que les ordres du Seigneur m'6taient certainement marques par 
 ceux de mes superieurs, je rtjetai cette pens6e comme une 
 illusion. 
 
 " Les Tndiens que Ton rencontrait dans ces retraites, ne leur 
 ressemblaient que par le c&t affreux. Race indolente, stupide 
 et fe>oce, elle montrait dans tonte sa laideur I'homme primitif, 
 degrad^ par sa chute. Rien ne prouve davantage la dg6ne>a- 
 tion de la nature humaine, que la petitesse du Sauvage, dans la 
 grandeur du desert. 
 
 L " Arrives a Buenos Ayrds, les missionnaires remonterent Rio 
 de la Plata, et entrant dans les eaux du Paraguay, se disperserent 
 dans ses bois sauvages. Les anciennes relations nous les repre- 
 sentent, un hi eviaire sous le bras gauche, une grande croix a la 
 main droite, et sans autre provision que leur confiance en Dieu. 
 Us nous les peignent, se faisant jour a travers les forts, marchant 
 dans des terres marecageuses ou ils avaient de 1'eau jusqu' a la 
 ceintnre, gravissant des roches escarp6es, et furetant dans les 
 antres et les precipices, an risque d'y trouver des serpens et des 
 betes feroces, au lieu des hommes qu'ils y cherchaient. 
 
6*2 NOTES. 
 
 " Plusieurs d'entr'eux y monrurent de faiin et de fatigues ; 
 d'autres furent massacres et devores par les Sauvages. Le pere 
 Lizardi fut trouv6 perc de fleches snr un rocher ; sen corps 6tait 
 a demi dchir par les oiseaux de proie, et son breviaire 6tait 
 ouvert aupres de lui a I'ofticp des Mnrts. Quand un missionnaire 
 rencontrait ainsi les restes d'un de ses companions, il s'empres- 
 sait de leur rendre les honneurs tiinehces; et plein d'une grande 
 Joie, il chantait un Te Deum solitaire sur le tombeau du Martyr. 
 
 De pareilles scenes, renouvelees a citaque instant, etonnaient 
 les hordes barbares. Quelquefois olles s'arretaient autour du 
 pretre inconnu qui leur parlait de Dieu, et elles regardaient le 
 ciel que I'ap&tre leur montrait ; quelquefois elles le fuyaient 
 coninie un enchanteur, et se sent.dent saisies d'une frayeur 
 etrange : le Religieux les suivait en leur tendant les mains au 
 iiom de Jesus Christ. S'il ne pouvait les arreter, il plantait sa 
 grande croix dans un lieu decouvert, et s'allait cacher dans les 
 bois. Les Sauvages s'approchaient peu a pen pour examiner 
 1'etendard de paix, 41ev6 dans la solitude; un aimant secret 
 semblait les attirer a ce signe de leur salut. Alors le mission- 
 naire sortant tout-a-coup de son embuscade, et profitant de la 
 surprise des Barbares, les invitaient a quitter une vie miserable 
 pour jouir des douceurs de la societe. 
 
 " Quand les Jesuites se furent attaches quelques Indiens, ils 
 eurent recours a un autre moyen pour gagner des ^,mes. Ils 
 avaient remarqu6 que les Sauvages de ces bords dtaient fort sen- 
 sibles a la musique ; on dit meme que les eaux du Paraguay 
 rendent la voix plus belle. Les missionnaires s'embarquerent 
 done sur des pirogues avec les nouveaux cat^chum^nes ; ils re- 
 uionterent les fleuves, en chantant de saints cantiques. Les 
 neophytes repetaient les airs, coninie des oiseaux prives chantent 
 pour attirer dans les rets de 1'oiseleur les oiseaux sauvages. Les 
 Indiens ne manquerent point de se venir prendre au doux piege. 
 Ils descendaient de leurs montagnes, et accouraient au bord des 
 
NOTES. 6 
 
 ileuves, pour mieux ecouter ces accens. Piusieurs d'euti'eux se 
 jetaient dans les ondes, et suivaient a la uage la nacelle en- 
 chautee. La lime, en r6pandant sa lumiere myste>ieuse sur ces 
 scenes extraordinaires, achevait d'attendrir les cceurs. L'arc et 
 la fleche 6chappaient a la main du Sauvage ; 1'avant gout des 
 vertussociales, et les premieres douceurs del'hnmanite, entraient 
 dans son ame confuse. II voyait sa femme et son enfant pleurer 
 d'nne joie inconnue ; bientot subjugu par un attrait irresistible, 
 il tombait an pied de la croix, et nielait des torrens de larmes 
 aux eaux re"gne>atrices qui coulaient sur sa tte. 
 
 " Ainsi la religion chr6tienne i ealisait dans les forts de l'Am6- 
 rique, ce que la fable raconte des Amphion et des Orph6e : vi- 
 flexion si naturelle, qu'elle s'est presentee meme aux mission- 
 naires ; tant il est certain qu'on ne dit ici que la verit6 en ayant 
 1'air de raconter une fiction." Chateaubriand, G6nie du Chris- 
 tianisme, torn. viii. cbap. iv. p. 40 48. 
 
 16 Hear yon poetick pilgrim of the west, 
 
 Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest. 
 
 Chateaubriand, Perhaps I ought to apologize to this gentle 
 man, perhaps I owe the apology to the reader, for so frequent 
 ly introducing him. The truth is, I find him very useful. If the 
 facts stated by him are adapted to my purpose, I have a right to 
 use them ; if the truth of his stories is questionable, his is the 
 responsibility, not mine. I screen myself from blame, if 
 
 " I lell the tale as 'tis told to me." 
 
 This gentleman, it seems, has travelled through the United 
 States, from the mouth of the Mississippi to the St. Lawrence. 
 In Florida and the western States, he has laid the scene of his 
 " Atala," an exquisite little assemblage of beauties and absur 
 dities. This little poem, or rather episode, forms a part of his 
 great work " Genie du Christianisme," or the Beauties of the 
 
64 NOTES. 
 
 Christian Religion. It has been translated separately, and will 
 be read with pleasure by most lovers of polite literature. The 
 allusions here to Atala may be briefly explained by observing, 
 that Chactas, son of Outalist>i, is the hero, and Atala the heroine 
 of the poem that Atala poisons herself, rather than violate an 
 oath of celibacy, imposed by little less than the legal 'duress per 
 minas; and this act, upon which a coroner's inquest would return 
 a verdict either of suicide, or insanity, is considered by our au 
 thor as an unequivocal proof of her piety. The Florida scenery 
 the live-oak, mantled in its loose mossy drapery the laurel 
 the jessamine, that hangs in graceful festoons over the waters 
 are all beautifully described, because the painting is from the 
 life. His notice of the celebrated and wonderful barrows, or 
 monumental tumuli, upon our western rivers, and his story of the 
 serpent, charmed by the flute of the Canadian, will be seen in 
 the passage here introduced from his work. 
 
 As to the story of the snake, what he says he saw, we may per 
 haps believe, particularly as accounts somewhat similar, are 
 given by others. Besides, though M. de Chateaubriand certainly 
 does tell tales that occasionally happen to partake of the mar 
 vellous, I do not know that he has yet been publicly convicted 
 of stating what is false, in regard to what has fallen under his 
 own observation. There are those, indeed, who question his 
 veracity even there where he has nothing to do with saints or 
 legends and I must, for myself, confess that my own opinion of 
 his veracity has been somewhat shaken, by a French gentleman, 
 a general officer under Buonaparte, and for some time a member 
 of the National Institute, who tells me that he knows M. de 
 Chateaubriand personally, though not intimately for he claims 
 to be a man of honour, and appears to be so and that he knows 
 him not only to be, but to have been, in the pay of the French 
 police, as a spy upon his fellow-citizens and that he therefore 
 ought to be, and is universally despised. So much for the author 
 
NOTES. 65 
 
 of the Gtnie du Christianisme, Martyrs, Travtls, fyc. Here, then, 
 follows a part of what I have made use of, remembering always 
 that I am not writing history, but poetry. Of the li Monumental 
 mounds," he says : 
 
 " On a decouvert depuis quelques annees, dans I'Am^rique 
 septentrionale, des monumens extraordinaires snr les bords du 
 Muskingum, du Miami, du Wabache, de 1'Ohio, et sur-tout du 
 Scioto, ou ils occupent un espace de plus de vingt lieues en lon 
 gueur. Ce sont des murs en terre avec des fosses, des glacis, 
 des lanes, demi-lunes, et de grands cones qui servent de s6pulcres. 
 On a demande, mais, sans succcs, quel peuple a laisse" de pareilles 
 traces. L'homme est suspendu dans le present, entre le passe 
 et 1'avenir, comme sur un rocher entre deux gouffres : derriere 
 lui, devant lui, tout est te"nebres ; a peine apperc^oit il quelques 
 rantomes qui, remontant du fond des deux abymes, surnagent un 
 instant a leur surface, et s'y replongent pour jarnais. 
 
 " Pour nous, amant solitaire de la nature, et simple confesseur 
 de la Uivinite nous nous sommes assis sur ces mines. Yoyageur 
 sans renom, nous avons caus6 avec ces debris, comme nous-memes 
 ignored Les souvenirs confus des hommes, et les vagues reveries 
 du d6sert, se melaient au fond de notre ame. La nuit tait au 
 milieu de sa course; tout 6tait muet, et la lune, et les bois, et 
 les tombeaux. Seulemeut a longs intervalles on entendait la 
 chute de quelque arbre, que la hache du temps abattait, dans la 
 profondeur des forts : ainsi tout toinbe, tout s'aneautit. 
 
 " Enfin, ces monumens prennent leurs racines dans des jours 
 beauconp plus iecule"s que ceux ou Ton a decouvert 1'Amerique. 
 Nous avons vu sur ces mines un chene d6cr6pit, qui avait pousse 
 sur les debris d'un antre chene tombe a ses pieds, et dont il ne 
 restait plus que 1'ecorce ; celui-ci a son tour s'etait elev6 sur un 
 troisieme, et ce troisteme sur un quatrieme. L'emplacement 
 des deux derniers se marquait encore par 1'intersection de deux 
 cercles, d'un aubier rouge et p6trifie, qu'on decouvrait a fleur de 
 
66 NOTES. 
 
 terre, en cartant un i'pais humus compost de fenillcs et de 
 mousse. Accordez settlement trois siecles de vie a ces quatre 
 chenes succcssifs, et voilii une I'poque de douze cents annt-es que 
 la nature a grave"e sur ces mines." Gtnie du Christianisme, 
 torn. i. pp. 212215, 2767. 
 
 As to the nature of the serpent generally, and his taste for 
 Music in particular, this is the account of our author: 
 
 " Notre siecle rejete avec hauteur tout ce qui tient de la mer- 
 veille : sciences, arts, morale, religion, tout reste desenchante. 
 Le serpent a souvent e" t6 1'objet de nos observations ; et si nous 
 osons le dire, nous avons cru reconnaitre en lui cet esprit perni- 
 cieux et cette subtilite que lui attribue 1'Ecriture. Tout est 
 mysterieux, cache, 6tonnant dans cet incomprehensible reptile. 
 Ses mouvemens different de ceux de tons les autres animaux ; on 
 ne saurait dire ou git le principe de son de-placement, car il n'a 
 ni nageoires, ni pieds, ni ailes ; et cependant il fuit comme une 
 ombre, il sY-vanouit magiquement, il reparait, disparait encore, 
 semblable a une petite fume d'azur, ou aux Eclairs d'un glaive 
 dans les tenebres. Tan tot il se forme en cercle, et darde une 
 langue de feu ; tant&t, debout sur I'extrt'niitc de sa queue, il 
 marche dans une attitude perpendiculaire, comme par enchante- 
 ment. II se jete en orbe, monte et s'abaisse en spirale, roule ses 
 anneaux comme une onde, circule sur les branches des arbres, 
 glisse sous 1'herbe des prairies, ou sur la surface des eaux. Ses 
 couleurs sont anssi peu determim'es que sa marche ; dies chan- 
 gent a tous les aspects de la lumu-re, et comme ses mouvemens, 
 elles ont le faux brillant et les varietes trompeuses de la se*duc- 
 tion. 
 
 " Plus dtonnant encore dans le reste de ses moeurs,il sait,ainsi 
 qu'un liomme souill6 de meurtre, jeter a 1'ecart sa robe tache 
 de sang, dans la crainte d'etre reconnu. Par une Strange facaitc 
 il peut faire rentrer dans son sein les petits monstres que 1'amour 
 en a fait sortir. II sommeille des mois entiers, frequente defc 
 
NOTES. 67 
 
 tombeaux, habite des lieux inconnus, compose des poisons qui 
 glacent, brulent ou tachent le corps de sa victime des couleurs 
 dont il est lui-mme marque\ La, il leve deux ttes menac^antes ; 
 ici, il fait entendre tine sonnette ; il siffle comme un aigle de 
 montagne ; il mugit comme un taureau. II s'associe naturelle- 
 ment a tontes les idees morales ou religienses, comme par une 
 suite de 1'influence qu'il cut sur nos destinies : objet d'horreur 
 ou d'adoration, les homines ont pour lui une baine implacable, ou 
 tombent devant son genie; le mensonge 1'appele, la prudence le 
 reclame, 1'envie le porte dans son cceur, et 1'eloquence a son ca- 
 duc6e j aux enfers il anne les fouets des furies, au ciel r6ternit 
 en fait son symbole ; il possede encore Tart de s6duire 1'inno- 
 cence ; ses regards enchantent les oiseaux dans les airs ; et sous 
 la fougere de la creche, la brebis lui abandonne son lait. Mais 
 il se laisse lui-mme charmer par de doux sons ; et pour le 
 dompter, le berger n'a besoin que de sa flute. 
 
 " Au mois dejuillet 1791, nous voyagions dansle Haut-Canada, 
 avec quelques families sauvages de la nation des Onontagues. 
 Un jour que nous ctions arrts dans une grande plaine, au bord 
 de la riviere Genesic, un serpent a sonnettes entra dans notre 
 camp. II y avait parmi nous un Canadien qui jouait de la flute , 
 il voulut nous divertir, et s'avance contre le serpent, avec son 
 arme d'une nouvelle espece. A 1'approche de son ennemi, le 
 superbe reptile se forme en spirale, aplatit sa tete, enfle ses joues, 
 contracte ses levies, decouvre ses dents empoisonn^es et sa 
 gueule sanglante : sa double langne braudit comme deux flam- 
 mes ; ses yeux charbons ardens ; son corps, gonfle de rage, 
 s'abaisse et s'eleve comme les sonfflets d'une forge ; sa peau dilate 
 devient terne et ecailleuse ; et sa queue, dont il sort un bruit 
 sinistre, oscille avec tant de rapidito, qu'elle ressemble a une 
 leg^re vapeur. 
 
 " Alors le Canadien commence a jouer sur sa flute, le serpent 
 fait un mouvement de surprise, et retire la tete en arriere. A 
 
68 NOTES. 
 
 msure qu'il est frappe de 1'effet magique, ses yeux perdent leur 
 apret6, les vibrations de sa queue se ralentissent, et le bruit 
 qu'elle fait entendre, s'affaiblit et meurt pen a peu. Moins pcr- 
 peudiculaires sur leur ligne spirale, les orbes du serpent charm6, 
 par degr6s s'61argissent, et vienuent tour a tour se poser sur la 
 terre en cercles concentriques. Les nuances d'azur, de verd, de 
 blanc et d'or reprennent leur 6clat sur sa peau fremissante, et 
 tournant legerement la tcte, il demeure immobile dans 1'attitude 
 de 1'attention et du plaisir. 
 
 " Dans ce moment le Canadien marche quelques pas, en tirant 
 desaflfttedes sons doux et monotones; le reptile baisse son 
 connuance, entr'ouvre avec sa tete les herbes fines, et se met a 
 ramper sur les traces du musicien qui 1'entratae, s'arrtant lors- 
 qu'il s'arrte, et recommencant a le suivre, quand il recommence 
 a s'uloigner. II fut ainsi conduit hois de notre camp, au milieu 
 d'une foule de spectateurs, tant Sauvages qu' Europeans, qui en 
 croyaieut a peine leurs yeux, a cette merveille de la melodic : il 
 n'y eut qu'une seule voix dans I'assemblce, pour qu'on laissat le 
 merveilleux serpent s'chapper." Ibid, p. 174179. 
 
 16 Now, he recals the lamentable wail, 
 
 That pierc'd the shades of Rama's palmy vale. 
 
 See Matthew, ii. 1618. 
 
 *7 That Mighty Spirit once from Teman came : 
 Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame. 
 
 God came from Teman, and the Holy One from Mount Paran, 
 e. See Habak. iii. 3 17. 
 
 18 Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the croud, 
 Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud, 
 And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud, 
 
 " And it came to pass, when the priests were come out of the 
 
NOTES. 69 
 
 holy place, (for all the priests that were present were sanctified, 
 and did not then wait by course : Also the Levites, which were 
 the singers ; all of them of Asaph, of Heman, of Jeduthun, with 
 their sons and their brethren ; being arrayed in white linen, hav 
 ing cymbals and psalteries, and harps, stood at the east end of 
 the altar, and with them an hundred and twenty priests, sound 
 ing with trumpets :) It came to pass, as the trumpeters and 
 singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising 
 and thanking the Lord ; and when they lifted up their voice with 
 the trumpets and instruments of music, and praised the Lord, 
 saying- For he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever ; and 
 then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the 
 Lord , so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason 
 of the cloud : for the glory of the Lord had filled the house of 
 God." 2 Ckron. v. 1114. 
 
71 
 
 THE 
 
 BACKWOODSMAN; 
 
 BY 
 
 J. K. PAULDING. 
 
 THE author of " The Backwoodsman," Mr. J. K. 
 Paulding, who has attained considerable literary 
 celebrity in America, is not unknown to the Eng 
 lish public. His merits have been appreciated as 
 one of the joint-authors of " Salmagundi," a work 
 which some time ago excited considerable atten 
 tion. To the same gentleman, also, the literary 
 world of America is indebted for the "Letters 
 from the South," which contain much curious in 
 formation respecting a portion of the United States, 
 but little known to European travellers. In the 
 title-page to the " Letters from the South," we are 
 likewise informed, that he is the author of a work 
 called " John Bull, and Brother Jonathan," the 
 idea of which was far from original, though the 
 
72 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 execution of it was occasionally clever. In the 
 style of his prose compositions, there is a very 
 wide difference between Mr. Paulding and his 
 friend Mr. Washington Irving, whose name and 
 merits are too well known, to require any eulogy 
 in this place. Mr. Paulding, in his affection for 
 the democratical institutions of his country, has 
 adopted a style of writing, certainly not of the most 
 polished and courtly kind he seems to delight in 
 expressing himself boldly and carelessly, without 
 paying too nice a regard to the decrees of taste, 
 and the canons of criticism. The humour which 
 he displays in his " Letters from the South," is not 
 always of the most refined nature, and his satirical 
 attacks are perhaps more vigorous than witty. 
 The compositions of Mr. Irving, on the contrary, 
 have attracted great admiration on both sides of 
 the Atlantic, by the elegance and the delicacy 
 of sentiment which they display. Of course it 
 must be expected, that some of those peculiarities, 
 which have been mentioned as affecting Mr. Pauld- 
 ing's other works, will in some degree tincture the 
 style of his poems. There is, in fact, something 
 of the same roughness of character visible in them. 
 This quality seems to be natural to the writer, and 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 73 
 
 it therefore bears no appearance of affectation, and 
 indeed it is very seldom so excessive as to become 
 unpleasing. From many parts of " The Back 
 woodsman/' it is evident that Mr. Paulding pos 
 sesses great poetical feeling, and a keen perception 
 of the beauties of his native country, which though 
 it may not rival the bel paese of Italy, yet abounds 
 with magnificent and delightful scenery. It is on 
 this account more particularly, that the produc 
 tions of Mr. Paulding's muse are entitled to our 
 attention and esteem. Some of his descriptions 
 are very striking and vivid, of which that of the 
 Storm, which will be found in the following pages, 
 may be mentioned as an instance. 
 
 It would appear from the following lines, which 
 are quoted from the poem of " Fanny," a portion 
 of which is inserted in the present volume, that 
 the reputation of Mr. Paulding stands higher in 
 America as a satirist than as a poet. The pro 
 priety of this opinion will probably be questioned 
 by many who are familiar with him in both cha 
 racters. 
 
 Homer was well enough ; but would he ever 
 Have written , think ye, the Backwoodsman ? Never. 
 E 
 
74 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Alas for Paulding I regret to see 
 
 In such a stanza one whose giant powers, 
 
 Seen in their native element, would be 
 Known to a future age, the pride of ours. 
 
 There is none breathing, who can better wield 
 
 The battle-axe of satire on its field, 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The wreath he fought for he has bravely won : 
 Long be its laurel green around his brow ! 
 
 It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun, 
 And jesting; but for once I'm serious now. 
 
 Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews ? 
 
 The Muse has damn'd him let him damn the Muse. 
 
 The story of "The Backwoodsman" is of the 
 simplest kind, and merely consists of the adven 
 tures of a settler and his family; and as the author 
 himself informs us, it was only adopted for the 
 purpose of introducing, in an easy and natural 
 way, a greater variety of scenery, it has been 
 thought unnecessary, in making the following se 
 lections, to attempt preserving the thread of the 
 narrative. The edition, from which the extracts 
 are taken, was published at Philadelphia in 1818. 
 
75 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 NEGLECTED Muse ! of this our western clime, 
 How long in servile, imitative rhyme, 
 Wilt thou thy stifled energies impart, 
 And miss the path that leads to every heart? 
 How long repress the brave decisive flight, 
 Warm'd by thy native fires, led by thy native light ? 
 Thrice happy he who first shall strike the lyre, 
 With homebred feeling, and with homebred fire ; 
 He need not envy any favour'd bard, 
 Who Fame's bright meed, and Fortune's smiles reward; 
 Secure, that wheresoe'er this empire rolls, 
 Or east, or west, or tow'rd the firm fixed poles, 
 While Europe's ancient honours fade away, 
 And sink the glories of her better day; 
 When, like degenerate Greece, her former fame 
 Shall stand contrasted with her present shame ; 
 And all the splendours of her bright career 
 Shall die away, to be relighted here 
 A race of myriads will the tale rehearse, 
 And love the author of the happy verse. 
 Come then, neglected Muse ! and try with me 
 The untrack'd path 'tis death or victory ; 
 Let Chance or Fate decide, or critics will, 
 No fame I lose I am but nothing still. 
 
76 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 O, Independence ! man's bright mental sun, 
 With blood and tears by our brave country won, 
 Parent of all, high mettled man adorns, 
 The nerve of steel, the soul that meanness scorns, 
 The mounting wind that spurns the tyrant's sway, 
 The eagle eye that mocks the God of day, 
 TWns on the lordly upstart scorn for scorn, 
 And drops its lid to none of woman born ! 
 With blood, and tears, and hardships thou wert bought, 
 Yet rich the blessings thy bright sway has wrought ; 
 Hence comes it that a gallant spirit reigns 
 Unknown among old Europe's hapless swains, 
 Who slaves to some proud lord, himself a slave, 
 From sire to son, from cradle to the grave, 
 From race to race, more dull and servile grow, 
 Until at last they nothing feel or know. 
 Hence comes it, that our meanest farmer's boy 
 Aspires to taste the proud and manly joy 
 That springs from holding in his own dear right 
 The land he ploughs, the home he seeks at night ; 
 And hence it comes, he leaves his friends and home, 
 Mid distant wilds and dangers drear to roam, 
 To seek a competence, or find a grave, 
 Rather than live a hireling or a slave. 
 As the bright waving harvest field he sees, 
 Like sunny ocean rippling in the breeze, 
 And hears the lowing herd, the lambkins' bleat, 
 Fall on his ear in mingled concert sweet, 
 His heart sits lightly on its rustic throne, 
 The fields, the herds, the flocks are all his own. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 77 
 
 ******** 
 Dark was the early dawn, dun vapours chill 
 Cover'd the earth, and hid the distant hill, 
 A veil of mist obscur'd the struggling day, 
 That seemed to grope its slow uncertain way ; 
 No insect chirp'd, or wakeful twitt'ring bird, 
 Within the copse, or briery dingle stirr'd. 
 Anon, far in the East, light streaks of red 
 O'er the gray mists a tint of morning shed, 
 Brighter and still more bright their hues unfold, 
 Till all the sky was fring'd with burnish'd gold; 
 Up rose the gallant Sun ! the mists away 
 Vanish'd, like spectres, at the dawn of day ; 
 No silence now was in the waken'd groves, 
 For every bird began to chant his loves, 
 And all the liveried rabble insect crew, 
 That crawl'd upon the jewelFd earth, or flew, 
 Muster'd their merry notes and frisk'd away, 
 In many colour'd vestments who but they ! 
 
 'Twas sweet the morning minstrelsy to hear, 
 And BASIL felt it to his heart most dear, 
 Although it was no bright unsullied joy, 
 But deeply tinctur'd with a sad alloy ; 
 For, as with painful effort, faint and slow, 
 He gain'd the height that look'd o'er all below, 
 And stopt to rest, and turn'd to gaze behind, 
 A thousand tender thoughts throng'd on his mind. 
 Home look'd so happy in the Morning's smile, , 
 He quite forgot his sufferings there ere while; 
 
78 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 And but for honest shame, that makes us fear 
 The pointed finger, and the taunting sneer, 
 That never fail to greet the wav'ring man 
 Who weakly swerves from any settled plan, 
 He had returned, though certain there again 
 To meet his old associates, Want and Pain. 
 Ah ! there is something in the name of home, 
 That sounds so sweetly as afar we roam ! 
 And who has worried through this world so lone, 
 But in his wand'rings this sad truth has known, 
 Whatever may happen, wheresoe'er we roam, 
 However homely, still there's nought like home. 
 
 In truth it was a landscape wildly gay 
 That 'neath his lofty vision smiling lay ; 
 A sea of mingling hills, with forests crown'd, 
 E'en to their summits, waving all around, 
 Save where some rocky steep aloft was seen, 
 Frowning amid the wild romantic scene, 
 Around whose brow, where human step ne'er trode, 
 Our native Eagle makes his high abode ; 
 Oft in the warring of the whistling gales, 
 Amid the scampering clouds, he bravely sails ; 
 Without an effort winds the loftiest sky, 
 And looks into the Sun with steady eye : 
 Emblem and patron of this fearless land, 
 He mocks the might of any mortal hand, 
 And, proudly seated on his native rock, 
 Defies the World's accumulated shock. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 79 
 
 Here, mid the piling mountains scatter'd round, 
 
 His winding way majestic Hudson found; 
 
 And as he swept the frowning ridge's base, 
 
 In the pure mirror of his morning face, 
 
 A lovelier landscape caught the gazer's view, 
 
 Softer than nature, yet to nature true. 
 
 Now might be seen, reposing in stern pride, 
 
 Against the mountain's steep and rugged side, 
 
 High PUTNAM'S battlements, like tow'r of old, 
 
 Haunt of night-robbing baron, stout and bold, 
 
 Scourge of his neighbour, Nimrod of the chase, 
 
 Slave of his king, and tyrant of his race. 
 
 Beneath its frowning brow, and far below, 
 
 The weltering waves, unheard, were seen to flow 
 
 Hound West Point's rude and adamantine base, 
 
 That call'd to mind old ARNOLD'S deep disgrace, 
 
 ANDRE'S hard fate, lamented, though deserv'd, 
 
 And men, who from their duty never swerv'd 
 
 The HONEST THREE the pride of yeomen bold, 
 
 Who sav'd the country which they might have sold ; 
 
 Refus'd the proffer'd bribe, and, sternly true, 
 
 Did what the man that doubts them ne'er would do. 
 
 Yes ! if the Scroll of never-dying Fame 
 
 Shall tell the truth, 'twill bear each lowly name ; 
 
 And while the wretched man, 1 who vainly tried 
 
 To wound their honour, and his Country's pride, 
 
 1 Alluding to the stigma attempted to be cast on the character 
 of Paulding, Van Wart, and Williams, by Mr. Tallmadge, a 
 member of Congress. 
 
80 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 Shall moulder in the dirt from whence he came. 
 Forgot, or only recollected to his shame, 
 Quoted shall be these gallant, honest men, 
 By many a warrior's voice, and poet's pen, 
 To wake the sleeping spirit of the land, 
 And nerve with energy the patriot band. 
 Beyond, on either side the river's bound, 
 Two lofty promontories darkly frown'd, 
 Through which, in times long past, as learned say, 
 The pent up waters forc'd their stubborn way ; 
 Grimly they frown'd, as menacing the wave, jjcj 
 That storin'd their bulwarks with its current brave, 
 And seem'd to threaten from their shatter'd brow, 
 To crush the vessels all becalm'd below, 
 Whose white sails, hanging idly at the mast, 
 O'er the still waves a deep reflexion cast. 
 Still farther off, the Kaatskill, bold and high, 
 Kiss'd the pure concave of the arched sky, 
 Mingled with that its waving lines of blue, 
 And shut the world beyond from mortal view. 
 
 Twas sunset's hallow'd time and such an eve 
 Might almost tempt an angel Heaven to leave. 
 Never did brighter glories greet the eye, 
 Low in the warm, and ruddy Western sky ; 
 Nor the light clouds at Summer eve unfold 
 More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 81 
 
 Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast 
 Of crystal lake, fast anchored, seem'd to rest, 
 Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, 
 By elfin skill in Fancy's fabled tide ; 
 Where, as wild Eastern legends idly feign. 
 Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. 
 Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, 
 Their flitting airy way are seen to hold, 
 All gallantly equipt with streamers gay, 
 While hands unseen, or Chance directs their way * 
 Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, 
 With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, 
 Gay as the barque, where Egypt's wanton queen 
 Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, 
 At which as gaz'd the uxorious Roman fool, 
 The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. 
 Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, 
 And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade ; 
 The haze of gathering twilight Nature shrouds, 
 And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds. 
 Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm, 
 The silent dews of evening dropt like balm ; 
 The hungry nighthawk from his lone haunt hies, 
 To chase the viewless insect through the skies ; 
 The bat began his lantern-loving flight, 
 The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, 
 Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, 
 His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear ; 
 E 3 
 
82 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, 
 With idle hum, and careless blund'ring eye ; 
 The little trusty watchman of pale night, 
 The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, 
 And took his merry airy circuit round 
 The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, 
 Where blossom'd clover, bath'd in balmy dew, 
 In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing, grew. 
 
 O ! holy Nature ! goddess ever dear, 
 What a fair scene for human bliss was here ! 
 What pleasant rural sports, what calm delights, 
 Dear happy Summer days, and Winter nights, 
 Might in such tranquil nestling place be spent, 
 LiuTd in the downy lap of sweet Content ! 
 But vain it is, that rich and bounteous Heav'n, 
 To wretched man this smiling Earth has giv'n, 
 And all in vain its winning face displays 
 Such beauties to allure his reckless gaze, 
 While this same rash, malignant, reas'ning worm, 
 Bereft of all that's human but the form, 
 Pollutes her bosom with his kindred blood, 
 Turns to rank poison all her profFer'd good, 
 And plays before his Maker's siok'ning eyes, 
 The serpent of this blooming Paradise. 
 Who that had gaz'd upon a scene so fair 
 Had dream'd this world a world of endless care, 
 Where evil deeds lurk ever in our way, 
 And Piety has nought to do but pray ; 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 83 
 
 While all that lures to ill before us lies, 
 And all that tempts to good, is in the skies ? 
 Not with wing'd angels good men wrestle here,. 
 Like him of old, whom Israel's tribes revere ; 
 But with a train of imps, in angel guise, 
 That sometimes even cheat the wary wise : 
 If one is foil'd, another still succeeds, 
 For victory but to harder trials leads, 
 Till tired at last, we quit the hopeless field, 
 Or to the weakest of the tempters yield, 
 And all the hard-earn'd trophies thus restore, 
 "Rather than fight one puny battle more. 
 
 Now reach'd they Susquehanna's classic stream,. 
 Well worthy of the jfoet's lay I deem; 
 And sweetly is it sung by him whose verse 
 Erewhile did Wyoming's sad tale rehearse, 
 In simple, plaintive, melancholy lay, 
 Worthy the sweetest minstrel of our day : 
 No need that I should tell his gentle name, 
 
 You'll find it on the roll of deathless Fame. 
 In toilsome journey many a mile they past, 
 And reach'd long Alleghany's foot at last ; 
 Wild, endless chain ! that rising in the North, 
 Where stout St. Lawrence heaves his waters forth,. 
 Pursues its devious course, firm bas'd and high; 
 Dark barrier of the East and Western sky, 
 
84 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 And knits the sister states in one great band, 
 Ne'er to be severed by a mortal hand. 
 Here, seated where the first and last bright ray 
 Of morn and ev'ning round his footing play, 
 By past time, present, and the future bless'd, 
 Besides the genius of the glowing West. 
 High thron'd amid the pure ethereal skies, 
 The East and West with equal ken he eyes, 
 Watches with equal care each sister state, 
 The new and old, the little, and the great ; 
 With equal pleasure sees the Sun arise 
 In ruddy East, or set in Western skies ; 
 And joys, from petty local feelings free, 
 In ALL the Land's combin'd prosperity. 
 
 Hail, blessed Night ! tir'd Nature's holiday ! 
 When all the lab'ring world has leave to play ; 
 Thou smooth'stthe sweating workman's wrinkled brow, 
 The galley slave, and peasant at the plough: 
 The stooping sitheman, and the axeman good, 
 Whose weapon's like a whirlwind in the wood, 
 Love thy pale shadows, as with watchful eye 
 They trace the Sun adown the western sky : 
 Thou mak'st them sweet amends for toilsome pain 
 By the light rest they find beneath thy reign. 
 Not so th' ill-aeighbour'd lids of Discontent ; 
 They hold no fellowship and night is spent 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 85 
 
 In dull repinings at our wayward fate, 
 Or quarrels with that world we love and hate ; 
 And while rough Labour sleeps on rocks alone, 
 To such the downy pillow seems a stone. 
 Our BASIL beat the lazy Sun next day, 
 And bright and early had been on his way, 
 But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, 
 Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. 
 One endless chaos spread before his eyes, 
 No vestige left of earth or azure skies, 
 A boundless nothingness reign'd every where, 
 Hid the green fields, and silent all the anv 
 As look'd the trav'ller for the world below, 
 The lively morning breeze began to blow, 
 The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, 
 And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. 
 As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, 
 Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, 
 New objects open to his wondering view 
 Of various form, and combinations new, 
 A rocky precipice, a waving wood, 
 Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, 
 Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, 
 Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, 
 Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
 Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold. 
 So when the wandering grand sire of our race 
 On Ararat had found a resting place, 
 
86 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, 
 Mingling on every side with one blue sky ; 
 But as the waters, every passing day, 
 Sunk in the earth, or roll'd in mists away, 
 Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands peep, 
 From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, 
 Then the round hillocks and the meadows green, 
 Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, 
 Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole 
 Combin'd to win the gazing patriarch's soul. 
 Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, 
 In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, 
 Wthin the silent world, some living thing, 
 Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, 
 Or man, or beast alas ! was neither there, 
 Nothing that breath'd of life in earth or air ; 
 J Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay, 
 Whose occupant was drown'd the other day ; 
 A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom 
 Amid the melancholy of the tomb ; 
 A charnel house, where all the human race 
 Had pil'd their bones in one wide resting place ; 
 Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, 
 And sadly sought the lifeless world below. 
 
 Now down the mountain's rugged western side, 
 Descending slow, our lowly travelers hied, 
 Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast 
 The rolling fragments of the mountain rest; 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 87 
 
 Rocks tumbled on each other, by rude chance, 
 Crown'd with gay fern, and mosses, met the glance, 
 Through which a brawling river brav'd its way, 
 Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray. 
 Here, mid the fragments of a broken world, 
 In wild and rough confusion idly hurl'd, 
 Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke, 
 Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak ; 
 With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side, 
 And arms extending round them far and wide, 
 They looked coeval with old mother Earth, 
 And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth. 
 There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base, 
 Our tir'd advent'rers found a resting place ; 
 Beneath its dark, o'erhanging sullen brow, 
 The little bevy nestled snug below, 
 And with right sturdy appetite, and strong, 
 Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along. 
 The squirrel ey'd them from his lofty tree, 
 And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee ; 
 The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were, 
 Or heeded not the strange intruders there, 
 Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race 
 In that sequester'd mountain biding place ; 
 For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend, 
 Man never makes the rural train his friend ; 
 Acquaintance, that brings other beings near, 
 Produces nothing but distrust or fear ; 
 
88 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 Beasts flee from man, the more his heart they know. 
 
 And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow. 
 
 As thus in blithe serenity they sat, 
 
 Beguiling resting time with lively chat, 
 
 A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear, 
 
 Each moment waxing louder, and more near ; 
 
 A dark obscurity spread all around, 
 
 And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground ; 
 
 While not a leaf ev'n of the aspen stirr'd, 
 
 And not a sound, but that low moan, was heard. 
 
 There is a moment when the boldest heart 
 
 That would not stoop an inch to 'scape Death's dart, 
 
 That never shrunk from certain danger here, 
 
 Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear ; 
 
 'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh, 
 
 And Heav'n itself seems threat'ning from on high. 
 
 Brave was our BASIL, as became a man, 
 Yet still his blood a little cooler ran, 
 Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear, 
 That every moment wax'd more loud and near. 
 The riddle soon was read at last it came, 
 And Nature trembled to her inmost frame ; 
 The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak 
 In writhing agonies the storm bespoke, 
 The live leaves scatter'd wildly every where, 
 Whirl'd round in madd'ning circles in the air, 
 The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around, 
 The stoutest trees a stouter master found, 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 89 
 
 Crackling and crashing, down they thund'ring go, 
 And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below : 
 Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd, 
 Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd ; 
 And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore 
 The gather'd spoils of Earth along its shore ; 
 While trees, that not an hour before had stood 
 The lofty monarchs of the stately wood, 
 Now whirling round and round with furious force, 
 Dash 'gainst the rocks that break the torrent's force, 
 And shiver, like a reed by urchin broke 
 Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke ; 
 A hundred cataracts, unknown before, 
 Hush down the mountain's side with fearful roar ; 
 And as with foaming fury down they go, 
 Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below, 
 Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung, 
 Like serpents menacing with forked tongue, 
 While many a sturdy oak that stiffly brav'd 
 The threat'ning hurricane that round it rav'd, 
 Shiver'd beneath its bright resistless flash, 
 Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash. 
 Air, Earth, and Skies, seem'd now to try their powV, 
 And struggle for the mastery of the hour ; 
 Higher the waters rose, and blacker still, 
 And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill. 
 Where are the little bold wayfarers now, 
 We left erewhile beneath the rude rock's brow ? 
 
90 THE BACKWOODSMAN. v 
 
 Does that same Pow'r, whose voice in thunder roars, 
 
 Whose breath, the whirlwind, might, the waters pours, 
 
 Still watch amid this hour of wild alarm, 
 
 And shield the trembling wanderers from harm ? 
 
 Yes ! there they sat like lambs within their fold, 
 
 While all around the swelling waters rolPd, 
 
 Making an island of the little space 
 
 Where they had found their pleasant resting place : 
 
 Close to their pent up feet the torrent past, 
 
 And every moment seem'd as 'twere the last ; 
 
 For still the rain in gathering fury pourM, 
 
 And still the river rose, and louder roar'd. 
 
 The trembling wife and boys sat moveless by, 
 Watching, in breathless stillness, BASIL'S eye, 
 Perchance to see if from its orb there broke 
 A ray that bright deliverance bespoke, 
 For still in Danger's most besetting hour, 
 There is a lofty and resistless power 
 Thron'd in the steady visage and calm eye 
 That knows what danger is, yet dares to die. 
 'Tis here when Hope with long exertions tires, 
 The fainting spirit lights its waning fires, 
 7 Tis here that Weakness, when the blood is froze, 
 Turns her dim eyes, when these she dare unclose, 
 And infant instinct aye to reason true, 
 Looks, and still feels its confidence renew. 
 
 As raving madness, when the fit is o'er, 
 Sinks fainting down, still weaker than before, 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 91 
 
 Sudden tir'd Nature sunk in calm repose ; 
 
 The storm subsided rapid as it rose ; 
 
 The dark clouds sail'd behind the mountain's head, 
 
 The river shrunk within its wonted bed ; 
 
 The laughing sunbeams on its surface play, 
 
 And blithe as birds our pilgrims wend their way ; 
 
 For as upon the wrecks their eyes they cast, 
 
 Their hearts grew lighter for the danger past. 
 
 Few days now brought them to their journey's close, 
 
 And gave the weary wand'rers short repose, 
 
 Ohio's gentle stream before them lay, 
 
 In tranquil silence gliding on its way ; 
 
 And parting, with its current as it ran, 
 
 The prowling savage from the Christian man. 
 
 Here lay dark Pittsburgh, from whose site there broke 
 The manufacturer's black and sparkling smoke, 
 Where Industry and useful Science reign'd, 
 And man, by labour, all his wants sustain'd ; 
 There, 'mid the howling forest dark and drear, 
 Rov'd the wild Indian, wilder than the deer, 
 King of the woods who other blessings priz'd, 
 And arts and industry alike despis'd : 
 Hunting the trade, and war the sport he lov'd, 
 Free as the winds, the dauntless chieftain rov'd, 
 Taunting with bitter ire, the pale-fac'd slave, 
 Who toils for gold from cradle to the grave. 
 Extremes of habits, manners, time and space, 
 Brought close together, here stood face to face, 
 
92 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 And gave at once a contrast to the view 
 That other lands and ages never knew ; 
 Pass but the river, and that world, where meet 
 Of bland society each courteous sweet, 
 Is left behind for manners wild and rude, 
 And scenes of death, or deathlike solitude. 
 Sweet river of the West ! a purer wave, 
 A fairer region never yet did lave ! 
 Tranquil, and smooth, and clear, its current roves 
 Through flowery meadows, and long sylvan groves ; 
 Winding in silence on its destin'd way, 
 Idly it lingers with a sweet delay, 
 And often turns, as if its course to find, 
 Back to the smiling scenes it left behind. 
 Sweet river of the West ! though yet unsung 
 By native bard, thy native vales among 
 Though yet no strains of native music pour, 
 To wake the sleeping echoes of thy shore, 
 Ere long some minstrel from thy banks shall spring, 
 And track thy wand'rings with a loftier wing, 
 In worthier strains thy various charms rehearse, 
 And in oblivion drown my weaker verse. 
 
 Now, fare thee well dear haunts of social men ! 
 Long may it be, ere we shall meet again ! 
 Farewell the village church, and tolling bell 
 Sounding to prayers, or rustic fun'ral knell ; 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 9! 
 
 The lively fields, where men and herds are seen 
 Sporting, and lab'ring morn and eve between ; 
 The smoke of rural hamlet curling high 
 Above the trees, in peaceful Summer sky ; 
 The ploughman's whistle, and the lambkin's bleat, 
 The tinkling music of the herd, so sweet 
 All, all farewell ! far other scenes of life, 
 Rude forest labours, and wild savage strife, 
 My vent'rous song, perchance, will soon rehearse, 
 And rougher scenes demand a loftier verse. 
 
 Come then, our native Muse bred in the wild, 
 Drear Solitude and lonely Fancy's child ! 
 If ever thou didst shiver and turn pale, 
 Yet love to listen to some bloody tale, 
 That thrill'd with wild and terrible alarm, 
 Yet held thee breathless in its magic charm ; 
 If ever thou didst pause in moss-grown glen, 
 Unprinted yet by track of wandering men, 
 To listen to the wolf's long quavering howl, 
 Or shrill sharp shriek of twilight prowling owl, 
 Whose music turns the startled ploughman pale, 
 As lone, like thee, he lingers in the dale, 
 Musing on rustic damsel, passing fair, 
 Whose eye half promis'd she would meet him there ;- 
 If ever in some cloud-bespeckled night, 
 When the moon glanc'd a wayward flickering light, 
 And shadows ever changing in the breeze, 
 Seem shapeless monsters gliding through the trees, 
 
94 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 Thou wert beguil'd through church-yard path to roam, 
 That led, perchance, a nearer way to home, 
 And fancy 'd that there met thy watchful ear, 
 A sound, so low, so sad, so chill, and drear, 
 As if some long clos'd, clammy, fleshless grave 
 Had op'd its stubborn jaws, and groaning gave 
 Its mouldering bones awhile to roam at will 
 Through midnight shades all damp and deadly still, 
 Until Aurora, and her sprightly train, 
 Should chase them to their narrow cell again ; 
 If such thy haunts and themes, I woo thee now, 
 Come hover o'er thy lowly suppliant's brow, 
 And with thy gloomy soul my verse inspire, 
 While vent'rously I wake the untouch'd lyre. 
 
 As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide, 
 Oarless and sailless silently they glide, 
 How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair, 
 Was the lone land that met the strangers there ! 
 No smiling villages, or curling smoke, 
 The busy haunts of busy men bespoke ; 
 No solitary hut, the banks along, 
 Sent forth blithe Labour's homely rustic song, 
 No urchin gambol'd on the smooth white sand, 
 Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand, 
 While playmate dog plung'd in the clear blue wave, 
 And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save. 
 Where now are seen along the river side, 
 Young busy towns, in buxom painted pride, 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 95 
 
 And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd, 
 To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound ; 
 Nothing appear'd, but Nature unsubdu'd, 
 One endless, noiseless, woodland solitude ; 
 Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be 
 As level, and as lifeless as the sea ; 
 They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone, 
 Heirs of the Earth the land was all their own ! 
 Twas Evening now the hour of toil was o'er, 
 Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore, 
 Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep, 
 And spring upon, and murder them in sleep ; 
 So through the livelong night they held their way, 
 And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day, 
 So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign, 
 They car'd not though the day ne'er came again. 
 The Moon high wheel'd the distant hills above, 
 Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove, 
 That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell, 
 Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well 
 That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd, 
 That zephyr was the only sound they heard. 
 No deep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray'd, 
 No lights upon the shore, or waters play'd, 
 No loud laugh broke upon the silent air, 
 To tell the wand'rers man was nestling there ; 
 While even the fro ward babe in mother's arms, 
 Lull'd by the scene, suppress'd its loud alarms, 
 
96 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 And, yielding to that moment's tranquil sway, 
 Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away. 
 All, all was still, on gliding barque and shore, 
 As if the Earth now slept to wake no more ; 
 Life seem'd extinct, as when the World first smil'd, 
 Ere ADAM was a dupe, or EVE beguil'd. 
 
 In such a scene the Soul oft walks abroad, 
 For Silence is the energy of GOD ! 
 Not in the blackest Tempest's midnight scowl, 
 The Earthquake's rocking, or the Whirlwind's howl, 
 Not from the crashing thunder-rifted cloud, 
 Does His immortal mandate speak so loud, 
 As when the silent Night around her throws 
 Her star-bespangled mantle of repose ; 
 Thunder, and Whirlwind, and the Earth's dread shake, 
 The selfish thoughts of man alone awake ; 
 His lips may prate of Heav'n, but all his fears 
 Are for himself, though pious he appears. 
 But when all Nature sleeps in tranquil smiles, 
 What sweet yet lofty thought the Soul beguiles ! 
 There's not an object 'neath the Moon's bright beam, 
 There's not a shadow dark'ning on the stream, 
 There's not a star that jewels yonder skies, 
 Whose bright reflexion on the water lies, 
 That does not in the lifted mind awake 
 Thoughts that of Love and Heav'n alike partake ; 
 While all its newly waken'd feelings prove, 
 That Love is Heaven, and GOD the Soul of Love. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 97 
 
 In such sweet times the spirit rambles forth 
 Beyond the precincts of this grov'ling Earth, 
 Expatiates in a brighter world than this, 
 And plunging in the Future's dread abyss, 
 Proves an existence separate, and refin'd, 
 By leaving its frail tenement behind. 
 So felt our BASIL, as he sat the while, 
 Guiding his boat, beneath the moonbeam's smile. 
 For there are thoughts, which GOD alike has giv'n 
 To high and low and these are thoughts of Heav'n. 
 
 Back shrunk the madbrain'd wanderer stung with 
 
 spleen, 
 
 And sick'ning at this peaceful village scene ; 
 It minded him of times he once had known, 
 Ere doom'd to wander through the earth alone ; 
 For on this spot he once had reign'd a king, 
 O'er man and beast, and every living thing ; 
 In this fair haunt from boy to man he grew, 
 And tasted all the bliss the savage knew ; 
 Here had he seen his people happy dwell, 
 Here had they fought, were conquered, and all fell. 
 A flood of tenderness rush'd on his mind, 
 And for one moment the poor wretch grew blind ; 
 A thrill, for many, and many a year unknown, 
 Cut through his heart, though harden'd into stone ; 
 F 
 
98 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 A tear, the only one that e'er had stain'd 
 
 His manhood's cheek, unbrush'd away remain'd ; 
 
 And, for one breath, his lone and wretched lot 
 
 Was in the mem'ry of the past forgot. 
 
 But 'twas a moment only that engag'd 
 
 His tender thoughts the next his bosom rag'd ; 
 
 Indignantly he brush'd the tear away, 
 
 And as more hotly glows the Sun's bright ray, 
 
 When past the Summer shower that soon is o'er, 
 
 And leaves it brighter than it was before, 
 
 His swelling heart with keener vengeance burn'd, 
 
 And all his tenderness to fury turn'd. 
 
 " Ayerest ye safe awhile" he madly cried ; 
 " Bask in the sunshine on my river's side, 
 " While the true lord of wave and wood and soil, 
 " Skulks from his home, and howls and starves the 
 
 while. 
 
 " Sleep soundly yet, ye curs'd devoted train, 
 " Ere long ye'll slumber ne'er to wake again, 
 " Or wake to hear the death-denouncing yell, 
 " House for the last time, with its echoing swell, 
 " To see your dwellings wrapt in midnight flames, 
 " Hear helpless babes, and wives invoke your names; 
 " And call upon the Christian God in vain, 
 " To be their safeguard, yet, jet once again. 
 " How silent all around how mild the eve ! 
 " Farewell awhile a little while I leave 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 99 
 
 " These gentle haunts, which when again I see, 
 " Wo to the white-man he'll remember me !" 
 
 This said, he turn'd him to the glowing West, 
 Where day's last tints upon the light clouds rest ; 
 And turning, saw an aged pilgrim stand 
 Beneath an oak, with rustic staff in hand ; 
 Who seem'd, e'en like that day's departing sun, 
 As if his race on earth were almost run. 
 Sudden the murd'rous tomahawk he drew, 
 And, wing'd by vengeance, on his victim flew ; 
 But as he look'd upon the old man's face, 
 There was a mild and melancholy grace 
 A fearless resignation so divine, 
 An eye that so forgivingly did shine, 
 As stopt awhile the Prophet's mad career, 
 And made him pause 'twixt reverence and fear. 
 He seem'd like patriarch of some distant age, 
 Return'd awhile to linger on this stage ; 
 Bald was his brow so very deadly fair, 
 As if no drop of blood now mantled there ; 
 A few white hairs, like flaky snow unstain'd, 
 The reliques of a century, remain'd; 
 And his calm eye, as in a mirror, shew'd 
 The mild reflexion of a mind subdu'd ; 
 No boiling passion foam'd and eddied there, 
 Av'rice or gluttony, or selfish care ; 
 But all was like the twilight's peaceful hue, 
 When gentle skies in silence shed their dew. 
 F 2 
 
100 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 The Prophet gaz'd upon the bloodless sage, 
 And reverenc'd the divinity of age ; 
 Were he an infant still his blood should flow, 
 For helpless babes to sturdy warriors grow ; 
 But time can ne'er the old man's strength restore, 
 Or wake the sleeping vigour of fourscore. 
 " Old man !" he roughly cried, " what makes ye here, 
 " Dost not the wolf or bloody Indian fear ; 
 " For bloody is the word the whites bestow 
 " On those who fight, the only way they know ?" 
 
 " I go," replied the gracious, aged man, 
 " To spend the remnant of my life's short span, 
 " In preaching truth to Nature's erring child, 
 " That roams in darkness through the desert wild, 
 " The Bible's holy eloquence to speak, 
 " And teach the red-man, our true God to seek." 
 
 " Your God ! the bitter mockery withhold 
 " Your God ! you have no other god than gold! 
 " For this," the maniac cried, " for this alone, 
 " You bow before your Godhead's gilded throne ; 
 " For this you murder, plunder, cheat, defame, 
 " With false aspersions blast your brother's name ; 
 " Sell mothers, daughters, nay, your very wives, 
 " Barter religion, trade in human lives ; 
 " Break Heaven's high mandates, spurn the law's con 
 trol, 
 " And stake 'gainst money an immortal soul ! 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 101 
 
 " Come not to our lone woods, old man, I say, 
 " But bear your crazy frame some other way ; 
 <( And ere for distant converts thus you roam, 
 " See if there's nothing left to do at home : 
 " There, if thou wilt, thy nursery tales unfold, 
 " Till every soul fall down and worship gold 
 " The Saviour of thy race died not for us, 
 " He died to be the Indian's lasting curse." 
 
 " Mistaken man !" the graybeard mildly cried ; 
 " For thee, and us, alike the Saviour died ! 
 " Look the kind Christian, whom thou would'st de 
 stroy, 
 
 " Shall lead thee to bright paths of peace and joy, 
 " The arts of life, and social comforts teach, 
 " And happiness beyond thy fancy's reach ; 
 " Show thee to plough the yet uncultur'd field, 
 " And reap in peace whatever prize it yield; 
 " Make thy dark intellect with light to glow, 
 " And taste the sweets of knowing what we know; 
 " Give present comfort here, and future bliss 
 " In a far lovelier paradise than this; 
 " Make thee a man while living, and when dead 
 " An angel, in the realms where angels tread." 
 
 " Accurs'd," exclaim'd the maniac, " be thy care 
 " I know what things your Christian Indians are ! 
 " O ! I have seen them naked and forlorn, 
 " Of every attribute of manhood shorn ; 
 
102 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 " Skulking from town to town, a worthless race, 
 
 " Earning the wages of their deep disgrace, 
 
 " Shooting for liquor with the selfsame bow, 
 
 " That laid the red-man of the forest low ; 
 
 " And, sunk beneath the lowest Christian knave, 
 
 '* Take kicks and buffets from the white-man's slave. 
 
 " These are the product of your Christian love, 
 
 " Men while on earth, and angels when above ! 
 
 " Now what are we, who in the woodlands reign, 
 
 " The lords of all the skulking forest train ; 
 
 " Who through long trackless wilds pursue the deer, 
 
 " And live in dangers all the rolling year? 
 
 " Are we not men who know no other trade, 
 
 " Than war and hunting, sports for warriors made ; 
 
 " Who though nor guide nor compass point the way, 
 
 " Track beast or man, where'er they chance to stray; 
 
 " Ev'n though the white-man, with his purblind eyes, 
 
 " No vestige of a passing footstep spies ? 
 
 " Who tell each hour of day or pitchy night, 
 
 " When sun and twinkling stars deny their light; 
 
 " Fight to the last, and when at length o'erthrown, 
 
 " Tortures endure, and die without a groan ? 
 
 " Tell me, wise graybeard those that do these things, 
 
 " Are they not men, and worthy to be kings ?" 
 
 " True," cried the old man, " ye are men, I know, 
 " Men that disgrace their Maker, here below; 
 " Whose gods are imps red hot from scorching Hell, 
 " Whose paradise, where store of beavers dwell ; 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 103 
 
 " Whose mercy is the captive wretch to tear, 
 " Whose pride, the bloody dripping scalp to wear; 
 " To howl around where some poor victim lies, 
 " Shriv'ling in fires, and by slow inches dies. 
 " Alas ! the ruthless thing that never spares, 
 " Is not a man, though manhood's form he wears ; 
 " He does belie the mercy of sweet Heav'n, 
 " And damns himself, by prayers to be forgiv'n." 
 " And dost thou prate of mercy ! O, full well, 
 " Of Christian mercies can our Indians tell ! 
 " You spar'd their lives, to drive them from their home, 
 " Like scouting beasts in distant wilds to roam ; 
 " You did not kill them, like a generous foe, 
 " And end their sufferings with one manly blow; 
 '* You spar'd them for long exile, and disgrace 
 " Spar'd them to see the ruin of their race 
 " Spar'd them for keener tortures, woes more dire 
 " Than scalping-knife, or slow consuming fire. 
 " We view such trifles with unflinching eye, 
 " 7 Tis nothing for a warrior thus to die ; 
 " But I old man, if thou hadst ten times died, 
 " Thou ne'er hadst known the suff 'rings I abide, 
 " That shrivel this tough heart with woes so keen, 
 " They make me wish that I had never been. 
 " Look ! if the waning lamp of thine old eye 
 " Gives light enough far objects to descry 
 " Look, what a peaceful scene, how mild, how fair, 
 " Bares its sweet bosom to the cooling air ! 
 
104 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 " Canst see the noiseless wave unruffled glide 
 " Round yonder isle that parts its gentle tide, 
 " Whose fringed shore reflected in the stream, 
 " Like shadowy land of souls, far off does seem ? 
 " Dost see yon moon, like sky-hung Indian bow, 
 " Across the wave a line of radiance throw, 
 " That seems a silver bridge, perchance to guide 
 " The wand'ring soul across the rippling tide, 
 " To that fair isle, whose soften'd landscapes show 
 " So green and pleasant in the wave below ? 
 
 " Think hadst thou dwelt in such a smiling land, 
 " Cherish'd, and cherishing a brother band; 
 " Not one of whom from foe did ever flee, 
 " Not one of whom but would have died for thee 
 " Think, hadst thou tasted all the pleasures here, 
 " That habit and long uses make so dear; 
 " All other modes of living but thine own, 
 " All other happiness to thee unknown ; 
 " Still following up the paths thy fathers trod, 
 " Still worshipping thy fathers' ancient God 
 " Think, had some roving band of red-men came, 
 " And wrapt thy dwellings in wide-wasting flame, 
 " With bloody might cleft down thy helpless race, 
 " And left thee without friend or biding place, 
 " Because thou didst not choose to roam the wild, 
 " And live the life so dear to Nature's child - 
 " Wouldst thou aye, wouldst thou then his mercy 
 
 praise, 
 " That he did lengthen out thy doleful days, 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 105 
 
 " And curse thee with a load of worthless life, 
 
 " Reft of thy old associates, babes, and wife ; 
 
 " Loathing the present as a bitter curse, 
 
 " Fearing the future, that still threaten'd worse; 
 
 " Yet bearing still to live, in hopes one day, 
 
 " The bloody debt with interest to repay? 
 
 " Such was, such is, my lone and wretched lot 
 
 " But what of that in sooth, it matters not; 
 
 " I cannot write my wrongs, nor make appeal 
 
 " To those who watch o'er other people's weal ; 
 
 " And if to Heav'n I raise the suppliant prayer, 
 
 " And ask redress, I get no justice there; 
 
 " For as ye rule on earth, so in the skies 
 
 " Rules your great God, and all redress denies. 
 
 " See I" cried he, as the frenzy caught his brain 
 " How their white bones lie bleaching on the plain ! 
 " Their shadows haunt me wheresoe'er I stray, 
 " Their howling shades still cross my fearful way; 
 " I have no other kindred now but these, 
 " I hear no other music in the breeze ; 
 " They call upon me in shrill dismal screams, 
 " They haunt my waking thoughts, my nightly dreams; 
 " Whene'er I stretch my hand, their cold, cold clasp, 
 " I feel like ice within my shrinking grasp; 
 " With shades I dwell, they haunt me every where> 
 " And howl for vengeance in the midnight air. 
 " Buried within this gloomy vault alive, 
 
 " Vainly to quit its mildew'd walls I strive, 
 F 3 
 
106 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 " Condemn'd with worms and mouldering bones to bide, 
 
 " And ghosts that chatter as before they died. 
 
 '* Go go in peace ere yet thy limbs T tear, 
 
 " And cheat with half a meal, some half-starv'd bear!" 
 
 " I pity thee Heaven knows I pity thee, 
 *' And wish to Heav'n such things might never be. 
 '* But learn of me, thou lone and wretched man, 
 " 'Tis impious the ways of GOD to scan. 
 " For so it is, alas ! or right or wrong, 
 " The weak are ever victims of the strong ; 
 " In polish'd states the master mind presides, 
 " In barb'rous nations force of arm still guides ; 
 *' Mind in the one the stoutest nerves obey, 
 " Force in the other holds despotic sway. 
 " If thou wouldst let us, we would be thy friends, 
 *' And for thy ancient wrongs make rich amends; 
 " From long-remember'd woes thy thoughts beguile, 
 " And teach this world to wear its sweetest smile, 
 " By pointing all thy hopes to yonder skies, 
 " Where the lost bliss of every mortal lies ; 
 " There shall you find, if still ye seek aright, 
 " The baffling Bliss, and fugitive Delight, 
 " That stopt a moment with their laughing train, 
 " Then bade good-bye, and never call'd again. 
 " O ! come with me ! thou wild bewilder'd thing, 
 " Leave vengeance to yon sky-enthroned King, 
 " That better knows than you, to spare or strike, 
 " And punishes the wicked all alike ; 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 107 
 
 " Here, if they 'scape, still, still they meet their doom, 
 " In fires that never quench, and ne'er consume ; 
 " Forgiving, and forgiv'n, thy days shall glide 
 " Smoothly and brightly as yon sparkling tide; 
 " The white-man shall thy age's weakness bless, 
 " The red-men cherish, and their wrongs redress ; 
 " Teach them to tread the only path that guides 
 " The steps of man where Truth and Justice bides; 
 " Give them rich lands, where they may dwell in peace, 
 " And every passing year their stores increase." 
 
 " Fair promises ! but canst thou wake the grave ? 
 " They have no lives to bless, no souls to save. 
 " Hast thou forgot, or dost thou mean to jeer? 
 " I told thee that I had no kindred here ; 
 " And, if I had, think'st thou I would forego 
 " The only hope that lights me here below ; 
 " Sell my revenge, forget my murder'd tribe, 
 " And cheat my kinsmen for a worthless bribe ? 
 " Thy memory is bad, thou dost forget 
 " I am a savage, not converted yet 
 " ? Tis for the white-man, who his Maker sold, 
 " To sell his brothers for accursed gold. 
 " Peace peace, thou hoary tempter of fourscore 
 " Begone ! and never seek these woodlands more ; 
 " Away !" he cried, with frenzy-lighten'd brow, 
 " Were I a Christian I would scalp thee now ; 
 " Go home, and lie amid thy very pray'rs, 
 " And say the bloody Indian never spares." 
 
108 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 This said he darted in the woods amain , 
 To seek his warriors of the wilds again. 
 The aged Pilgrim, sighing, turn'd away, 
 And marvell'd so that he forgot to pray, 
 That men were born with such a stubborn mind, 
 And hearts so hard, and eyes so wilful blind. 
 
109 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 THIS sprightly little poem is one of the cleverest 
 efforts of the American Muse. It is the first at 
 tempt which has been made by the transatlantic 
 poets to imitate a style of writing, with which we 
 were but imperfectly acquainted before the publi 
 cation of the " Prospectus of an intended National 
 Poem," and which has since been rendered popular 
 by " Beppo," and " Don Juan." The great art in 
 this species of composition seems to be, to disap 
 point the feelings of the reader, by a provoking 
 mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous, and by 
 an equal confusion of imagery and expression. 
 The Author of " Fanny" seems to have been very 
 successful in catching this spirit, and it will per 
 haps be thought, that in some passages he fully 
 equals his English prototypes. The story is ex 
 tremely simple, and it is to be feared, by no means 
 
110 FANNY. 
 
 an uncommon one. It is merely a brief sketch of 
 the history of Fanny's father, a New York mer 
 chant, whose commercial speculations ultimately 
 prove unsuccessful. A portion of the poem, in no 
 way connected with the narrative, has heen omitted, 
 as containing local remarks, but little interesting to 
 the British reader. An English edition of " Fanny" 
 has been published, but does not appear to have 
 had a very extensive circulation. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 " A fairy vision 
 
 Of some gay creatures of the element, 
 That in the colours of the rainbow live 
 And play in the plighted clouds." MILTON. 
 
 I. 
 
 FANNY was younger once than she is now, 
 And prettier of course : I do not mean 
 
 To say, that there are wrinkles on her brow 
 Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen 
 
 Perhaps past twenty but the girl is shy 
 
 About her age, and God forbid that I 
 
FANNY. Ill 
 
 11. 
 
 Should get myself in trouble by revealing 
 A secret of this sort : I have too long 
 
 Lov'd pretty women with a poet's feeling ; 
 And when a boy, in day-dream and in song, 
 
 Have knelt me down and worshipp'd them : alas ! 
 
 They never thank'd me for't but let that pass. 
 
 III. 
 
 I've felt full many a heart-ache in my day, 
 At the mere rustling of a muslin gown ; 
 
 And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say, 
 While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown. 
 
 They say her smiles are sunbeams it may be 
 
 But never a sunbeam would she throw on me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze on 
 Por half an hour, without the slightest harm : 
 
 E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on, 
 There was but little danger ; and the charm 
 
 That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell. 
 
 Hers is a sad, sad tale 'tis mine its woes to tell. 
 
112 FANNY. 
 
 V. 
 
 Her father kept, some fifteen years ago, 
 A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street, 
 
 And nurs'd his little earnings, sure though slow; 
 Till, having muster'd wherewithal to meet 
 
 The gaze ot the great world, he breath'd the air 
 
 Of Pearl-street and set up in Hanover-square. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Money is power, 'tis said I never tried ; 
 
 For I'm a poet and bank-notes to me 
 Are curiosities, as closely eyed, 
 
 Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be, 
 Toss'd from the moon on Doctor MitchilPs table, 
 Or classic brick-bat from the tower of Babel. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But he I sing of well has known and felt 
 That money hath a power and a dominion ; 
 
 For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt, 
 No one would give a sous for his opinion. 
 
 And though his neighbours were extremely civil, 
 
 Yet, on the whole, they thought him a poor devil 
 
FANNY. 113 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A decent kind of person ; one whose head 
 
 Was not of brains particularly full ; 
 It was not known that he had ever said 
 
 Any thing worth repeating 'twas a dull, 
 Good, honest man what Paulding's muse would call 
 A " cabbage head," but he excelled them all 
 
 IX. 
 
 In that most noble of the sciences, 
 
 The art of making money; and he found 
 
 The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less 
 As he grew richer ; till upon the ground 
 
 Of Pearl- street, treading proudly in the might 
 
 And majesty of wealth, a sudden lightr 
 
 X. 
 
 Flash'd like the midnight lightning on the eyes 
 Of all who knew him ; brilliant traits of mind, 
 
 And genius, clear and countless as the dies 
 Upon the peacock's plumage ; taste refin'd, 
 
 Wisdom and wit, were his perhaps much more. 
 
 Twas strange they had not found it out before. 
 
114 FANNY. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In this quick transformation, it is true 
 
 That cash had no small share ; but there were still 
 Some other causes, which then gave a new 
 
 Impulse to head and heart, and join'd to fill 
 His brain with knowledge ; for there first he met 
 The editor of the New- York Gazette, 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sapient Mr. Lang. The world of him 
 Knows much ; yet not one half so much as he 
 
 Knows of the world. Up to its very brim 
 The goblet of his mind is sparkling free 
 
 With lore and learning. Could proud Sheba's queen 
 
 In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This modern Solomon the Israelite, 
 
 Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her. 
 
 He would have hang'd himself for very spite ; 
 
 And she, blest woman, might have had the honour 
 
 Of some neat " paragraphs" worth all the lays 
 
 That Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise. 
 
FANNY. 115 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Her star arose too soon ; but that which sway'd 
 Th' ascendant at our merchant's natal hour 
 
 Was bright with better destiny its aid 
 Led him to pluck, within the classic bower 
 
 Of bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge ; 
 
 And Lang supplied the loss of school and college. 
 
 XV. 
 
 For there he learn'd the news some minutes sooner 
 Than others could ; and to distinguish well 
 
 The different signals, whether ship or schooner, 
 Hoisted at Staten-Island ; and to tell 
 
 The change of wind, and of his neighbours' fortunes, 
 
 And, best of all he there learn'd self-importance. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Nor were these all the advantages derived 
 From change of scene ; for near his domicil, 
 
 He of the pair of polish'd lamps/ then liv'd ; 
 And in my hero's promenades, at will, 
 
 Could he behold them burning and their flame 
 
 Kindled within his breast the love of fame, 
 
116 FANNY. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And politics, and country ; the pure glow 
 Of patriot ardour, and the consciousness 
 
 That talents such as his might well bestow 
 A lustre on the city ; she would bless 
 
 His name ; and that some service should be done her, 
 
 He pledged " life, fortune, and his sacred honour." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And when the sounds of music and of mirth, 
 Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there, 
 
 Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearth 
 Fanny and he were seated he would dare 
 
 To whisper fondly, that the time might come, 
 
 When he and his could give as brilliant Routs at home. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And oft would Fanny near that mansion linger, 
 When the cold winter moon was high in heaven 
 
 And trace out, by the aid of fancy's finger, 
 Cards for some future party to be given, 
 
 When she, in turn, should be a belle, and they 
 
 Had lived their little hour, and pass'd away. 
 
FANNY. 1 I 
 
 XX. 
 
 There are some happy moments in this lone 
 And desolate world of ours, that well repay 
 
 The toil of struggling through it, and atone 
 For many a long, sad night and weary day. 
 
 They come upon the mind like some wild air 
 
 Of distant music, when we know not where, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Orwhence,the sounds are brought from; and their pow'r, 
 Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, 
 
 Oft dreamed of, sparkles near its rose-wreath'd bower, 
 And cloudless skies before us : we become 
 
 Chang'd on the instant all gold leaf and gilding ; 
 
 This is, in vulgar phrase, call'd castle building. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon : 'tis vain 
 To bid them linger longer, or to ask 
 
 On what day they intend to call again ; 
 And surely, 'twere a philosophic task, 
 
 Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure, 
 
 To find some means to summon them at pleasure. 
 
118 FANNY. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There certainly are powers of doing this, 
 
 In some degree at least for instance, drinking. 
 
 Champagne will bathe the heart awhile in bliss, 
 And keep the head a little time from thinking 
 
 Of cares or creditors the best wine in town, 
 
 You'll get from Lynch the cash must be paid down. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But if you are a bachelor, like me, 
 
 And spurn all chains, even though made of roses, 
 I'd recommend cigars there is a free 
 
 And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes 
 On the dim shadowy clouds, that hover o'er you, 
 When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Dear to the exile is his native land, 
 In memory's twilight beauty seen afar : 
 
 Dear to the broker is a note of hand, 
 Collaterally secured the polar star 
 
 Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, 
 
 And dear are Bristed's volumes at " half-price ;" 
 
FANNY. 119 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But dearer far to ine each fairy minute 
 Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief ; 
 
 There is an airy web of magic in it, 
 As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief, 
 
 Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of sorrow, 
 
 The gathering gloom to-day the thunder-cloud to 
 morrow. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And these are innocent thoughts a man may sit 
 Upon a bright throne of his own creation, 
 
 Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit 
 Around the many, whose exalted station 
 
 Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on; 
 
 Just for the rhyme's sake instance Mr. Clinton. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathes 
 The mountain air at last ; but there are others 
 
 Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths 
 Of power, his early partisans and brothers, 
 
 That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung, 
 
 TJnhonour'd and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung. 
 
120 FANNY. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloon 
 Of party ; and they hop'd, when it arose, 
 
 To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon, 
 
 Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes. 
 
 Alas ! like Guille's car, it soar'd without them, 
 
 And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Though Fanny's moonlight dreams were sweet as those 
 I've dwelt so long upon they were more stable ; 
 
 Hers were not " castles in the air" that rose 
 Bas'd upon nothing ; for her sire was able, 
 
 As well she knew, to buy out the one half 
 
 Of Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight Rout, 
 From dandy coachmen, whose exquisite grin 
 
 And ruffian lounge flash brilliantly without, 
 Down to their brother dandies rang'd within, 
 
 Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on, 
 
 And sapient as the oysters they are fed on. 
 
FANNY. 121 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And Rumour (she's a famous liar, yet 
 Tis wonderful how easy we believe her,) 
 
 Had whisper'd he was rich, and all he met 
 
 In Wall-street, nodded, smiled, and tipped the beaver; 
 
 All, from Mr. Gelston, the Collector, 
 
 Down to the broker and the bank director. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A few brief years pass'd over, and his rank 
 Among the worthies of that street was fix'd ; 
 
 He had become director of a bank, 
 And six insurance offices, and mix'd 
 
 Familiarly, as one among his peers, 
 
 With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers, 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Brokers of all grades stock and pawn and Jews 
 Of all religions, who at noon-day form, 
 
 On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral Muse 
 Delights in, where the heart is pure and warm, 
 
 And each exerts his intellectual force 
 
 To cheat his neighbour honestly of course. 
 G 
 
122 FANNY. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And there he shone a planetary star, 
 
 Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams 
 
 From his were borrow'd. The simile is not far 
 From truth for many bosom friends, it seems, 
 
 Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget 
 
 To pay indeed they have not paid him yet. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But these he <Jeem'd as trifles, when each mouth 
 Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose 
 
 Upon his willing ear, " like the sweet south 
 Upon a bank of violets," from those 
 
 Who knew his talents, virtues, and so forth ; 
 
 That is knew how much money he was worth. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Alas ! poor human nature ; had he been 
 But satisfied with this, his golden days 
 
 Their setting hour of darkness had not seen, 
 And he might still (in the mercantile phrase) 
 
 Be living " in good order and condition ;" 
 
 But he was ruined by that jade Ambition. 
 
FANNY. 123 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But whither am I wandering ? The esteem 
 I bear " this fairy city of the heart," 
 
 To me a dear enthusiastic theme, 
 
 Has forc'd me, all unconsciously, to part 
 
 Too long from him, the hero of my story. 
 
 Where was he ? waking from his dream of glory. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, 
 
 And left him somewhat puzzled and confused. 
 
 He understood, however, half she said ; 
 And that is quite as much as we are used 
 
 To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, 
 
 En speeches heard at any public meeting. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And the next evening found him at the Hail ; 
 
 There he was welcom'd by the cordial hand ; 
 Vnd met the warm and friendly grasp of all 
 
 Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand. 
 A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring, 
 To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren. 
 G 2 
 
124 FANNY. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Twas a propitious moment ; for awhile, 
 The waves of party were at rest. Upon 
 
 Each complacent brow was gay good humour's smile ; 
 And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun; 
 
 And high amid the circle, in great glee, 
 
 Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Tassie. 
 
 LXX1II. 
 
 His jokes excelled the rest, and oft he sang 
 Songs patriotic, as in duty bound. 
 
 He had a little of the " nasal twang 
 
 " Heard at conventicle ;" but yet you found 
 
 In him a dash of purity and brightness, 
 
 That spoke the man of taste, and of politeness. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 He'd read the newspapers, with great attention, 
 Advertisements and all ; and Riley's book 
 
 Of travels valued for its rich invention ; 
 
 And Day and Turner's Price Current ; and took 
 
 The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews ; 
 
 And also, Colonel Pell's and, to amuse 
 
FANNY. 125 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 His leisure hours with classic tale and story, 
 Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street, 
 
 And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository ; 
 
 And MitchilFs scientific works complete, 
 
 With other standard books of modern days, 
 
 Lay on his table, cover'd with green baize. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 His travels had extended to Bath races ; 
 
 And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen; 
 And Harlaem Heights ; and many other places, 
 
 By sea and land, had visited ; and been 
 In a steam-boat of the Vice President's, 
 To Staten-Island once for fifty cents. 
 
 XC. 
 
 And he had din'd, by special invitation, 
 On turtle, with the party at Hoboken 
 
 And thank'd them for his card, in an oration, 
 Declar'd to be the shortest ever spoken. 
 
 And he had stroll'd one day o'er Weehawk hill; 
 
 A day worth all the rest he recollects it still. 
 
126 FANNY. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Weehawken ! in thy mountain scenery yet, 
 All we adore of nature in her wild 
 
 And frolic hour of infancy, is met ; 
 
 And never has a summer's morning smil'd 
 
 Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye 
 
 Of the enthusiast revels on when high, 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs 
 
 O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, 
 
 And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes 
 The breathless moment when his daring step 
 
 Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear 
 
 The low dash of the wave with startled ear, 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Like the death-music of his coming doom, 
 
 And clings to the green turf with desperate force, 
 
 As the heart clings to life ; and when resume 
 The currents in his veins their wonted course, 
 
 There lingers a deep feeling like the moan 
 
 Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. 
 
FANNY. V27 
 
 XC1V. 
 
 In such an hour he turns, and on his view, 
 
 Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him. 
 
 Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue 
 Of Summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him 
 
 The city bright below ; and far away, 
 
 Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay* 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
 And banners floating in the sunny air ; 
 
 And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, 
 Green isle and circling shore, are blended there, 
 
 In wild reality. When life is old, 
 
 And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Its memory of this ; nor lives there one 
 
 Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days 
 Of happiness, were pass'd beneath that sun, 
 
 That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze 
 Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, 
 Nor feel the prouder of his native land. 
 
.128 FANNY. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 " This may be poetry for aught I know," 
 
 Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
 
 Over my shoulder as I wrote, " altho' 
 " I can't exactly comprehend its meaning. 
 
 " For my part, I have long been a petitioner 
 
 " To Mr. John M'Caib, the street commissioner, 
 
 XCVI1I. 
 
 " That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it 
 " Handsomely out in avenue and square ; 
 
 " Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it, 
 " (As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere,) 
 
 " Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel ; 
 
 " 'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel." 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 The devil take you and John M'Caib, said I ; 
 
 Lang, in its praise, has penn'd one paragraph, 
 And promised me another. I defy, 
 
 With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh ; 
 And half believe that Paulding, on this theme, 
 Might be a poet strange as it may seem. 
 
FANNY. 129 
 
 C. 
 
 For even our traveller felt, when home returning 
 From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood, 
 
 The fire of poetry within him burning ; 
 " Albeit, unused to rhyming mood ;" 
 
 And with a pencil on his knee he wrote 
 
 The following flaming lines to the Horse-Boat : 
 
 1. 
 
 Away o'er the wave to the home we are seeking, 
 Bark of my hope, ere the evening be gone ; 
 
 There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking ; 
 There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan, 
 i 
 
 2. 
 
 Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, 
 And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea ; 
 
 And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, 
 Are beating beside me merrily ; 
 
 3. 
 
 Yet far in the west, where the day's faded roses, 
 Touch'd by the moon-beam, are withering fast ; 
 
 Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, 
 Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past, 
 o 3 
 
130 FANNY. 
 
 There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting 
 (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, 
 
 On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, 
 And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. 
 
 5. 
 
 Another hour and the death -word is given, 
 Another hour and his lightnings are here ; 
 
 Speed ! speed thee, my bark ; ere the breeze of even 
 Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. 
 
 6. 
 
 Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming 
 In the shadowy light, like a shooting star ; 
 
 Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, 
 In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. 
 
 7. 
 
 And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee 
 A being with life and its best feelings warm ; 
 
 And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee, 
 Blest spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm. 
 
FANNY, 131 
 
 CI. 
 
 But where is Fanny ? She has long been thrown 
 Where cheeks and roses wither in the shade. 
 
 The age of chivalry, you know, is gone ; 
 And although, as I once before have said, 
 
 I love a pretty face to adoration, 
 
 Yet, still, 1 must preserve my reputation, 
 
 CII. 
 
 As a true Dandy of the modern schools. 
 
 One hates to be old-fashioned ; it would be 
 A violation of the latest rules, 
 
 To treat the sex with too much courtesy. 
 'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glows 
 In all her diamond lustre, that the Beaux 
 
 em. 
 
 Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd, 
 Where fashion sparkles in her rooms of light. 
 
 That " dignified obedience ; that proud 
 
 " Submission," which, in times of yore, the Knight 
 
 Gave to his " Lady-love," is now a scandal, 
 
 And practis'd only by your Goth or Vandal. 
 
132 FANNY. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 To lounge in graceful attitudes be star'd 
 Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye, 
 
 And stare one's self in turn; to be prepar'd 
 To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by 
 
 The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take 
 
 One's share, at least, of coffee, cream, and cake, 
 
 CV. 
 
 Is now to be the ton. The pouting lip, 
 And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl, 
 
 Who hardly of her tea one drop can sip, 
 Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl, 
 
 And tumult of the hour, the good things vanish, 
 
 Must now be disregarded. One must banish 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Those antiquated feelings that belong 
 
 To feudal manners, and a barbarous age. i ^ 
 Time was when woman " pour'd her soul" in song, 
 
 That all was hush'd around. 'Tis now the rage 
 To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle, 
 A signal note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle. 
 
FANNY. 133 
 
 CVII. 
 
 And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait 
 My leisure. She had chang'd, as you will see, as 
 
 Much as her worthy sire, and made as great 
 Proficiency in taste and high ideas. 
 
 The careless smile of other days was gone, 
 
 And every gesture spoke " qu'en dira-t-on?" 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 She long had known that in her father's coffers, 
 And also to his credit in the banks, 
 
 There was some cash ; and therefore all the offers 
 Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks, 
 
 Of heart and hand, had spurn'd, as far beneath 
 
 One whose high destiny it was to breathe, 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Ere long, the air of Broadway, or Park-place, 
 And reign a fairy queen in fairy land ; 
 
 Display in the gay dance her form of grace, 
 
 Or touch with rounded arm, and gloveless hand, 
 
 Harp or piano : Madame Catalani 
 
 Forgot awhile, and every eye on Fanny. 
 
134 FANNY. 
 
 ex. 
 
 And in anticipation of that hour, 
 
 Her star of hope her paradise of thought, 
 She'd had as many masters as the power 
 
 Of riches could bestow ; and had been taught 
 The thousand nameless graces that adorn 
 The daughters of the wealthy and high born. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 She had been notic'd at some public places, 
 (The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale,) 
 
 For her's was one of those attractive faces, 
 That when you gaze upon them, never fail 
 
 To bid you look again ; there was a beam, 
 
 A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem 
 
 CXIJ. 
 
 A little like effrontery ; and yet 
 
 My Fanny meant no harm ; her only aim 
 
 Was but to be admired by all she met, 
 
 And the free homage of the heart to claim ; 
 
 And if she show'd too plainly this intention, 
 
 Others have done the same 'twas not of her invention. 
 
FANNY. 135 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 She shone at every concert ; where are bought 
 Tickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar; 
 
 She patronis'd the Theatre, and thought 
 
 That Wallack took'd extremely well in Holla; 
 
 She fell in love, as all the ladies do, 
 
 With Mr. Simpson talked as loudly, too, 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 As any beauty of the highest grade, 
 To the gay circle in the box beside her ; 
 
 And when the pit half vex'd and half afraid, 
 With looks of smother'd indignation eyed her, 
 
 She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em, 
 
 Smiling at vulgar taste, and mock decorum. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 And though by no means a " Bas bleu" she had 
 For literature a most becoming passion ; 
 
 Had skimm'd the latest novels, good and bad, 
 
 And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion ; 
 
 And Doctor Chalmers' sermons of a Sunday ; 
 
 And Wood worth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi. 
 
136 FANNY. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 She was among the first and warmest patrons 
 
 Of G****** 's conversaziones, where 
 In rainbow groups, our bright ey'd maids and matrons, 
 
 On science bent, assemble ; to prepare 
 Themselves for acting well, in life, their part 
 As wives and mothers. There she learn'd by heart 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown. 
 
 Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics, 
 Dioptrics, optics, catoptricks, carbon, 
 
 Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics; 
 Also, why frogs, for want of air, expire ; 
 And how to set the Tappan sea on fire ! 
 
 CXVIIL 
 
 In all the modern languages she was 
 
 Exceedingly well vers'd ; and had devoted, 
 
 To their attainment, far more time than has, 
 By the best teachers lately, been allotted ; 
 
 For she had taken lessons, twice a week, 
 
 For a full month in each ; and she could speak 
 
FANNY. 137 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 French and Italian, equally as well 
 
 As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and, 
 
 What is still more surprising, she could spell 
 Most of our longest English words, offhand; 
 
 Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish, 
 
 And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 She sang divinely: and in "Love's young dream" 
 And " Fanny dearest," and " The soldier's bride;" 
 
 And every song, whose dear delightful theme 
 Is " Love, still love," had oft till midnight tried 
 
 Her finest, loftiest pigeon-wings of sound, 
 
 Waking the very watchmen far around. 
 
 cxxr. 
 
 For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal to 
 Madame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus ; 
 
 She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to, 
 If kneeling was in fashion; or if you 
 
 Were wearied of your duns, and single life, 
 
 And wanted a few thousands, and a wife. 
 
138 FANNY. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 ******* 
 ******* 
 
 CXXII1. 
 
 " There was a sound of revelry by night ;" 
 
 Broadway was throng'd with coaches, and within 
 
 A mansion of the best of brick, the bright 
 And eloquent eyes of beauty bade begin 
 
 The dance and music's tones swell'd wild and high, 
 
 And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous extasy. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 For many a week, the note of preparation 
 
 Had sounded through all circles far and near ; 
 
 And some five hundred cards of invitation 
 Bade beau and belle in full costume appear ; 
 
 There was a most magnificent variety, 
 
 All quite select, and of the first society. 
 
FANNY. 139 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 That is to say the rich and the well-bred, 
 
 The arbiters of fashion and gentility, 
 In different grades of splendour from the head 
 
 Down to the very toe of our nobility : 
 Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes, 
 Or handsome fortunes learned men, and wise : 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 Statesmen, and officers of the militia 
 In short, the first society a phrase, 
 
 Which you may understand as best may fit you ; 
 Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days, 
 
 Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high, 
 
 With horse-hair fiddle bows, and teeth of ivory. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 The carpets were rolPd up the day before, 
 
 And, with a breath, two rooms became but one, 
 
 Like man and wife and, on the polish'd floor, 
 Chalk, in the artist's plastic hand, had done 
 
 All that chalk could do in young Eden's bowers 
 
 They seemed to tread, and their feet press'd on flowers. 
 
140 FANNY. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 And when the thousand lights of spermaceti 
 
 Stream'd like a shower of sun-beams and free tresses 
 
 Wild as the heads that wav'd them and a pretty 
 Collection of the latest London dresses 
 
 Wander'd about the rooms like things divine, 
 
 It was, as I was told, extremely fine. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating, 
 Brought many who were tir'd of self and home ; 
 
 And some were there in the high hope of meeting 
 The lady of their bosoms' love and some 
 
 To study that deep science, how to please, 
 
 And manners in high life, and high-soul'd courtesies. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 And he, the hero of the night was there, 
 In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue. 
 
 Taste was conspicuous in his powder'd hair, 
 And in his frequent jeux de mots, that drew 
 
 Peals of applauses from the list'ners round, 
 
 Who were delighted as in duty bound. 
 
FANNY. 141 
 
 CXXX1. 
 
 Twas Fanny's father Fanny near him stood, ' < 
 Her power resistless and her wish, command ; 
 
 And Hope's young promises were all made good ; 
 " She reign'd a fairy queen in fairy land ;" 
 
 Her dream of infancy a dream no more, 
 
 And then how beautiful the dress she wore ! 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 Ambition with the sire had kept her word, 
 He had the rose, no matter for its thorn, 
 
 And he seem'd happy as a summer bird, 
 Careering on wet wing to meet the morn. 
 
 Some said there was a cloud upon his brow ; 
 
 It might be but we'll not discuss that now. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 1 left him making rhymes while crossing o'er 
 
 The broad and perilous wave of the North River 
 
 He bade adieu, when safely on the shore, 
 To poetry and, as he thought, for ever. 
 
 That night his dream (if after deeds make known 
 
 Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one. 
 
14*2 FANNY. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber, 
 And walk'd Broadway, enraptur'd, the next day ; 
 
 Purchas'd a house there I've forgot the number, 
 And sign'd a mortgage and a bond, for pay. 
 
 Gave, in the slang-phrase, Pearl-street the go-by, 
 
 And cut , for several months, St. Tammany. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Bond, mortgage, title deeds, and all completed, 
 He bought a coach and half a dozen horses, 
 
 (The bill's at Lawrence's not yet receipted 
 You'll find the amount upon his list of losses,) 
 
 Then fill'd his rooms with servants, and whatever 
 
 Is necessary for a genteel liver : 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 This last removal fix'd him every stain 
 
 Was blotted from his " household coat," and he 
 
 Now " show'd the world he was a gentleman," 
 And, what is better, could afford to be ; 
 
 His step was loftier than it was of old, 
 
 His laugh less frequent, and his manner told 
 
FANNY. 143 
 
 CXXXVI1. 
 
 What lovers call " unutterable things :" 
 
 That sort of dignity was in his mien 
 Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings 
 
 To recollection some great man weVe seen, 
 The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown, 
 'Twas shrewdly guess'd, would knock poor Spencer 
 down. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 And for Resources, both of purse and head, 
 He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen ; 
 
 Believ'd devoutly all his flatterers said, 
 And deem'd himself a Crcesus among men ; 
 
 Spread to the liberal air his silken sails, 
 
 And lavish'd guineas like a Prince of Wales. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 He mingled now with those within whose veins 
 The blood ran pure the magnates of the land 
 
 Hail'd them as his companions and his friends, 
 And lent them money and his note of hand. 
 
 In every institution, whose proud aim 
 
 Is public good alone, he soon became 
 
144 FANNY. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 A man of consequence and notoriety ; 
 
 His name, with the addition of esquire, 
 Stood high upon the list of each society, 
 
 Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fire 
 Of science, agriculture, art, and learning, 
 Keep on our country's altars bright and burning. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day, 
 With men of taste and judgment like his own, 
 
 And play'djirstjiddle in that orchestra 
 Of literary worthies and the tone 
 
 Of his mind's music, by the list'ner's caught, 
 
 Is trac'd among them still in language and in thought. 
 
 CXLIt. 
 
 He once made the Lyceum a choice present 
 Of muscle shells pick'd up at Rockaway, 
 
 (The Doctor gave a classical and pleasant 
 Discourse about them in the streets that day, 
 
 Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas, 
 
 " Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas,") 
 
FANNY. 145 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 He was a trustee of a Savings Bank, 
 And lectured soundly every evil doer ; 
 
 Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank, 
 And sixpence every Sunday to the poor. 
 
 He was a wit, in the pun-making line 
 
 Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle, 
 
 With eagle eye, and step that never falter'd, 
 
 The busy tongue of scandal dar'd to tell 
 
 That cash was scarce with him, and credit alter'd; 
 
 And while he stood, the envy of beholders, 
 
 The BankDirectors grinn'd, and shrugg'd their shoulders. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute, 
 Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy, 
 
 Depend upon it there is something in it ; 
 For whether born of wisdom or of folly, 
 
 Suspicion is a being whose fell power 
 
 Blights every thing it touches, fruit and flower. 
 H 
 
146 FANNY. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Some friends (they were his creditors) once hinted 
 About retrenchment and a day of doom. 
 
 He thank'd them, as no doubt they kindly meant it, 
 And made this speech, when they had left the room : 
 
 " Of all the curses upon mortals sent, 
 
 " One's creditors are the most impudent: 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 *' Now, I am one who knows what he is doing, 
 " And suits exactly to his means his ends ; 
 
 " How can a man be in the path to ruin, 
 
 " When all the brokers are his bosom friends ? 
 
 " Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter, 
 
 " These rascals throw a bucket of cold water ! 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 " They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face ' 
 " Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup 
 
 " Poison the very wells of life and place 
 
 " Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up, 
 
 " Even in the softest feather bed that e'er 
 
 " Was manufactur'd by upholsterer." 
 
FANNY. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 This said he journey'd " at his own sweet will," 
 Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on; 
 
 But yet, at times, Reflection, " in her still 
 
 " Small voice," would whisper, something must be 
 done; 
 
 He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maid 
 
 Promptly and duteously lent her aid. 
 
 CL. 
 
 She told him, with that readiness of mind, 
 And quickness of perception, which belong 
 
 Exclusively to gentle womankind, 
 
 That to submit to slanderers were wrong ; 
 
 And the best plan to silence and admonish 'em, 
 
 Would be to give a party and astonish 'em. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 The hint was taken and the party given ; 
 
 And Fanny, as I said some pages since, 
 Was there in power and loveliness that even, 
 
 And he, her sire, demean'd him like a prince, 
 And all was joy it look'd a festival, 
 Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her 
 
 smiles recal. 
 
 H2 
 
148 FANNY. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 But Fortune, like some others of her sex, 
 Delights in tantalizing and tormenting ; 
 
 One day we feed upon their smiles the next 
 Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. 
 
 (If in the four last lines the author lies, 
 
 He's always ready to apologize). 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 Eve never walked in Paradise more pure 
 
 Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil 
 
 With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer 
 Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil, 
 
 Than Cleopatra was to Antony 
 
 The day she left him on the Ionian sea. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 The serpent loveliest in his coiled ring, 
 
 With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies 
 
 The tints of the rainbow bears upon his sting 
 The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies 
 
 Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath 
 
 Are tropic winds, before the voice of death 
 
FANNY. 149 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Is heard upon the waters, summoning 
 
 The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years, 
 
 To do its task of woe. The clouds that fling 
 The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears ; 
 
 The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud 
 
 Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud ; 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest ; 
 
 The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast; 
 The swan's last song is sweetest and the best 
 
 Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. 
 And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, 
 Clos'd with a crash, and usher'd in hard times. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 St. Paul's toll'd one and fifteen minutes after 
 Down came, by accident, a chandelier ; 
 
 The mansion totterM from the floor to rafter ! 
 Uprose the cry of agony and fear ! 
 
 And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, flutter 
 ing* 
 
 Beyond the power of writing, or of uttering. 
 
150 FANNY. 
 
 CLVHI. 
 
 The company departed, and neglected 
 
 To say good-by the father storm'd and swore 
 The fiddlers grinn'd the daughter look'd dejected 
 
 The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd floor ; 
 And both betook them to their sleepless beds, 
 With hearts and prospects- broken, but no heads. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 The desolate relief of free complaining 
 
 Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather; 
 The wind was east north-east, and it was raining 
 
 Throughout that day, which, take it altogether, 
 Was one whose memory clings to us through life, 
 Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 That cv'ning, with a most important face 
 
 And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, 
 A notary came sad things had taken place ; 
 
 My hero had forgot to do the needful. 
 A note, (amount not stated,) with his name on't 
 Was left unpaid in short, he had stopped payment. 
 
FANNY. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 I hate your tragedies, both long and short 
 
 (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime ;) 
 
 And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes 
 Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme ; 
 
 Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest 
 
 His notes remain the wise can guess the rest. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 For two whole days they were the common talk; 
 
 The party, and the failure, and all that, 
 The theme of loungers in their morning walk, 
 
 Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. 
 The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, 
 And on the fourth, the " meddling world" forgot them. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 Anxious, however, something to discover, 
 
 I pass'd their house the shutters were all clos'd ; 
 
 The song of knocker and of bell was over; 
 Upon the steps two chimney-sweeps repos'd ; 
 
 And on the door my dazzled eye-beam met 
 
 These cabalistic words" this kmtse to let" 
 
152 FANNY. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 They live now, like chameleons, upon air 
 
 And hope, and such cold unsubstantial dishes ; 
 
 That they remov'd is clear, but when or where 
 None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, 
 
 May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, 
 
 The marble dome, the popular rumour tells ; 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 But of the dwellings of the proud and poor, 
 
 From their own lips the world will never know, 
 
 When better days are gone it is secure 
 Beyond all other mysteries here below, 
 
 Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, 
 
 When past the noon-day of life's pilgrimage* 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 Fanny ! 'twas with her name my song began ; 
 
 Tis proper and polite her name should end it ; 
 If in my story of her woes, or plan 
 
 Or moral can be trac'd, 'twas not intended ; 
 And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell her 
 I'm sorry for it so is my bookseller. 
 
FANNY. 153 
 
 I met her yesterday her eyes were wet 
 
 She faintly smil'd, and said she had been reading 
 
 The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, 
 
 M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's Love lies bleeding 
 
 She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one, 
 
 And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Her father sent to Albany a prayer 
 
 For office, told how fortune had abus'd him, 
 
 And modestly requested to be Mayor 
 The Council very civilly refus'd him ; 
 
 Because, however much he might desire it, 
 
 The public good, it seems, did not require it. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll 
 Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils ; 
 
 He felt that withering bitterness of soul, 
 Quaintly denominated the blue, devils ; 
 
 And thought of Buonaparte and Belisarius, 
 
 Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius ; 
 H 3 
 
154 FANNY. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 And envying the loud playfulness and mirth 
 
 Of those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope. 
 
 He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth 
 
 Of gazing, through the showman's telescope ; 
 
 Sounds as of far off bells came on his ears, 
 
 He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres. 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 
 Twas Yankee Doodle play'd by Scudder's band ; 
 
 He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening, 
 
 Something of freedom, and our happy land ; 
 
 Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast, 
 
 This sentimental song his saddest, and his last. 
 
 1. 
 
 Young thoughts have music in them, love 
 
 And happiness their theme ; 
 And music wanders in the wind 
 
 That lulls a morning dream. 
 And there are angel voices heard, 
 
 In childhood's frolic hours, 
 When life is but an April day, 
 
 Of sunshine and of showers. 
 
FANNY* 155 
 
 There's music in the forest leaves 
 
 When summer winds are there, 
 And in the laugh of forest girls 
 
 That braid their sunny hair. 
 The first wild bird that drinks the dew, 
 
 From violets of the spring, 
 Has music in his song, and in 
 
 The fluttering of his wing. 
 
 3. 
 
 There's music in the dash of waves 
 
 When the swift bark cleaves their foam ; 
 There's music heard upon her deck, 
 
 The mariner's song of home. 
 When moon and star beams smiling meet 
 
 At midnight on the sea 
 And there is music once a week 
 
 In Scudder's balcony. 
 
 But the music of young thoughts too soon 
 
 Is faint, and dies away, 
 And from our morning dreams we wake 
 
 To curse the coming day ; 
 
156 FANNY. 
 
 And childhood's frolic hours are brief, 
 
 And oft, in after years, 
 Their memory comes to chill the heart, 
 
 And dim the eye with tears. 
 
 5. 
 
 To-day the forest leaves are green, 
 
 They'll wither on the morrow, 
 And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long 
 
 To the widow's wail of sorrow. 
 Come with the winter snows, and ask 
 
 Where are the forest birds ? 
 The answer is a silent one, 
 
 More eloquent than words. 
 
 The moonlight music of the waves 
 
 In storms is heard no more, 
 When the living lightning mocks the wreck 
 
 At midnight on the shore ; 
 And the mariner's song of home has ceased. 
 
 His corse is on the sea 
 And music ceases when it rains 
 
 In Scudder's balcony. 
 
J57 
 
 POEMS, 
 ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED; 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD DABNEY. 
 
 MR. DABNEY is the Author of a small volume of 
 Poems, published at Philadelphia, in the year 
 1814, and which, he informs the reader in an 
 Advertisement, was presented to the public at a 
 former period, and under another form, in a re 
 mote part of the Union. This collection is, it is 
 believed, but little known even in America, but the 
 merit of some of the pieces will not allow the 
 name of their Author to be omitted in a volume 
 like the present. 
 
 Amongst Mr. Dabney's original poems, the 
 longest and most important consists of an attempt 
 to embody a series of metaphysical ideas in verse. 
 A task which it may be easily conceived, requires 
 the highest powers to execute with success. Un- 
 
158 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 der the title of " Illustrations of simple moral 
 emotions," he has endeavoured to paint many of 
 the most powerful features of human passion, and 
 at the same time to trace in the associations of the 
 mind, the principal sources of human feeling. It 
 must he confessed that the idea is a little vague 
 and unsatisfactory, and that the execution of it is 
 not altogether such as to rescue the author from 
 the imputation of a failure. There are, however, 
 amongst the Illustrations, many passages which 
 display much thought and feeling poetically ex 
 pressed. A few of these portions are given in the 
 following pages. Some of the lighter pieces at the 
 conclusion of the volume have considerable merit, 
 and the war-songs, which are curious as specimens 
 of American feeling, will be found very bold and 
 spirited. The insertion of these memorials of hos 
 tile feeling will, it is hoped, require no apology. It 
 must be remembered that they were published 
 during the period of the war, and an allowance 
 must therefore be made for some exasperation of 
 sentiment; indeed the English public, always so 
 proudly and eminently national, will scarcely be 
 inclined to quarrel with foreign patriotism, even 
 though expressed in terms not the most courtly. 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 159 
 
 Mr. Dabney's style partakes of all the characteris 
 tic faults of his countrymen's carelessness, rough 
 ness, and occasional want of good taste. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Tis not enough that virtue sways 
 Our present hours and passing days; 
 Tis not enough, our purpose be 
 From every base intention free ; 
 All that polluted life's first source 
 Will float along its downward course, 
 And dark shall be each future year, 
 Unless the SPRING of life is clear. 
 
 Though words of Truth eternal say, 
 Repentance washes guilt away ; 
 If former times display a stain, 
 The future shall the blot retain ; 
 The hue and colour of the past 
 Upon the coming hour is cast ; 
 And dark shall be each future year, 
 Unless the SPRING of life be clear. 
 
 O then, upon those future years, 
 Bestow not agony and tears ! 
 
160 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 Though all thy sins shall be forgiven, 
 And blotted from the book of heaven ; 
 Their shades, shall flit around, and fling 
 Dark horror, from their raven wing ; 
 And bitter be each future year, 
 Unless the SPRING of life is clear. 
 
 Tn early life when trusting youth 
 Thinks all is goodness, worth, and truth, 
 A holy inmate charms man's breast, 
 And lulls its many woes to rest. 
 It watches o'er his pillowed head, 
 And lures sweet slumbers to his bed ; 
 It adds fresh charms to morning's ray, 
 And guards him through the eventful day- 
 No might, but his, can bid depart, 
 That holy inmate from his heart 
 Tis stainless conscience boon of heaven, 
 To man, for heavenly purpose, given. 
 
 But when amidst the world he roves, 
 
 And that he ought to hate, he loves, 
 
 Unheeded past its frequent cries, 
 
 The holy inmate quickly dies ; 
 
 But oft within the varying scene, 
 
 When thought his follies wakes between ; 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 161 
 
 But oft within the gloom of night, 
 Its shade, avenging, meets his sight 
 Comes, decked with all the warmth of youth, 
 When life was love, and peace and truth, 
 Comes, decked with all the charms that blest, 
 In early life, his guiltless breast. 
 It smiles in fancied view, appears 
 The virtuous bliss of youthful years j 
 It frowns before his blasted eyes, 
 His present vices hideous rise. 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Many years had passed, and many things, 
 
 Those envious years had taken away with them. 
 
 Yet left they nought ? yes ! poverty and woe. 
 
 But MEMORY, like the shower, that cheers and gladdens 
 
 The weary wanderer in the dreary waste, 
 
 Came fresh upon me and then I thought 
 
 Of home and happiness, of youth and love. 
 
 Thither my footsteps turned. In fancied view, 
 
 As still the tedious road wound slow and far, 
 
 And many, many miles, must still be passed, 
 
 I saw a smiling group, with welcome aid, 
 
 Prepared to soothe the wanderer's many woes. 
 
 A brother, mindful of a brother's peace, 
 
 A sister, tender to a brother's grief, 
 
162 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 A mother, glowing with a mother's love. 
 
 I reached the door but as in days long past, 
 
 It showed no joyful croud of eager faces, 
 
 In joyful strife to ask affection's question, 
 
 Of health and welfare, happiness and her, 
 
 Whom fate, alas ! has numbered with the dead. 
 
 I reached the door but there no brother's hand 
 
 With fervent clasp of brother's love, pressed mine ; 
 
 No sister gave, of joy a pledge, a kiss ; 
 
 No mother oped her arms to bless her son. 
 
 1 reached the door and loud and long I knocked ; 
 
 At length, a face appeared, as strange and cold, 
 
 As to the traveller from chamber warm, 
 
 The unexpected waste of morning snows. 
 
 I trembling asked live they, and live in health ? 
 
 No, they are dead and strangers hold their mansion 
 
 I turned away would'st thou believe it, friend ? 
 
 These tearless eyes, that, many, many years, 
 
 Have pored, with dry and parched earnestness, 
 
 On all the woes that human nature suffers, 
 
 Wept then and bitter, bitter, were the tears. 
 
 And nature too, in scorn of mortal man, 
 Look VI just the same, as if no change had past. 
 The same the greensward sloping to the gate ; 
 The same the verdant smoothness of its surface, 
 As when, in infancy, I sported on it. 
 The honey-suckle wound its odorous boughs, 
 In many folds around the arched bower, 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 163 
 
 The same in verdure, and in sweets the same, 
 As when, ah sad the thought ! Eliza's hand 
 Formed, from its dewy flowers, a wreath for me. 
 
 O that, since man is sadly mutable, 
 With things inanimate, whose changeless forms, 
 No storms of human misery can wreck, 
 I could alliance and strict friendship form. 
 For though the gloomy winds of cheerless winter 
 Might strip the wild woods of their clothing bare, 
 Or vernal breezes dress them in their green ; 
 Yet would they not, like man, like wayward man, 
 In summer, mock me with their leafless boughs 
 In winter, cool me with their verdant shade. 
 
 A WESTERN WAR SONG. 
 I. 
 
 To the north-western wilds has our gallant youth gone 
 Though his breast, with a tempest of feeling, was torn, 
 Yet he scorned a weak tear, and disdained a weak sigh 
 He is wedded to vengeance, or bounden to die, 
 For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear, 
 To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. 
 
 II. 
 
 On his dauntless steed borne, he hastens to ride, 
 On his shoulder his rifle, his sword by his side 
 
164 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 O'er rivers, through forests, like the swift wind he flies 
 To the sounds, that he pants for, the battle-field's cries. 
 For wedded to vengeance, and stranger to fear, 
 Is the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hurra ! at MORAVIA, that battle-cry wakes, 
 From the ranks the dire peal of the musketry breaks. 
 The brave volunteer, 'midst the death-flashing cloud, 
 Invokes the dear name of the murdered, aloud ; 
 Then quick to the charge, with his death-dealing blow, 
 Pours his wrath on the friends of the hatchet and bow. 
 For wedded to vengeance, a stranger to fear, 
 Is the soul of the hero, the brave volunteer. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At that dread hour of night, when his cherished love bled, 
 And her mangled form slept with the massacred dead, 
 He had sworn a dread oath, that his rifle and steel, 
 On the merciless demons, deep vengeance should deal, 
 For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear 
 To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then joy to the brave volunteer, who has sped 
 To the wilds of the north-west, where thousands have 
 bled, 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 165 
 
 Who, wedded to vengeance, a dread oath has sworn, 
 On the arms of his comrades, a corse to be borne ; 
 Or the deep debt of vengeance, in tenfold, to deal 
 On the merciless fiends, with his rifle and steel, 
 For the soul-harrowing scathe of the victim so dear 
 To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer. 
 
 THE HEROES OF THE WEST. 
 I. 
 
 How sweet is the song of the festal rite, 
 
 When the bosom with rapture swells high; 
 When the heart, atthe soft touch of pleasure, beats light, 
 
 And bright is the beam of the eye. 
 In the dirge, that is poured o'er affection's bier, 
 
 How holy an interest dwells, 
 When the frequent drop, of the frequent tear, 
 
 The heart-rending anguish tells ; 
 But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise 
 
 To the patriot victor's fame, 
 And livelier the tones of the heart-gendered praise, 
 
 That should wake from the harp at his name : 
 But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour 
 
 O'er the fallen hero's grave, 
 Whose arm wields the sword for his country no more, 
 
 Who has died the death of the brave. 
 
166 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 There lives in the bosom a feeling sublime, 
 
 Of all, 'tis the strongest tie ; 
 Unvarying through every change of time, 
 
 And only with life does it die. 
 Tis the love that is borne for that lovely land, 
 
 That smiled on the hour of our birth ; 
 'Tis the love, that is planted by nature's hand, 
 
 For our sacred native earth. 
 Twas this that the patriot victor inspired, 
 
 Was strong in the strength of his arm, 
 With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired, 
 
 And to danger and death gave a charm. 
 Twas this that the dying hero blest, 
 
 And hallowed the hour when he fell, 
 That throbbed in the final throb of his breast, 
 
 And heaved in his bosom's last swell : 
 
 III. 
 
 When a thousand swords, in a thousand hands, 
 
 To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright ; 
 When the glowing hearts of Columbia's bands, 
 
 Were firm in Columbia's right : 
 When the blood of the West, in the battle was poured, 
 
 In defence of the rights of the West ; 
 When the blood of the East stained the point of the swor A, 
 
 At the Eastern king's behest : 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 167 
 
 Till the angel form of returning peace, 
 
 O'er the plain and the mountain smiled 
 Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease, 
 
 And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild. 
 She smiled And the nation's mighty woes 
 
 Ceased to stream from the nation's eyes ; 
 She smiled And a fabric of wisdom arose, 
 
 And exalted its fame to the skies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then firm be its base, as the giant rock 
 
 'Midst the ocean waves alone, 
 That the beating rain and the tempest shock, 
 
 For numberless years has borne. 
 And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan 
 
 That glorious structure's fall ; 
 But still may it sanction the rights of man, 
 
 And liberty guardian to all. 
 Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise, 
 
 To the patriot victor's fame, 
 And lively the tones of the heart-gendered praise, 
 
 That should wake from the harp at his name. 
 Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour, 
 
 O'er the fallen hero's grave, 
 Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more, 
 
 Who has died the death of the brave. 
 
168 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 TURN NOT TO THE EAST. 
 
 Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat, 
 For a different land feel its warm pulses beat? 
 Can the eye, op'd not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear 
 On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear ? 
 
 Turn not to the East with the eye of desire, 
 Turn not to the East like the sect'ry of fire ; 
 For the wind of the East in its poison'd gale brings 
 The fell breath of despots, and curses of kings. 
 
 See the star of the West in its mild glories rise, 
 See the star of the West tread its path in the skies : 
 How sweet is the sight, while its soft radiance beams 
 On my native land's hills, and my native land's streams. 
 
 That star, when the proud boasting sons of the East 
 Have danc'd through their day, and have finished their 
 
 feast 
 
 That star then shall shine over millions more blest, 
 In the realms doom'd to rise in the wilds of the West. 
 
 Then look to the Eastern horizon's blue bound, 
 As if past its precincts no mortal is found; 
 Then look to the Eastern horizon's red light, 
 As if past its rays brood oblivion and night. 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 169 
 
 Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat, 
 for a different land feel its warm pulses beat? 
 Can the eye, op'd not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear, 
 On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear ? 
 
 TO **** 
 
 I. 
 
 LADY, that form so slight and fair 
 Was, surely, never framed to bear 
 The season's change, the hand of pain, 
 And fell disease's racking train, 
 That must, from year to year, attend 
 Life's course, till life itself shall end. 
 
 II. 
 
 That heart, so pure, so soft, so good, 
 That scarce has yet a pang withstood, 
 Was, surely, never meant to bear 
 Grief, sorrow, woe, deceit, despair, 
 And all the mental ills, that rend 
 The human heart, till life shall end. 
 
 III. 
 
 Some happy island far removed, 
 Whose groves of bliss an angel loved, 
 I 
 
170 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 Where winter's gloom was never known, 
 Nor fell disease's hollow groan ; 
 Where grief, deceit, despair and woe 
 Dare not their forms of horror show, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lady, was placed thy destined lot 
 But fate, that destiny forgot ; 
 Or, envious of thy blissful state, 
 Some fiend of earth, and earthly hate, 
 Gave thee to pain and sorrow here 
 Betrayed thee to this world of care. 
 
 In apology for neglecting an invitation to renew a 
 long interrupted acquaintance. 
 
 I. 
 
 I CANNOT, for my soul forget, 
 That thou art young and blooming yet ; 
 I cannot, for my soul, expose 
 My heart to love's returning woes ; 
 I cannot view a smile of thine, 
 Without suppressing all of mine. 
 O then forgive the long delay, 
 That coldly keeps a friend away 
 
DABNEY'S POEMS. 171 
 
 Yet friend, alas, I cannot be, 
 
 While beauty dwells so sweet with thee. 
 
 / 
 
 But drive the alluring charms away, 
 That round thy form seductive play ; 
 Quench the soft brilliance of thy eyes, 
 And stain thy cheeks' luxuriant dyes ; 
 Obscure thy neck, divinely fair, 
 And spoil the hyacinths of thy hair ; * 
 
 And then I yet 1 soon should find 
 
 More brilliant beauties in thy mind; 
 O then forgive the long delay, 
 That coldly keeps a friend away 
 Yet -friend, alas, I cannot be, 
 While genius dwells so bright with thee. 
 
 OSTRACISMO DI SCIPIONE. 
 
 DI CARLO FRUGONI. 
 
 QUANDO il gran Scipio dall' ingrata terra 
 Che gli fu patria, e il cener suo non ebbe, 
 Esule egregio, si partia qual debbe 
 TJom, che in suo cor maschio valor rinserra; 
 
 1 The fragrant hyacinths of Azza's hair. 
 
 SmW. JONES. 
 I 2 
 
172 DABNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 Quei, che seco pugnando andar sotterra, 
 Ombre famose, onde si Italia crebbe, 
 Arser di sdegno, e il duro esemplo increbbe 
 Ai genj della pace, e della guerra. 
 
 E seguirlo fur viste in atto altero, 
 Sull' indegna fremendo offesa atroce, 
 Le virtu antiche del Latino impero : 
 
 E allor, di Stige sulla negra foce, 
 Di lui, che TAlpi superd primiero, 
 Rise 1'invendicata ombre feroce. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 THE BANISHMENT OF SCIP1O; 
 FROM FRUGONI. 
 
 WHEN to his native, yet ungrateful earth, 
 Great Scipio bade adieu as one whose heart 
 Dauntless, in exile proudly could depart 
 Denied a grave, where he received his birth ; 
 
 Burst the stern cry of shame, indignant, forth, 
 Prom shades, who fell Rome's glory to increase, 
 And to the guardian powers of war and peace, 
 Sad mourned the example of degraded worth : 
 
 Rome's ancient virtues urged their haughty flight, 
 And followed him indignant, as they fled, 
 Disdainful frowns the proud reproach displayed ; 
 
 Then from the Stygian seats of gloom and dread, 
 Of him, who first subdued the Alpine height, 
 Laughed, with fierce scorn, the unavenged shade. 
 
173 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM MAX WELL, 
 
 WHILE in England the taste for the French school 
 of poetry is rapidly on the decline, if not altoge 
 ther extinct, it still survives in America. In spite 
 of the influence of new and fashionable names, 
 many of her writers appear to study with consider 
 able success, that class of English Poets, whose 
 reign, commencing at the Restoration, may be con 
 sidered to have terminated about the middle of the 
 last century. Amongst these, Mr. Maxwell seems 
 to have selected Waller as his model, whose light 
 ness and grace he has occasionally imitated very 
 pleasingly. There is, however, much inequality 
 in his compositions, and the extracts given from 
 his Poems, must on the whole, be considered as 
 favourable specimens. " The Bards of Columbia : 
 An Epistle to the Rev. Timothy Dwight," gives 
 us a curious insight into the ideas of the Ameri- 
 
174 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 cans themselves, on the state of their poetry ; but 
 its length prohibits its insertion. Mr. Maxwell's 
 Poems were published at Philadelphia in 1816. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 ARIADNE was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete. Theseus, 
 a noble Athenian, arrives at her father's court, with a band of 
 youths sent over by his countrymen for their annual sacrifice 
 to the Minotaur. Here she falls passionately in love with 
 him at first sight, and gives him a clue by which he winds his 
 way through the labyrinth, slays the monster, and returns to 
 her in triumph. She then listens to his vows of love, and fol 
 lows his flight to the island of Naxos. But here, the Prince, 
 having satisfied his passion, or, as they tell us, being warned 
 by Bacchus in a dream, abandons her in her sleep, takes to 
 his vessel, and flies from the island, leaving her to solitude 
 and despair. In this situation she is supposed to write the 
 following letter: 
 
 ARIADNE TO THESEUS. 
 
 AND must I write? And must I stoop so low ? 
 Address the man who bids these sorrows flow ? 
 The false deserter who has left me here ? 
 Ah ! foolish heart ! and is he still so dear ? 
 Yes ! Yes ! I love; my frailty I confess; 
 Tho' torn from all my dreams of happiness : 
 Yes ! cruel, false, ungrateful as thou art, 
 Ah ! still too dear to this forgiving heart. 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 175 
 
 Yet whither, whither do my senses steal ? 
 Am I indeed as wretched as I feel ? 
 So far fom home ! a princess! once so dear! 
 And is it Theseus who has left me here ! 
 
 Alas! what anguish mark'd that fatal day 
 That tore my lover from these arms away! 
 Hush'd to repose upon his faithless breast, 
 The world forgot, and ev'ry care at rest, 
 While my heart melted in a tender dream, 
 Sooth'd by the murmurs of the tuneful stream, 
 Still, still alone, we seem'd to rove along, 
 With whispers sweeter than the turtle's song ; 
 He press'd my hand, and call'd on Heav'n above 
 To witness and to bless our happy love. 
 See ! see ! the glorious vision flies away, 
 Vanish'd the Sun, dark mists obscure the day, 
 Clouds gather round me all one dismal night ! 
 And rising tempests snatch him from my sight. 
 I hear a voice : " And is your sleep so dear? 
 " Your lover gone, and you are dreaming here ! 
 " Up, rise, away, and seek the sounding shore ; 
 " There look your last, or never see him more." 
 I wake, 1 cast my anxious eyes around, 
 Then call his name, and shudder at the sound. 
 " Where is my Theseus?" was iny frantic cry, 
 " Where is thy Theseus!" all the groves reply: 
 " The dream ! the dream ! Ah ! wretch at last undone !" 
 Wild with despair, o'er hills and rocks I run, 
 
176 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Now faint and breathless on the sea-beat strand, 
 
 I see his vessel flying from the land ; 
 
 " Stay ! stay, barbarian ! whither will you go ? 
 
 " It is your bride, and will you leave me so ? 
 
 " Leave me to die upon this desert shore, 
 
 " Alone, and lost to all that I adore ! 
 
 " But hush, ye winds ! and let my sighs and tears 
 
 " Reach the deserter: ah ! good Heavens! he hears !' 
 
 " Yes, see, the vessel turns, he hears at last 
 
 " Ah ! no ! he flies me still now all is past! 
 
 " O ! Theseus ! Theseus '."Vanquished by my grief, 
 
 A happy frenzy came to my relief, 
 
 And bath'd in tears, I sunk upon the shore ; 
 
 O ! would to Heav'n, I ne'er had risen more ! 
 
 Why, cruel Fate ! restore me to my life ? 
 
 Return the husband, or destroy the wife. 
 
 The wife ! the wife ! Alas ! dear sacred name 
 
 That Ariadne must not dare to claim ! 
 
 Farewell ! for ever, pure and chaste delights, 
 
 Ordain'd for those whom lawful love unites ; 
 
 The peaceful hour, the self-approving smile, 
 
 The heart at ease beyond the fear of guile ; 
 
 The calm of innocence, the mutual vow 
 
 These sighs and tears are all my portion now. 
 
 Alas ! and was it this you promis'd me, 
 When first I follow'd you across the sea ? 
 " Nay, dearest Ariadne, why these tears ? 
 " You wrong my honour by your cruel fears. 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 177 
 
 " Wait but awhile, and Hymen joins once more 
 
 " Two faithful hearts that Love had join'd before. 
 
 " And can your father or your mother chide, 
 
 " When you return my own, sweet, blushing bride ? 
 
 " I see you fly with those persuasive charms, 
 
 " And melt dissolving in your mother's arms ; 
 
 " She turns away at first (as mothers will,) 
 
 " Then strains you to her heart, her daughter still ! 
 
 " All is forgiven in the new delight, 
 
 " And you confess it was a happy flight." 
 
 ! when these men would practise some deceit, 
 How soft their actions, and their words too sweet I 
 Our hearts betray us, they are soon believ'd, 
 Woman was only made to be deceiv'd : 
 
 For how suspect what we have never known ? 
 Alas ! we judge their bosoms by our own ! 
 My grief was hush'd, I strove to hush my fears, 
 And let you kiss away the falling tears ; 
 Recall'd to honour and my own esteem, 
 
 1 fear'd to wake from that enchanting dream; 
 My heart assisted in the pleasing cheat, 
 And fancied real what it felt so sweet. 
 
 Oh ! empty dreams soon vanish'd into air I 
 The traitor gone ! I perish in despair ! 
 Yet still perhaps perhaps he loves me still; 
 He may have gone he may against his will. 
 Perhaps at least, soft Pity touch'd his heart, 
 And Love rebell'd, when Fortune bade him part* 
 I 3 
 
178 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 Ah yes I he calPd my faithful love to mind, 
 And cast a sad, repentant look behind; 
 Call'd on my name with many a parting tear, 
 And wept in anguish that I could not hear 
 No ! No ! he left me ! left me in my sleep ; 
 And rather trusted to the faithless deep ! 
 Pled, with a felon's trembling haste away, 
 And chid the winds and oars for their delay ! 
 
 O ! that his bark had never reach'd our shore ! 
 Or rather reach'd it to depart no more ! 
 Can you forget? I cannot scenes long past? 
 Those short sweet joys, too sweet indeed to last? 
 When first a stranger to our court you came 
 O ! fatal day of misery and shame ! 
 With those bright eyes too skilful to betray, 
 And those soft words, you stole my heart away : 
 In vain I strove the rising flame to hide, 
 My love was stronger than my virgin pride ; 
 Fame, duty, honour, reason, Heav'n above, 
 All were too weak against the pow'r of Love. 
 Fool ! fool ! that did so readily believe ! 
 Yet how could I suspect he would deceive ? 
 His words were sweet, I thought they were sincere, 
 Nor dreamt of treachery from one so dear. 
 Ah ! when you fought that savage Minotaur, 
 What vows I offer'd, unreveal'd before ! 
 Yes! faithless Prince ! I pray'd, nor pray'd in vain, 
 That my poor hapless brother might be slain ; 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 179 
 
 And, frantic as I was, I gave the clue 
 
 That brought you back to slay the sister too ! 
 
 Yet more, companion of your guilty flight, 
 
 With silent step, at the dead hour of night, 
 
 Stole from my sister's innocent embrace, 
 
 Fled my dear father's ever-smiling face, 
 
 And left my mother in declining years, 
 
 To mourn her darling with eternal tears ; 
 
 Ah ! tell me, tell me, by that broken vow, 
 
 For which of all these things you leave me now ? 
 
 Ah ! whither next shall Ariadne fly ? 
 Who now will listen to my parting sigh ? 
 Seek my proud father ? Why these cruel fears ? 
 He is no Theseus to resist my tears. 
 My mother too would she cast off her child 
 That once so sweetly at her bosom smil'd ? 
 But ah ! the Sea ! my hope lies buried there, 
 And I am left to wither in despair. 
 
 Yet could you see me in this wretched state, 
 And feel yourself the author of my fate ; 
 See on my cheek the fading roses die, 
 And the dim lustre languish in my eye, 
 For ever gazing on the desert sea, 
 While your heart whisper'd, " How she looks for me!" 
 Ah ! yes ! with transport you would fly to save, 
 And snatch the victim from her yawning grave. 
 
 But ah ! too late ! my life draws near its close ; 
 I feel a longing for my last repose. 
 
180 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 ! welcome Death that sets the pris'ner free ! 
 O ! welcome Death to those who weep like me ! 
 Soon shall the calm of thy forgetful rest, 
 Give peace and ease to this tormented breast ; 
 Blot out at once my sorrow and my shame, 
 And only leave my too unhappy name ; 
 While my free spirit in the realms above, 
 Shall cease to grieve but never cease to love. 
 Farewell ! The shadows gather o'er the sea ; 
 Night comes again, but brings no sleep to me. 
 The sea-fowl passes screaming to her nest ; 
 But where shall Ariadne look for rest ? 
 The Sun may rise upon this lonely shore ; 
 But not to me. Adieu for evermore I 
 
 TEA, 
 
 GIVE me, give me here my tea ; 
 Ladies' nectar ! give it me ; 
 Sweet as what the Hummer sips, 
 Or the dew on Beauty's lips. 
 Tea 'tis makes the spirits flow, 
 Tickles up the heart of Woe, 
 Sets the tongue, enlivens wit, 
 Gives the sweet poetic fit. 
 Tea 'tis makes the charming Fair 
 Sprightly, pleasing, as they are. 
 What is more than all, 'twas Tea; 
 Tea, that set Columbia free. 
 
MAXWELLS POEMS. 181 
 
 PLEASURE AND LOVE, 
 
 PLEASURE play'd with Love one day, 
 She had stol'n his arms away; 
 Tickling him about the heart, 
 With the feather of his dart, 
 And her rosy breast left bare, 
 'Twas a child, what need she care? 
 Love soon saw his mark, and laugh'd, 
 Then adroitly touch'd the shaft: 
 " Oh ! 1 die ! I die ! my heart ! 
 " Take, take out this tingling dart !" 
 " No, good for you ; now you see 
 " What you get by playing with me." 
 
 THE HUMMING BIRD. 
 
 LITTLE Hummer, why so shy ? 
 Whither, whither would you fly ? 
 Let that pretty rose alone ; 
 Do you think it is your own ? 
 See yon Bee just coming by ; 
 Here ! here ! to my bosom fly. 
 
 " Ha ! Sir ! did you catch me tho'? 
 " Only want me for a show ; 
 
182 
 
 " If my head-piece is so small, 
 
 " Think not I've no wit at all. 
 
 " What ! give up my liberty ! 
 
 " I'm my own bird now : I'm free ; 
 
 " Now I ramble all the day ; 
 
 " All my business is to play. 
 
 " Now I chase the Butterfly, 
 
 *' Tho' he thinks himself so sprigh. 
 
 " Now I hunt for honey dew, 
 
 " I know where to find it too ; 
 
 " I'm the bird to draw it up, 
 
 " From the Jasmine's yellow cup, 
 
 " Or the Honeysuckle's bell, 
 
 " Charming flower, I can tell : 
 
 " But of every thing that blows, 
 
 " Give me still the blushing rose ! 
 
 " There's the honey I Oh ! 'tis sweet! 
 
 " Fit for any bird to eat 
 
 " Ha ! you there, my little Bee ! 
 
 " You mustn't get that rose from me !" 
 
 HEART'S-EASE. 
 
 THERE is a charming little flow'r, 
 
 A charming flow'r it is ; 
 The brightest gem in Flora's bowV, 
 
 And sweet as Beauty's kiss. 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 183 
 
 There is no fragrance in its sigh, 
 
 To tempt the busy Bee ; 
 It doesn't please the Butterfly, 
 
 But it is dear to me. 
 
 I love to see the little thing, 
 
 When Morning paints the skies, 
 Before the Lark is on the wing, 
 
 Open its sparkling eyes. 
 
 Then bright and fresh with shining dew, 
 
 It glitters to the ray, 
 With triple spots of various hue, 
 
 So fancifully gay. 
 
 This is the flow'r that I will wear, 
 
 That girls may cease to tease ; 
 Its name is music to my ear, 
 
 What is it call'd ? Heart's-Ease. 
 
 SONG 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 SHE has died on the mountain, 
 
 The pride of the plain ! 
 And the sighs of Affection 
 
 Recal her in vain. 
 
184 
 
 O ! the wild-rose of Beauty 
 Is blooming no more ! 
 
 And Love's tears may bedew it, 
 But cannot restore. 
 
 The mild star of Evening 
 
 Shines bright in the West, 
 And sparkles with pleasure, 
 
 But soon sinks to rest. 
 Yet still unextinguished, 
 
 Just sets for a while ; 
 Then, the star of the Morning 
 
 Lights Heav'n with a smile. 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 LOVE saw Beauty : " Come," said he 
 " Charming cousin, come with me; 
 " I will show you such a treat, 
 " Honey ! Oh! it is so sweet! 
 " Sweet as your sweet kisses are ; 
 '* Hidden too, you needn't care." 
 Beauty yielded ; Love quite gay, 
 Smiling to her, led the way. 
 Twas a wild and curious hive, 
 Seen too by no soul alive. 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 185 
 
 " Here just put your white hand in, 
 
 " Stealing honey is no sin." 
 
 But the Bees ! The Bees flew out, 
 
 Stinging wildly all about. 
 
 Ah ! poor Beauty's melting cries ! 
 
 Love flies off, and as he flies, 
 
 " Take my share too, if you please, 
 
 " I love honey; but not Bees." 
 
 THE WILD FLOWER. 
 
 I SAW a Wild Flower in my walk 
 Just sparkling in the morning dew, 
 
 As blushing on its tender stalk, 
 The little child of Nature grew. 
 
 Ev'n as I look'd upon its breast, 
 
 It seem'd to shrink with modest shame ; 
 
 And trembling hung its rosy crest, 
 As if it fear'd to get a name. 
 
 Sweet Flower, said I, here flourish still, 
 A playmate for the busy Bee ; 
 
 I will not pluck thee 'gainst'thy will; 
 But leave thee beautifully free. 
 
186 MAXWELL'S POEMS. 
 
 That rosy bloom, too sweet to fade, 
 May win a more becoming fate ; 
 
 A nosegay for some lovely maid, 
 Presented by her bosom-mate. 
 
 Or if thou choose it, sweet wild thing, 
 Here live, and breathe thy latest sigh! 
 
 Then Zephyr, on his balmy wing, 
 Waft thy pure spirit to the sky ! 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 AFTER HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 WELL ! thou art married ! and my heart 
 
 Would fain recal its vow; .i*i/{t( 
 Yes, thou art married ! and we part 
 
 We part for ever now. 
 
 v ' :>\ A aw :-; 
 
 Then why should I retrace the hours, 
 
 My Sorrow but endears ; 
 When Love and Joy entwin'd their flow'rs, 
 
 Now withered with my tears. 
 
 Then blest as human pair could be, 
 
 We mingled vows and sighs ; 
 And all we saw, or wish'd to see, 
 
 Was in each other's eyes. 
 
MAXWELL'S POEMS. 187 
 
 Yet now alas ! thy husband's arms 
 
 Embrace that dream of mine ; 
 Too happy to possess the charms, 
 
 That I must thus resign. 
 
 O, thou who wert my life below, 
 
 What now remains for me ? 
 One only hope can soothe my woe 
 
 To die remembering thee. 
 
189 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE observation of a very encomiastic traveller 
 led her to the conclusion, that the Americans 
 "have nothing of the poet in them, nor of the bel 
 "esprit, and that they are apt to be tiresome if 
 " they attempt to be either." We are told also, 
 by the same lively writer, that the Americans " have 
 " a surprising stock of information, but this runs 
 " little into the precincts of imagination, facts 
 " form the ground-work of their discourse." Even 
 the Americans themselves appear hitherto to have 
 subscribed to this opinion ; but it is apprehended 
 that the publication of this small volume of poems 
 by Mr. Bryant, will induce a belief that America is 
 destined very speedily to become the mother of 
 poets, who will compel the authors of Europe to 
 guard their own laurels with no small degree of 
 
190 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 anxiety. These productions are in fact a most 
 convincing proof, that whatever disadvantages may 
 retard its developement, there yet are, amongst 
 the Americans, the germs of pure poetical feeling 
 and the capacity of high poetical expression. That 
 these great requisites are united in Mr. Bryant, 
 will not, in all probability, be denied by any one 
 who takes the trouble of studying the following 
 specimens. of his powers. He has attempted some 
 bold and lofty flights, and his pinions have sustain 
 ed him nobly. In the longest of the Poems which 
 follow, he has chosen a subject full of the greatest 
 difficulties, for which he only stands excused by 
 the felicity of the execution. " The Ages" is 
 a masterly sketch, and displays the marks of 
 an eminently poetical mind. But, perhaps, the 
 most remarkable of these Poems, is that entitled 
 " Thanatopsis," the conception of which is singu 
 larly grand. Without any intention to overrate the 
 excellence of these lines, it may be confidently as 
 serted that there are .few pieces in the works of 
 even the very first of our living poets, which ex 
 ceed them in sublimity and compass of poetical 
 thought. Nor is it their least excellence, that the 
 spirit which they display is one of a pure and high 
 philosophy. The few descriptions of nature which 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 191 
 
 Mr. Bryant's smaller pieces contain, are beautiful, 
 rich, and powerful. Dilatory as the Americans 
 are said to be, in affording encouragement to the 
 young poets of their country, it cannot for a mo 
 ment be doubted that they will have taste sufficient 
 to recognize Mr. Bryant's claims to distinction. 
 Indeed, a very favourable notice of them has ap 
 peared in a late Number of the North American 
 Review, 1 from which we learn that one or two of 
 the smaller poems had previously appeared in that 
 work. If the approving judgment of the English 
 public can add any weight to Mr. Bryant's claims 
 to the admiration of his countrymen, his Poems 
 only require to be known to entitle him to it. 
 
 THE AGES. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN, to the common rest that crowns our days, 
 Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 
 
 Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 
 His silver temples in their last repose ; 
 
 1 No. VIII. New Series. The many valuable and judicious 
 articles which this number contains, render it highly creditable 
 to the literature of America. 
 
192 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, 
 And blights the fairest, when our bitterest tears 
 
 Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close ; 
 We think on what they were, with many fears 
 Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming 
 years. 
 
 II. 
 
 And therefore to our hearts, the day's gone by, 
 When liv'd the honour'd sage whose death we wept, 
 
 And the soft virtues beam'd from many an eye 
 And beat in many a heart that long has slept ; 
 
 Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stept 
 Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told 
 
 Of times when worth was crown'd, and faith was kept, 
 Ere friendship grew a snare or love wax'd cold 
 Those pure and happy times the golden days of old. 
 
 III. 
 
 Peace to the just man's memory, let it grow 
 
 Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
 
 Of ages ; let the mimic canvas show 
 
 His calm benevolent features ; let the light 
 
 Stream on his deeds of love, that shunn'd the sight 
 Of all but Heaven, and in the book of fame, 
 
 The glorious record of his virtues write, 
 And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 
 A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed 
 flame. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 193 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 
 
 To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw; r[T 
 
 Lo ! the same shaft, by which the righteous dies, 
 Strikes through the wretch that scofPd at mercy's law, 
 
 And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 
 Of Him who will avenge them ; stainless worth, 
 
 Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 
 
 Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 
 From the low modest shade, to light and bless the 
 earth. 
 
 y 
 T * 
 
 Has Nature, in her calm majestic march, 
 
 Falter'd with age at last ? Does the bright sun 
 
 Grow dim in heaven ? Or, in their far blue arch, 
 Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, 
 
 Less brightly ? When the dew-lipp'd spring comes on, 
 Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky 
 
 With flowers less fair than when her reign begun ? 
 Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 
 The plenty that once swell'd beneath his sober eye ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
 In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
 
 New change to her, of everlasting youth; 
 
 Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
 
194 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
 And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
 
 Of Ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
 The restless surge. Eternal love doth keep 
 In his complacent arms, the earth, Hie air, the deep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Will then the merciful One, who stamp'd our race 
 With his own image, and who gave them sway 
 
 O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, 
 Now that our flourishing nations far away 
 
 Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, 
 Forget the ancient care that taught and nurs'd 
 
 His latest offspring ? Will he quench the ray 
 Infus'd by his own forming smile at first, 
 And leave a work so fair all blighted and accurs'd ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh no ! a thousand cheerful omens give 
 
 Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh ; 
 He, who has tamed the elements, shall not live 
 
 The slave of his own passions ; he whose eye 
 Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 
 
 And in the abyss of brightness dares to span 
 The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, 
 
 In God's magnificent works his will shall scan; 
 
 And love and peace shall make their paradise with 
 man. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 19>> 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sit at the feet of History through the night 
 Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, 
 
 And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
 Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ; 
 
 When, from the genial cradle of our race, 
 
 Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot 
 
 To choose, where palm-groves cool'd their dwelling- 
 place, 
 
 Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot 
 The truth of Heaven, and kneel'd to Gods that heard 
 
 them not. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
 But smote his brother down in the bright dayj 
 
 And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 
 His own avenger, girt himself to slay ; 
 
 Beside the path the unburied carcass lay ; 
 The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
 
 Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 
 And slew his babes; the sick, un tended then, 
 Languish'd in the damp shade, and died afar from 
 
 men. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But misery brought in love ; in passion's strife 
 Man gave his heart to mercy pleading long, 
 
 And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life ; 
 The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, 
 K 2 
 
196 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong; 
 States rose, and in the shadow of their might, 
 
 The timid rested ; to the reverent throng, 
 Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, 
 Gave laws, and judg'd their strifes, and taught the 
 way of right. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Till bolder spirits seiz'd the rule, and naiPd 
 On men the yoke that man should never bear, 
 
 And drove them forth to battle : Lo ! unveil'd 
 The scene of those stern ages ! what is there ? 
 
 A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air 
 Moans with the crimson surges that intomb 
 
 Cities and banner'd armies ; forms that wear 
 The kingly circlet, rise, amid the gloom, 
 O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallow'd in its 
 
 womb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Those ages have no memory ; but they left 
 A record in the desert columns strewn 
 
 On the waste sands, and statues fall'n and cleft, 
 Heap'd like a host in battle overthrown; 
 
 Vast ruins, where the mountains' ribs of stone 
 Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread 
 
 In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
 Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
 The long and perilous ways the cities of the dead ; 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 197 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up piPd. 
 
 They perish'd but the eternal tombs remain, 
 And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 
 
 Pierc'd by long toil and hollow'd to a fane ; 
 Huge piers and frowning forms of Gods sustain 
 
 The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 
 Like the night heaven when clouds are black with rain; 
 
 But idly skill was task'd, and strength was plied, 
 
 All was the work of slaves, to swell a despot's pride. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign 
 O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke ; 
 
 She left the down-trod nations in disdain, 
 And flew to Greece, when liberty awoke, 
 
 New born, amid those beautiful vales, and broke 
 Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands, 
 
 As the rock shivers in the thunder-stroke. 
 
 And lo ! in full-grown strength, an empire stands 
 Of leagu'd and rival states, the wonder of the lands. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh Greece ! thy flourishing cities were a spoil 
 Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed 
 
 And crush'd the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil 
 Drunk with the blood of those that lov'd thee best; 
 
198 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast, 
 Thy just and brave to die in distant climes ; 
 
 Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sigh'd for rest, 
 From thine abominations ; aftertimes 
 That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yet there was that within thee which has sav'd 
 
 Thy glory, and redeem'd thy blotted name; 
 The story of thy better deeds, engrav'd 
 
 On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame 
 Our chiller virtue ; the high art to tame 
 
 The whirlwind of the passions was thine own ; 
 And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 
 
 Far over many a land and age has shone, 
 
 And mingles with the light that beams from God's 
 own throne. 
 
 XVIII. 
 And Rome, thy sterner, younger sister, she 
 
 Who awed the world with her imperial frown, 
 Drew the deep spirit of her race from thee, 
 
 The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 
 Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
 
 Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves; 
 Guilt reign'd, and woe with guilt, and plagues came 
 down, 
 
 Till the north broke its flood-gates, and the waves 
 
 Whelm'd the degraded race, and welter'd o'er thek 
 graves. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 199 
 
 Vainly that ray of brightness from above, 
 
 That shone around the Galilean lake, 
 The light of hope, the leading star of love, 
 
 Struggled, the darkness of that day to break ; 
 Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake 
 
 In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame ; 
 And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake, 
 
 Were red with blood, and charity became 
 
 In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name. 
 
 XX. 
 
 They triumph'd, and less bloody rites were kept 
 
 Within the quiet of the convent cell ; 
 The well-fed inmates patter'd prayer, and slept, 
 
 And sinn'd, and liked their easy penance well. 
 Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, 
 
 Amid its fair broad lands the Abbey lay, 
 Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell ; 
 
 And cowl'd and barefoot beggars swarm'd the way, 
 
 All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and 
 
 grey. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Oh, sweetly the returning Muses' strain, 
 
 SwelFd over that fam'd stream, whose gentle tide 
 
 In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 
 Sweet, as when winter storms have ceas'd to chide, 
 
200 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And all the new leav'd woods, resounding wide, 
 Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 
 
 Lo ! to the smiling Arno's classic side 
 The emulous nations of the West repair, 
 And kindle their quench'd urns, and drink fresh spirit 
 there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Still, heaven deferr'd the hour ordain'd to rend 
 From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; 
 
 And cowl and worshipp'd shrine could still defend 
 The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; 
 
 And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole 
 Who could not bribe a passage to the skies; 
 
 And vice beneath the mitre's kind controul, 
 Sinn'd gaily on, and grew to giant size, 
 Shielded by priestly power, and watch'd by friendly 
 
 eyes. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 At last the earthquake came the shock, that hurl'd 
 To earth, in many fragments dash'd and strown, 
 
 The throne, whose roots were in another world, 
 And whose far stretching shadow aw'd our own. 
 
 From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown, 
 Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rush'd and fled; 
 
 The web, that for a thousand years had grown 
 O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread, 
 Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 201 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Spirit of that day is still awake, 
 
 And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 
 But through the idle mesh of power shall break, 
 
 Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain, 
 Till men are fill'd with him, and feel how vain, 
 
 Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, 
 Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 
 
 The smile of heaven; till a new age expands 
 
 Its white and holy wings, above the peaceful lands. 
 
 XXV. 
 For look again on the past years ; behold, 
 
 Flown, like the night-mare's fearful dreams, away 
 Full many a horrible worship, that, of old, 
 
 Subdued the shuddering realms to its dark sway ; 
 And crimes that fear'd not once the eye of day> 
 
 Rooted from men, without a name or place; 
 And nations blotted out from earth, to pay 
 
 The forfeit of deep guilt ; with glad embrace 
 
 The fair disburden'd lands welcome a nobler race. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven; 
 
 They fade, they fly, but truth survives their flight; 
 Earth has no- shades to quench that beam of heaven; 
 
 Each ray, that shone, in early time, to light 
 K 3 
 
202 BRYANTS POEMS. 
 
 The faltering footsteps in the path of right, 
 The broader glow of brightness, shed to aid 
 
 In man's maturer day his bolder sight, 
 
 All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid, 
 Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot 
 
 fade. 
 
 XXVII. T ;/ ,, 
 
 Late, from this western shore, that morning chas'd 
 The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud 
 
 O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
 Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud 
 
 Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
 Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
 
 Trees wav'd, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud 
 Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
 Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf 
 yell'd near, 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 
 
 Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 
 And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 
 
 Young group of grassy islands born of him, 
 And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, 
 
 Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 
 The commerce of the world; with tawny limb 
 
 And belt and beads in sun-light glistening, 
 
 The Savage urg'd his skiff like wild bird on the wing. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 203 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Then all this youthful paradise around 
 
 And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 
 
 Cool'd by the interminable wood, that frown'd 
 O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray 
 
 Glanc'd, till the strong tornado broke his way 
 Through the grey giants of the sylvan wild ; 
 
 Yet many a shelter'd glade, with blossoms gay, 
 Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, 
 Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiPd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 
 
 Spread its blue sheet that flash'd with many an oar, 
 
 Where the brown otter plung'd him from the brake, 
 And the deer drank as the light gale flew o'er, 
 
 The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; 
 And while that spot, so wild and lone and fair, 
 
 A look of glad and innocent beauty wore, 
 And peace was on the earth and in the air, 
 The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Not unaveng'd the foeman, from the wood, 
 Beheld the deed; and when the midnight shade 
 
 Was stillest, gorg'd his battle-axe with blood ; 
 
 All died the wailing babe the shrieking maid 
 
204 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And, in the flood of fire that scath'd the glade, 
 The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, 
 
 When on the dewy woods the day-beam play'd;"& e^ 
 No more the cabin-smokes rose wreath'd and blue, 
 And ever, by their lake, lay moor'd the light canoe. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Look now abroad another race has fill'd 
 
 These populous borders wide the wood recedes, 
 
 And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd; 
 The land is full of harvests and green meads ; 
 
 Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, 
 Shine, disembower'd, and give to sun and breeze 
 
 Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
 
 New colonies forth, that toward the western seas, 
 Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 
 Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place 
 
 A limit to the giant's unchain'd strength, 
 Or curb his swiftness in the forward race. 
 
 Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, 
 Stretches the long untravell'd path of light, 
 
 Into the depths of ages : we may trace, 
 Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, 
 Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 205 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 
 
 And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chain 
 To earth her struggling multitude of states ; 
 
 She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain 
 Against them, but shake oft' the vampyre train 
 
 That batten on her blood, and break their net. 
 Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain 
 
 The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
 
 To rescue and raise up, draws near but is not yet, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But thou my country, thou shalt never fall, 
 But with thy children thy maternal care, 
 
 Thy lavish love, thy blessings shower'd on all 
 These are thy fetters seas and stormy air 
 
 Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
 Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 
 
 1 nou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare 
 The date of thy deep-founded strength ; or tell 
 How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ! 
 
206 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 TO A WATER-FOWL. 
 
 WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide, 
 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 On the chaf d Ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care, 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
 The desert and illimitable air, 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fann'd, 
 At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere ; 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 207 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend 
 Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. 
 
 Thou 'st gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart, 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who from zone to zone, 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 OF A 
 FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES. 
 
 THE night winds howl'd the billows dashM 
 
 Against the tossing chest ; 
 And Danae, to her broken heart 
 
 Her slumbering infant prest. 
 
 My little child! in tears she said 
 
 To wake and weep is mine ; 
 But thou canst sleep thou dost not know 
 
 Thy mother's lot, and thine. 
 
208 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The moon is up, the moonbeams smile, 
 
 And tremble on the main ; 
 But dark within my floating cell, 
 
 To me they smile in vain. 
 
 Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, 
 
 And thy long locks are dry ; 
 Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, 
 Nor breakers booming high. 
 
 Yet thou, didst thou but know thy fate, 
 Wouldst melt, my tears to see ; 
 
 And I, methinks, should weep the less, 
 Wouldst thou but weep with me. 
 
 Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep ye winds, 
 
 That vex the restless brine ; 
 When shall these eyes, my babe, be seaFd 
 
 As peacefully as thine ? 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOR THE 
 ENTRANCE INTO A WOOD. 
 
 STRANGER, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs 
 Experience more than reason, that the world 
 Is full of guilt and misery ; and hast known 
 Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 209 
 
 To tire thee of it enter this wild wood 
 
 And view the haunts of nature ; the calm shade 
 
 Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
 
 That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
 
 To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 
 
 Of all that pain'd thee in the haunts of men, 
 
 And made thee loathe thy life : the primal curse 
 
 Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 
 
 But not in vengeance. Misery is wed 
 
 To guilt ; and hence these shades are still the abodes 
 
 Of undissembled gladness; the thick roof 
 
 Of green and stirring branches, is alive 
 
 And musical with birds, thttt sing and sport 
 
 In wantonness of spirit; while, below, 
 
 The squirrel, with rais'd paws and form erect, 
 
 Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade 
 
 Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam 
 
 That wak'd them into life. Even the green trees 
 
 Partake the deep contentment; as they bend 
 
 To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 
 
 Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene. 
 
 Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 
 
 Existence, than the winged plunderer 
 
 That sucks its sweets : the massy rocks themselves, 
 
 And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, 
 
 That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude, 
 
 Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots 
 
 With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 
 
210 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 
 Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed 
 Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 
 Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 
 In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 
 Lest from her midway perch, thou scare the wren 
 That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 
 That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee 
 Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass 
 Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 WHEN beechen buds begin to swell, 
 
 And woods the blue-bird's warble know, 
 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume, 
 Sweet flower ! I love, in forest bare, 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of spring 
 First plant thee in the watery mould; 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming, 
 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 211 
 
 Thy Parent sun, who bade thee view 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
 
 Has bath'd thee in his own bright hue, 
 And streak'd with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
 Unapt the passing view to meet, 
 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 
 
 Oft in the sunless April day, 
 
 Thy early smile has stay'd my walk ; 
 
 But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May 
 I pass'd thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried; 
 I copied them but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 I'll not o'erlook the modest flower, 
 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
212 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SOON as the glaz'd and gleaming snow, 
 Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, 
 
 The hunter of the west must go, 
 
 In depth of woods to seek the deer. 
 
 His rifle on his shoulder plac'd, 
 
 His stores of death arranged with skill, 
 
 His mocasins and snow-shoes lac'd, 
 Why lingers he beside the hill ? 
 
 Far in the dim and doubtful light, 
 Where woody slopes a valley leave, 
 
 He sees what none but lover might, 
 The dwelling of his Genevieve. 
 
 And oft he turns his truant eye, 
 And pauses oft and lingers near ; 
 
 But when he marks the brightening sky, 
 He bounds away to hunt the deer. 
 
 GREEN RIVER. 
 
 WHEN breezes are soft, and skies are fair, 
 I steal an hour from study and care, 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 213 
 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with waters of green, 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
 Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
 And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
 Have nam'd the stream from its own fair hue. 
 
 Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright 
 With colour'd pebbles, and sparkles of light; 
 And clear the depths where the eddies play, 
 And dimples deepen and whirl away ; 
 And the plane-trees speckled arms o'ershoot 
 The swifter current that mines its root ; 
 Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 
 The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 
 With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
 Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. 
 Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, ^ j 
 With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 
 The flowers of summer are fairest there, 
 And freshest the breath of the summer air; 
 And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat, 
 To bathe in these waters so pure and sweet. 
 
 Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide, 
 Beautiful stream ! by the village side, 
 But windest away from haunts of men, 
 To silent valley, and shaded glen : 
 And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
 Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still ; 
 
214 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Lonely save when, by thy rippling tides, 
 
 From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
 
 Or the Simpler comes, with basket and book, 
 
 For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
 
 Or haply some idle dreamer like me, 
 
 To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
 
 Still save the chirp of birds that feed 
 
 On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
 
 And thy own wild music, gushing out 
 
 With mellow murmur, or fairy shout, 
 
 From dawn to the blush of another day, 
 
 like traveller singing along his way. 
 
 That fairy music I never hear 
 
 Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
 
 And mark them winding away from sight, 
 
 Darken'd with shade, or flashing with light, 
 
 "While o'er thee, the vine to the thicket clings, 
 
 And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
 
 But I wish that fate had left me free 
 
 To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
 
 Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
 
 And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
 
 And I envy thy stream as it glides along 
 
 Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song. 
 
 Though forc'd to drudge for the dregs of men, 
 
 And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen ; 
 
 And mingle among the jostling crowd, 
 
 Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud; 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 215 
 
 1 sometimes come to this quiet place, 
 To breathe the air that ruffles thy face, 
 And gaze upon thee in silent dream ; 
 For, in thy lonely and lovely stream, 
 An image of that calm life appears, 
 That won my heart in my greener years. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 
 And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; 
 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around 
 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, 
 
 Comes a still voice yet a few days, and thee 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 
216 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist 
 
 Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again ; 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix for ever with the elements, 
 
 To be a brother to th' insensible rock, 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thy eternal resting place 
 
 Shalt thou retire alone nor could'st thou wish 
 
 Couch more magnificent : Thou shalt lie down 
 
 With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, 
 
 The powerful of the earth the wise, the good, 
 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 
 Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun, the vales 
 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between 
 
 The venerable woods rivers that move 
 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 
 That make the meadows green and, poured round all, 
 
 Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste, 
 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 217 
 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings yet, the dead are there, 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. 
 So shalt thou rest and what if thou shalt fall 
 Unnotic'd by the living and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ! All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny : the gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 And make their bed with thee ; as the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
 The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles 
 And beauty of its innocent age cut off, 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 L 
 
218 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The innumerable caravan, that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
219 
 
 YAMOYDEN, 
 
 A TALE OF 
 
 THE WARS OF KING PHILIP : 
 
 '* l '-' '.. V : "I '-' 
 
 IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 REVEREND JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN, A.M. 
 
 AND HIS FRIEND. 
 
 ONE principal cause of the incorrectness of style, 
 and want of polished taste which the American 
 poets display, may doubtless be discovered in the 
 very early age at which they are accustomed to 
 present their publications to the world. If Pope's 
 juvenile Tragedy had escaped the flames, it would 
 probably have given but few indications of those 
 splendid powers, which in their full maturity pro 
 duced the " Essay on Man." The early efforts 
 of Milton's Muse, according to one of our great 
 critics, " raise no great expectations," and we have 
 L 2 
 
220 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 seen in our own times how completely the subse 
 quent compositions of the most celebrated of our 
 living poets have falsified the opinions of his ge 
 nius, which were founded on his youthful attempts. 
 It would, therefore, be both unjust and dangerous 
 to criticise with severity a Poem like "Yamoyden," 
 which, though it may betray the marks of a juve 
 nile pen, yet testifies the existence of no inconsi 
 derable powers in the author. This volume is the 
 joint production of two young writers ; of whom 
 one (Mr. Eastburn) was only twenty years of age, 
 and his friend, who has performed the office of 
 Editor, eighteen, at the time of its being written. 
 The story of King Philip has been made known 
 to the English reader by the author of the " Sketch 
 Book," and it is said that one of the most volumi 
 nous of our own poets is about to publish on the 
 same subject; which is thus adverted to by the 
 Authors of the present Poem. 
 
 But in that land whence thy destroyers came, 
 A sacred bard thy Champion shall be found ; 
 
 He of the laureate wreath for thee shall claim 
 The hero's honours, to earth's farthest bound, 
 
 Where Albion's tongue is heard, or Albion's songs re 
 sound. 
 
 It will be immediately perceived, that the style 
 
YAMOYDEN. 221 
 
 of this Poem is in imitation of Walter Scott, whose 
 poetical compositions from this and some other in 
 stances of copyism, appear to be very general 
 favourites in America. It would not be difficult 
 in perusing this Poem, to point out many errors, 
 especially in the quantity of words a fault to 
 which the writers of America are remarkably 
 prone. It was found impossible to give any idea 
 of the story, in making the extracts from " Ya- 
 moyden," and it was therefore thought more expe 
 dient to give the Introduction, and one of the 
 Cantos entire ; it will be perceived, that the latter 
 contains two songs of considerable beauty and 
 feeling. 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, 
 
 The last that either bard shall e'er essay ! 
 The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, 
 
 That first awoke them, in a happier day : 
 Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, 
 
 His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave ; 
 And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, 
 
 Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave ; 
 
 His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave ! 
 
222 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Friend of my youth ! with thee began the love 
 Of sacred song ; the wont, in golden dreams, 
 
 Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, 
 O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams ; 
 
 Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams 
 Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, 
 
 For ever lit by memory's twilight beams ; 
 
 Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, 
 Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. 
 
 There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear, 
 O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll ; 
 
 Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, 
 
 Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole ; 
 
 There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, 
 In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight ; 
 
 Or hold communion with the musing soul 
 
 Of sage or bard, who sought, mid Pagan night, 
 In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. 
 
 Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late 
 Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, 
 
 Where Mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate 
 And kept the key, till three millenniums past ; 
 
 When, as creation's noblest work was last, 
 Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see 
 
 Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast. 
 And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be 
 An empire and a home, most worthy for the Free. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 223 
 
 And here, forerunners strange and meet were found, 
 Of that blest freedom, only dreamed before ; 
 
 Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round 
 Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. 
 
 " Earth was their Mother ;' ? or they knew no more, 
 Or would not that their secret should be told ; 
 
 For they were grave and silent ; and such lore, 
 To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, 
 The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of 
 old. 
 
 Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew 
 Their needful wants, and learn* not how to hoard; 
 
 And him whom strength and wisdom crown'd, they knew, 
 But with no servile reverence, as their lord. 
 
 And on their mountain summits they adored 
 One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, 
 
 And thence their incense and orisons poured 
 To his pervading presence, that abroad 
 They felt through all his works, their Father, King, 
 and God. 
 
 And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, 
 
 The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, 
 Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, 
 
 They imaged Spirits beautiful and good ; 
 But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, 
 
 Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine, 
 Or withering heats untimely seared the wood, 
 
 The angry forms they saw of powers malign ; 
 
 These they besoughtto spare, those blestfor aid divine. 
 
224 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, 
 
 With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, 
 Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, 
 
 And, as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame ; 
 Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name ; 
 
 These simple truths went down from sire to son, 
 To reverence age, the sluggish hunter's shame, 
 
 And craven warrior's infamy, to shun, 
 
 And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred 
 done. 
 
 From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, 
 When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, 
 
 The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, 
 Came, ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. 
 
 Few years have past, and all their forests' pride 
 From shores and hills has vanished, with the race, 
 
 Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, 
 Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, 
 In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequester 
 ed place. 
 
 And many a gloomy tale Tradition yet 
 
 Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, 
 
 Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, 
 To people scenes, where still their names remain; 
 
 And so began our young, delighted strain, 
 That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, 
 
 And bid their martial hosts arise again, 
 
 Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, 
 And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 225 
 
 Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song, 
 And o'er thy bier its latest accents die ; 
 
 Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long, 
 Though not to me the muse averse deny, 
 
 Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, 
 
 Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er ; 
 
 And he who loved with thee his notes to try, 
 But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, 
 And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more* 
 
 But, no! the freshness of that past shall still 
 Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; 
 
 When through the ideal fields of song, at will, 
 He roved, and gathered chaplets wild with thee ; 
 
 When, reckless of the world, alone and free, 
 
 Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, 
 
 That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea ; 
 Their white apparel and their streamers gay, 
 Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly 
 ray; 
 
 And downward, far, reflected in the clear 
 
 Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees ; 
 
 So, buoyant, they do seem to float in air, 
 And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; 
 
 Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, 
 They part, for distant ports : Thee, gales benign 
 
 Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, 
 To its own harbour sure, where each divine 
 And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. 
 L 3 
 
226 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Muses of Helicon ! melodious race 
 
 Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyn6 ! 
 
 Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, 
 And drives each scowling form of grief away ! 
 
 Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay 
 Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove ; 
 
 Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way 
 Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, 
 That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his 
 courts above ! 
 
 Bright choir ! with lips untempted, and with zone 
 Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane; 
 
 Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known 
 The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ; 
 
 Rightly invoked, if right the elected swain, 
 On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, 
 
 Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain, 
 Worthy the budding laurel bough it bore, i 
 Farewell! a long Farewell ! I worship you no more ! 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE sun is sinking from the sky 
 In calm and cloudless majesty ; 
 
 ' I/mod. Theog. I. i. 60. 30. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 227 
 
 And cooler hours with gentle sway, 
 Succeed the fiery heat of day. 
 Forest and shore and rippling tide 
 Confess the evening's influence wide, 
 Seen lovelier in that fading light, 
 That heralds the approaching night ; 
 That magic colouring nature throws, 
 To deck her beautiful repose ; 
 When floating on the breeze of even, 
 Long clouds of purple streak the heaven. 
 With brighter tints of glory blending, 
 And darker hues of night descending. 
 While hastening to its shady rest 
 Each weary songster seeks its nest, 
 Chanting a last, a farewell lay, 
 As gloomier falls the parting day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Broad Narraganset's bosom blue 
 Has shone with every varying hue ; 
 The mystic alchemy of even 
 Its rich delusions all has given. 
 The silvery sheet unbounded spread, 
 First melting from the waters fled ; 
 Next the wide path of beaten gold 
 Flashing with fiery sparkles rolled ; 
 As all its gorgeous glories died, 
 An amber tinge blushed o'er the tide ; 
 
228 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Faint and more faint, as more remote, 
 The lessening ripples peaceful float ; 
 And now, one ruby line alone 
 Trembles, is paler, and is gone, 
 And from the blue wave fades away 
 The last life-tint of dying day ! 
 In darkness veiled, was seen no more 
 Connannicut's extended shore ; 
 Each little isle with bosom green, 
 Descending mists impervious screen ; 
 One gloomy shade o'er all the woods 
 Of forest-fringed Aquetnet broods ; 
 Where solemn oak was seen before 
 Beside the rival sycamore, 
 Or pine and cedar lined the height, 
 All in one livery brown were dight. 
 
 III. 
 
 But lo ! with orb serene on high, 
 
 The round moon climbs the eastern sky ; 
 
 The stars all quench their feebler rays 
 
 Before her universal blaze. 
 
 Round moon ! how sweetly dost thou smile, 
 
 Above that green reposing isle, 
 
 Soft cradled in the illumined bay, 
 
 Where from its bank the shadows seem 
 
 Melting in filmy light away. 
 
 Far does thy tempered lustre stream, 
 
YAMOYDEN. 229 
 
 Chequering the tufted groves on high, 
 While glens in gloom beneath them lie. 
 Oft sheeted with the ghostly beam, 
 Mid the thick forest's mass of shade, 
 The shingled roof is gleaming white, 
 Where labour, in the cultured glade, 
 Has all the wild a garden made. 
 And there with silvery tassels bright 
 The serried maize is waving slow, 
 While fitful shadows come and go, 
 Swift o'er its undulating seas, 
 As gently breathes the evening breeze. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Solemn it is, in greenwoods deep, 
 
 That magic light o'er nature's sleep ; 
 
 Where in long ranks the pillars gray 
 
 Aloft their mingling structures bear, 
 
 Mingling, in gloom or tracery fair, 
 
 Where find the unbroken beams their way, 
 
 Or through close trellis flickering stray, 
 
 While sheeny leaflets here and there 
 
 Flutter, with momentary glow. 
 
 'Tis wayward life revealed below, 
 
 With chequered gleams of joy and wo ! 
 
 And those pure realms above that shine, 
 
 So chaste, so vivid, so divine, 
 
 Are the sole type that heaven has shown 
 
 Of those more lovely realms, its own ! 
 
230 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 ilflb^Vciaf.- 
 V. 
 
 There is no sound amid the trees, 
 Save the faint brush of rustling breeze ; 
 Save insect sentinels, that still 
 Prolong their constant larum shrill, 
 And answer all, from tree to tree, 
 With one monotonous revelry. 
 And at this hushed and solemn hour, 
 As gradual thro' the tangled woods, 
 Mystery usurps her wonted power, 
 The spirit of the solitudes, 
 Musing upon her lonely state, 
 As plains the dove her absent mate, 
 Sad NORA sits, and mournfully 
 Sings her dear infant's lullaby. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sorrow had been her lot. She loved, 
 
 As few have loved of earthly frame ; 
 
 And misery but too well had proved 
 
 Her anguished heart was still the same. 
 
 Ere Areskoui's wild alarms 
 
 Called all the red men forth to arms, 
 
 A Nipnet chieftain wooed and won 
 
 Her virgin love ; and when begun 
 
 The desolating strife, his care 
 
 Long screened her from the quest of war. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 231 
 
 Night closed on PHILIP'S victor day, 
 And hurrying in the desperate fray, 
 The Nipnet chieftain with his bride 
 Were borne near Haup's beleaguered side. 
 A home he found, that none could know, 
 So deemed the chief, or friend, or foe ; 
 He placed her in that island grove, 
 With one dear pledge of mutual love. 
 Deep in the forest's bosom green, 
 
 Their cot embowered arose ; 
 Enveloped in its woven screen, 
 
 And wrapt in calm repose. 
 The fairy humming-bird could scarce 
 Amid the boughs its entrance pierce ; 
 And practised Indian's hunter eye 
 Would fail to trace its mystery. 
 One eye alone its labyrinth knew, 
 One only heart to NORA true. 
 Here while her vigil sad she keeps, 
 And lists in vain YAMOYDEN'S steps, 
 Her weeping babe she hushed to rest, 
 And lulled upon her heaving breast, 
 Or wove a passing strain to cheat 
 The tedious hours with music sweet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Sleep, child of my love! be thy slumber as light 
 " As the red bird's that nestles secure on the spray; 
 
 " Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright 
 
 " As the dew-drops that sparkle around with the ray ! 
 
232 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 " O soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast; 
 
 " In the wild wood, sleep cradles in roses thy head; 
 " But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblest, 
 
 " He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of 
 dread. 
 
 " I fear for thy father! why stays he so long 
 
 " On the shores where the wife of the giant was 
 thrown, 
 
 " And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song, 
 " So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone. 
 
 " He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, 
 
 " Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may 
 descry ; 
 
 " The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, 
 " And lost in the wave be thy father's death-cry ! 
 
 " The POWER that is round us, whose presence is 
 near, 
 
 " In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul, 
 " Protect that frail bark in its lonely career, 
 
 " And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall 
 
 roll!" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The noise of parting boughs was heard, 
 
 Within the wood a footstep stirred ; 
 
 The partner of her griefs appears, 
 
 To kiss away her falling tears, 
 
 " And oh!" YAMOYDEN said, "that thou 
 
 " This sad reverse of life should'st know! 
 
YAMOYDEN. 233 
 
 " Wretch that I was, with hand unblest, 
 
 " To snatch this nursling from her nest, 
 
 "And bear her with me darkly on, 
 
 " Through horror's tide and misery's moan ! 
 
 " Alone, though wild the tempest raved, 
 
 " The roar, the flash, I might have braved ; 
 
 " But thou, so young, so wondrous fair, 
 
 " A wanderer's restless lot to share " 
 
 " Mourn not for me/' she calm replied, 
 
 " With thee, the worst I can abide ; 
 
 " And hope and joy are present here 
 
 " Mid tenfold gloom, if thou art near. 
 
 " And in the hour of darkest ill, 
 
 " There is a hope, a refuge still 
 
 " Lift we our thoughts, our prayers on high, 
 
 " There's comfort in eternity !" 
 
 IX. 
 
 In rapt delight the chieftain gazed, 
 Her pale fair brow was upward raised ; 
 In her blue eye devotion shone, 
 With that mild radiance, all its own, 
 Such as might mark, with purer light, 
 O'er heaven a passing seraph's flight. 
 " NORA, thou cam'st, mid dreary strife, 
 " To bless and cheer a wayward life ; 
 " O ! thou wast borne upon my sight, 
 " In blessedness and beauty given, 
 
234 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 " Of all good tidings omen fair ; 
 
 " As floating thro' the azure air, 
 
 " The Wakon bird descends from heaven, 
 
 " Poised on his fleet and equal wings, 
 
 " And from his glittering train far flings, 
 
 " Marking his pathway from above, 
 
 " The rainbow hues of peace and love ! 
 
 " Not vain hath been thy care to teach 
 
 " The great, good Spirit's beloved Speech; 
 
 " And not in vain thy words have shown 
 
 " The prophet who from high came down, 
 
 " The Priest and Offering. I have sought 
 
 " His ear, with prayers thy lips have taught, 
 
 " When clouds above were deep and dread, 
 
 " And brightness seemed around them shed, 
 
 " Till, like yon snow-wreaths of the sky, 
 
 " They passed in fading lustre by. 
 
 " When lone 1 crost the silent wave, 
 
 " While its soft light the moon-beam gave, 
 
 " And all above, and all below, 
 
 " Was kindling with the heavenly glow, 
 
 " My heart was full of prayer ; and then, 
 
 " Methought thy hopes would not be vain. 
 
 " I felt the Comforter appear, 
 
 " And every doubt and every fear 
 
 " Depart; the cheering presence stole 
 
 " With sweeter influence on my soul, 
 
 " Than the mild breeze around my frame, 
 
 " That o'er the tranquil waters came. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 235 
 
 " Oh ! on the bare and wintry ground, 
 " When utter darkness reigned around, 
 " Oft have I watched the morning star 
 " Break thro' the eastern mists afar; 
 " But never yet upon my view 
 " It came in such immortal hue, 
 " As that glad beam of hope that stole 
 *' Above the darkness of my soul." 
 
 X. 
 
 Entranced in sudden bliss they sate, 
 
 Forgetful of the storms of fate ; 
 
 With thoughts by favoured minstrels sung 
 
 Amid their happiest numbers, 
 While o'er her child the mother hung 
 
 And marked its innocent slumbers ; 
 Or met YAMOYDEN'S kindling gaze 
 Where mingling love and rapture blaze : 
 The hawk's wild scream the silence broke, 
 Again the sense of pain awoke. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " And I must go," the chieftain cried, 
 
 " To join the children of despair; 
 
 " The eagle may fly to his mountain side, 
 
 " And the panther from toils and death may hide, 
 
 " In his wood-circled lair; 
 
 " But they, the lords of earth and sea, 
 
236 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 " May to no home of refuge flee !" 
 
 " O why forsake thy child and me ? 
 
 " Thou art not summoned there 
 
 " Where thou, a Christian, may'st again 
 
 " Thy hands with Christian slaughter stain !" 
 
 " NORA, if recreant thought were here, 
 
 " For us what hope, what home is near ? 
 
 " The base Mohegan's hand would sink 
 
 " The treacherous axe within my brain ; 
 
 " I have not learnt from death to shrink, 
 
 " Yet keener far than torture's pain, 
 
 " Or the vile foe's exulting strain, 
 
 " It were, upon thy woes to think ; 
 
 " For thou, thy kinsmen's scorn, would'st live 
 
 " Unpitied and alone to grieve. 
 
 " And this my boy it cannot be ! 
 
 " I would, when I am dead, that he 
 
 " Should be the Indian's friend, should bear 
 
 " Glad tidings to our tribes dispersed; 
 
 " Should plant the vine and olive there, 
 
 " And deep beneath the foliage fair 
 
 " Bury the tomahawk accurst. 
 
 " But friend and foe alike would shun 
 
 " The traitor's child, the coward's son ! 
 
 " They shall not say that when the fire 
 
 " Circled the hunted herd, his sire 
 
 " Wept like the roebuck when he flies, 
 
 " And died as warrior never dies. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 237 
 
 XII. 
 
 " I sought Seaconet's queen to try 
 
 " Her faith once plighted to the brave ; 
 
 " But she, in sore extremity, 
 
 " Received the axe the white men gave ; 
 
 " Her tribe has joined their battle cry ; 
 
 " Alone, unaided, we must fly, 
 
 " Break through our toils, the hunter bands, 
 
 " To find a home in happier lands. 
 
 " O haply yet, our dangers past, 
 
 " Some blest retreat may rise at last. 
 
 " Yet may we find some lovely plain, 
 
 " A world within itself our own ; 
 
 " Encircled by a mountain chain, 
 
 " Whose crests eternal forests crown ; 
 
 " While through the midst, serene and slow, 
 
 " A gently winding stream shall flow. 
 
 " Those woods, whose undisputed sway 
 
 " The buskined hunter genii keep, 
 
 " That stream, whose banks, in guileful play, 
 
 " Behold the wily red fox leap, 
 
 " To snare the sportive birds, whose fate 
 
 " Those treacherous gambols proves too late, 
 
 " Those scenes no war-whoop shall assail : 
 
 " The vines untrod shall clothe the vale, 
 
 " Thick mantling with their cheerful hues 
 
 " And clustering with their purple store ; 
 
 " From the full bark the honeyed juice 
 
 " Its gushing treasures round shall pour ; 
 
238 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 " There melons with their varying die 
 
 " Shall bask beneath a milder sky ; 
 
 " The plumed maize, with shapely blade, 
 
 " Shall stand like marshalled host arrayed. 
 
 " Qh ! there the tranquil hours shall flow, 
 
 " Calm as the glassy wave below ; 
 
 " Remembrance of past griefs shall cease 
 
 " In the sweet bosom of that peace, 
 
 " Yielding rich streams of comfort blest, 
 
 " Like balmy fountains of the west, 
 
 " Which Spirits gift by healing charm, 
 
 " With unction meet for every harm !" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " YAMOYDEN, 'tis a blissful dream, 
 
 " A glimpse of heaven thro' thunder-clouds ; 
 
 " Despair forbids such light to beam 
 
 " O'er the deep gloom our fate that shrouds. 
 
 " Dark is the lord whose desperate cause 
 
 " Thou followest ; yet for reason pause ; 
 
 " Pause, ere that heart of guilt and guile 
 
 " Entrap thee in its latest wile !" 
 
 " Fear not; his wasted power forbids 
 
 " The secret hope of hostile deeds. 
 
 " Yet if Revenge the spirit be 
 
 " That holds the SACHEM company, 
 
 " How shall his foes the outlaw blame, 
 
 " Or marvel whence the demon came? 
 
YAMOYDEN. 239 
 
 " Can he forget, while heaves his breath, 
 
 " An outraged brother's captive death ? 
 
 " Can he forget the lurid light 
 
 " Of Narraganset's bloody night ? 
 
 " The forests broad his fathers swayed, 
 
 " O'errun beneath the oppressor's tread ; 
 
 " The bones that bleach in every fen, 
 
 " The perished race of warrior men ; 
 
 " The limbs once cast in freedom's mould, 
 
 " Fettered in slavery's iron hold ; 
 
 " The wanderer of the lonely place 
 
 " Waylaid, and tortured to confess ; 
 
 " His kindred slain, or captive led ; 
 
 " A price upon his homeless head; 
 
 " O ! his are wrongs that but with death 
 
 " From burning memory can depart; 
 
 " All the pure waters of thy faith 
 
 " Could wash them ne'er from human heart! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Farewell ! the sound is as the wail 
 " That rises o'er the closing grave ! 
 " While yet the shades of night prevail, 
 " My boat must cross once more the wave. 
 " I go to speed our brethren's flight, 
 " And with the morrow ; s closing light, 
 " Return to bear thee hence, and far 
 " For ever fly from sounds of war," 
 
240 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 " Farewell ! I will not weep;" she said, 
 
 " Tho' stealing from its liquid bed 
 
 " There fell the unbidden tear;- 
 
 " I will not weep ; a warrior's wife 
 
 " Must learn the moods of wayward life, 
 
 " Nor know the form of fear. 
 
 " There is a chill my bosom o'er, 
 
 " Which sadly says, we meet no more. 
 
 " But let it pass ; farewell ! and GOD 
 
 " Preserve thee, on the path of blood !" 
 
 XV. 
 
 Mute was their last embrace, and sad, 
 Forth fared the chief thro' forest shade ; 
 And still, like statue of despair 
 His lonely bride stood fixed there, 
 Gazing entranced on vacant air ; 
 Sense, feeling, wrapt in this alone, 
 The cherished theme of love was gone. 
 One throb remained; the spell it broke, 
 When her unconscious infant woke ; 
 Maternal cares recalled her thought, 
 And soothed her labouring breast o'erfraught, 
 While thus again her accents flow 
 In deep accordance with her wo. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 1. 
 
 " They say that afar in the land of the west, 
 " Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 
 
YAMOYDEN. 241 
 
 <( Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, 
 " A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; 
 " Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, 
 " In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers. 
 
 2. 
 
 " There verdure fades never ; immortal in bloom, 
 " Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume ; 
 " And low bends the branch with rich fruitage deprest, 
 " All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east; 
 " There the bright eye of Nature, in mild glory hovers : 
 " Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers ! 
 
 3. 
 
 " Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss 
 " The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss ; 
 " Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair 
 
 choirs 
 
 " Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires 
 " The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover 
 " On high with their shade the green isle of the lover. 
 
 4. 
 
 " But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire, 
 " When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, 
 '* Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, 
 " Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile ; 
 " From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, 
 " And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers. 
 
 M 
 
242 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 T. ' x 
 
 5. 
 
 " And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, 
 
 " In mazes perplext, has beheld it no more ; 
 
 " It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, 
 
 " Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue ; 
 
 " O ! who in this vain world of wo shall discover, 
 
 " The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover!" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 What sound was that, so wildly sad, 
 
 As by prophetic spirit made ? 
 
 So sudden, mid the silence deep, 
 
 Breaking on nature's death-like sleep ? 
 
 'Twas but the lonely We-ko-lis, 
 
 Who oft, at such an hour as this, 
 
 Had from the woven boughs around 
 
 Prolonged her melancholy sound. 
 
 But now she perched upon the roof, 
 
 And from her wonted spray aloof, 
 
 In interrupted notes of wo 
 
 Poured forth her solemn music slow, 
 
 With tremulous and mournful note, 
 
 Now nearer heard, and now remote. 
 
 And she had heard an Indian tell, 
 
 Such sound foreboded sudden bale. 
 
 It was the soul of a lovelorn maid, 
 
 Who mourned her warrior slain, he said. 
 
YAMOYDEN. 24<* 
 
 But little faith, I ween, had she, 
 A Christian bred, in augury; 
 Yet strove, alternate fear and shame, 
 Till all the woman's terrors came. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There is a trampling in the wood; 
 The mat, the cabin's entrance rude, 
 Shakes ; it was no dream of fear, 
 Behold an Indian's face appear; 
 He stands within the cot, and three 
 Come scowling in his company. 
 Ask not what terrors o'er her past," 
 As fixed as stood the patriarch's wife, 
 When the forbidden glance she cast, 
 And lightning rooted her aghast, 
 Leaving a mock of life, 
 Gazing she sate, in silent dread, 
 Till sight was gone, and thought was dead : 
 Yet close and closer still, she prest 
 The sleeping infant on her breast ; 
 A mother's instinct quick was left, 
 Of other sign of life bereft. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But when she felt an iron grasp 
 Tearing that infant from her clasp, 
 M 2 
 
244 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Her piercing scream the forest rent, 
 
 And all despair's high strength was sent 
 
 Gathering around her heart; 
 
 " O mercy, Jesus ! save my child !" 
 
 She cried in tones so sadly wild, 
 
 The WAMPANOAG, fierce and bold, 
 
 Shrunk from his purpose, and his hold 
 
 Relaxed with sudden start. 
 
 Her spoiler's dusky brow she scanned, 
 
 Yet struggling from his ruthless hand 
 
 Her wailing child to tear, 
 
 As one would mark the madman's eye, 
 
 When a fearful precipice was nigh, 
 
 And he had grasped him there. 
 
 She met his glances, stern and keen, 
 
 Such might the hungry wolf's have been, 
 
 Whose spoils now swathed him round ; 
 
 And in his front all bare and bleak, 
 
 And in his high, scar-riven cheek, 
 
 No line of mercy found. 
 
 A rapid look surveyed the rest ; 
 
 In vain to them despair may cling ! 
 
 Ah ! sooner mantling verdure blest 
 
 On the bald thundercliff shall spring ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 The mother from her child is torn, 
 A cry that rent her heart forlorn, 
 
YAMOYDEN. 245 
 
 Their murderous triumph told ; 
 
 Then kind oblivion came to save 
 
 From madness ; dark, as is the grave, 
 
 Dreamless, and void, and cold. 
 
 One bears her senseless in his arms, 
 
 Another stills the babe's alarms ; 
 
 Then through the forest's tangled way, 
 
 Swift and straight, toward the bay 
 
 Their path the Indians hold. 
 
 Each stepping where the first had gone, 
 
 'Twas but as the mark of one ; 
 
 So noiseless was their cautious tread, 
 
 The wakeful squirrel overhead 
 
 Knew not that aught beneath him sped. 
 
 No bough recoiled as on they broke, 
 
 Scarce rustling leaf their impress spoke. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 From the first blush who judges man, 
 Must ill his Maker's image scan : 
 The traveller in the boundless lands, 
 Where the fair west its stores expands, 
 Oft marks, with cheerful green unblent, 
 High piled to heaven the bleak ascent, 
 As scathed and blasted by the fire, 
 That fell from the Almighty's ire. 
 But as along the vale he sweeps, 
 More gently swell the fir-clad steeps, 
 
'24(> YAMOYDEN. 
 
 Till all the sunny mountain rise, 
 With golden crown amid the skies. 
 Not the swarth skin, nor rude address 
 Bespeak the bosom's dreariness ; 
 Happy, if thus the evil brain 
 Bore stampt the outward curse of Cain ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Slowly from NORA'S wandering soul, 
 Oblivion's mists of midnight roll, 
 And, as she woke, to view again 
 Uncertain horror's spectral train, 
 Dashing waves were murmuring near, 
 Rode the bright moon high and clear : 
 The plunderers crost a shelving glade ; 
 Around, the forest's mass of shade 
 Rose darkling ; and before, the bay 
 Was quivering with the silver ray. 
 Dim memory rose ; an Indian eye 
 Watched its first dawning earnestly. 
 Strange was the face that, frank and bold, 
 Spoke a hea# cast in gentler mould. 
 He bore the waking lady up 
 And lingered last of all the group ; 
 Nor e'er at superstition's shrine, 
 Did votary mark the fire divine, 
 When wavering in its golden vase, 
 With feeling more intense, 
 
YAMOYDEN. 247 
 
 Than o'er her wan and death-like face, 
 Like morning blushing o'er the snow, 
 The warrior watched the beaming glow 
 Of lost intelligence. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He pointed, where his comrade bore 
 
 Her infant in his arms, before. 
 
 His gaze with melting ruth was fraught, 
 
 And that uncertain peril taught 
 
 A language to his look : 
 
 Of needful silence in that hour, 
 
 Of rescue near from saviour power 
 
 And faithful aid it spoke. 
 
 But still they sped toward the wave, 
 
 And he whose glance had sworn to save, 
 
 Yet often eyed the circling wood 
 
 Where only gloom and mystery brood. 
 
 The rippling tides, the insects shrill, 
 
 At times the plaining whip-poor-will, 
 
 In melancholy concord wake ; 
 
 But other sound was none, to break 
 
 The wild suspense of hope and fear ; 
 
 There was no sign of rescue near. 
 
 Fair shone the moon ; but there gleamed no ray 
 
 Of hope in her calm and pearly way ; 
 
 Bright rolled the expanding floods below, 
 
 But there shone no promise in their flow; 
 
248 YAMOYDEN. 
 
 The hues serene of nature's rest 
 But agonized her anxious breast* 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Nearer and nearer to the shore, 
 Their prize the hurrying party bore ; 
 The bank is gained ; its brake amid, 
 Their light canoe was closely hid. 
 While cautious its descent they guide, 
 To the calm bosom of the tide, 
 Their comrade, lingering yet above* 
 Gazed anxiously around to prove 
 His silent promise true; 
 But not a sound is heard, nor sign 
 Ts there of aid ; the giant pine 
 Its gloomy limbs unmoving bears, 
 And still the silent forest wears 
 Its sad and solemn hue. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 'Tis launched, they beckon him to haste; 
 One glance he threw, and hope has past : 
 No more could NORA brook to wait, 
 In passiveness, uncertain fate. 
 She shrieked, far rung the loud alarm, 
 And as she struggled from his arm 
 To break, whose faint resistance made 
 A moment's brief delay, 
 
YAMOYDEN. 24$ 
 
 An Indian leapt to lend his aid ; 
 
 But, ere he touched the trembling maid, 
 
 Even in his middle way, 
 
 Loud from the wood a gunshot rung, 
 
 Straight from earth the NIPNET sprung, 
 
 Then, with but one mortal pain, 
 
 Dead he sunk upon the plain. 
 
 Again, again the volleys pour, 
 
 And NORA saw and heard no more. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 She woke; the ground was wet with blood, 
 
 Her Indian saviour o'er her stood ; 
 
 Around her she discovered then, 
 
 The faces of her countrymen. 
 
 " Where is my child?" they answer not; 
 
 Her dusky guardian's eye she sought ; 
 
 O'er his high cheek of rugged mould, 
 
 The moon-beam glistened, clear and cold ; 
 
 A crystal tear was starting bright, 
 
 And glittering with the pale, pure light; 
 
 " Where is my child? in mercy, say?" 
 
 He pointed to the expanding bay ; 
 
 There was no speck on its azure sheet, 
 
 No trace in the waters smooth and fleet, 
 
 As if furrowing keel had ploughed them never, 
 
 And she knew her child was gone for ever. 
 
 M 3 
 
251 
 
 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 IN examining some of the periodical publications 
 of America, several Songs and short poetical 
 Pieces were discovered, which appeared to merit 
 insertion in the present Collection. In addition to 
 these will be found a few Poems extracted from 
 different volumes, from which it was not thought 
 necessary to make larger selections. 
 
 SCENES OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 [From the American Monthly Magazine.] 
 
 How chang'd are the scenes of my youth ! 
 
 How widow'd each prospect appears ! 
 How fraught with instruction and truth, 
 
 As view'd through my fast falling tears. 
 
 I pause, as I pass through the glade, 
 On each object which once gave me joy, 
 
 But weep on the spot where I play'd, 
 
 When a light-hearted, gay, thoughtless boy. 
 
252 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 No prospect now bursts on my sight, 
 But has magic to call forth my tears ; 
 
 I mourn for each youthful delight 
 That's lost in the current of years. 
 
 The oak, whose rude branches sublime, 
 Long brav'd the assaults of the blast, 
 
 Now leafless and shatter'd by time, 
 Sighs mournful for years that are past. 
 
 The brook, though it still warbles low, 
 As it rolls through its deep winding bed, 
 
 Awakens the anguish of wo, 
 
 For it murmurs a dirge to the dead. 
 
 On its banks where the clear waters meet, 
 The youth of the village once play'd ; 
 
 But now in that rural retreat 
 The sires of the hamlet are laid. 
 
 And children that danc'd on the heath, 
 Till evening withdrew its last gleam, 
 
 Are dull in the cold arms of death, 
 
 And sleep by the slow winding stream. 
 
 And there, when the tumult shall cease, 
 That kindles despair in my breast, 
 
 May I sleep the sweet sleep of peace, 
 And wake to the joys of the blest I 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 253 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 [From the American Monthly Magazine.] 
 
 SWEET to the soul the parting ray, 
 
 Which ushers placid evening in, 
 When with the still expiring day, 
 
 The Sabbath's peaceful hours begin; 
 How grateful to the anxious breast, 
 The sacred hours of holy rest ! 
 
 I love the blush of vernal bloom, 
 
 When morning gilds night's sullen tear; 
 
 And dear to me the mournful gloom 
 Of autumn, Sabbath of the year ; 
 
 But purer pleasures, joys sublime, 
 
 Await the dawn of Holy Time. 
 
 Hush'd is the tumult of the day, 
 
 And worldly cares, and bus'ness cease, 
 
 While soft the vesper breezes play, 
 To hymn the glad return of peace ; 
 
 O season blest ! O moments given 
 
 To turn the vagrant thoughts to Heaven ! 
 
 What though involved in lurid night, 
 
 The loveliest forms of nature fade ; 
 Yet mid the gloom shall heavenly light, 
 
 With joy the contrite heart pervade; 
 
254 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 O then, great source of light divine, 
 With beams etherial, gladden mine. 
 
 Oft as this hallow'd hour shall come, 
 O raise my thoughts from earthly things: 
 
 And bear them to my heavenly home, 
 On living faith's immortal wings, 
 
 Till the last gleam of life decay 
 
 In one eternal SABBATH DAY ! 
 
 HOME. 
 
 [From the American Monthly Magazine.'} 
 
 WHAT, tho' banish'd from home, o'er the world I may 
 
 rove, 
 
 Still that home I have left is the first in my love ; 
 There's no sorrow so great as its absence to mourn, 
 No joy that's so bright as the hope of return. 
 At home are the friends of my earliest years, 
 That form'd my first hopes, and sooth'd my first fears; 
 That taught my young bosom the pleasures of love, 
 And directed its thoughts to the heaven above. 
 Tho' much I may love other friends I have seen ; 
 Tho' the hills I now tread may be sunny and green ; 
 Still the hills of my childhood are brightest and best, 
 And the friends of my home are the first in my breast : 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 255 
 
 On that mirror full oft other objects may play, 
 And flash on its surface alluringly gay ; 
 But the joys of my home form a picture more bright, 
 That will glow in the darkness and blaze in the light ; 
 For that picture is touch'd by a pencil most true, 
 And the colours that deck it are love's brightest hue ; 
 As the vapours that rise from the far spreading main, 
 Ascend high in air, and in clouds charg'd with rain, 
 Descend on the vales, still, in rivers, their course 
 They will bend to that ocean that gave them their source. 
 So my love,tho' to wards friends I have met 'twill oft burn, 
 To that centre, my home, it will always return. 
 Tho' the pleasures of home may be scattered at last, 
 Like the sear'd leaves of autumn borne off by the blast, 
 There's a home that is better and brighter than this, 
 Where no gloom will destroy or o'ershadow its bliss. 
 Oh ! how sweetto reflect,when the world's storms are o'er, 
 There's a haven of joy on eternity's shore, 
 When our tempest-toss'd barks will be safe on its breast, 
 And our hearts from life's troubles eternally rest. 
 
 LINES 
 
 To a Stone from the Island of the " Lady of the Lake" 
 presented by a Friend who had visited Loch Katrine. 
 
 [From the dmei'ican Monthly Magazine,"] 
 THOU little brown stone, oh, what hast thou seen, 
 Since the flood roll'd thee up on thy island so green ; 
 
256 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 How many vast ages have travell'd thee o'er, 
 Like wave after wave, on thy lake-girded shore I 
 How alter'd are all things, while thou art alone 
 Unalter'd, unchang'd, the same little brown stone! 
 How many huge trees have sprung where you lay, 
 Have grown up, and flourisrTd, and moulder'd away ! 
 How long was the time, when the deer's tread alone 
 Tore the branches away which thy lake had o'ergrown; 
 When the eagle alone woke the echo that slept 
 On the mountains around which thy paradise kept! 
 Ah, what hast thou seen since man swayed thy shore ! 
 Saw'st thou the first boat which that plunderer bore ? 
 Arid well hast thou mark'd every change he has made 
 Since he first drove thy deer from their far-spreading 
 
 shade. 
 
 Wast thou there when fair Ellen first walk'd on thy shore? 
 Didst thou see the proud bark as the pine flag they bore ? 
 Didst thou hear the loud shout of the Saxon afar, 
 And saw'st thou thy clan as they fell in the war? 
 Or has thy fair lake never heard the war cry, 
 Sounding shrill as the bird of thy own native sky? 
 Is it fiction alone that endears thee to us ? 
 If Scott had not sung should we feel toward thee thus ? 
 No, thou little brown stone, alone on thy shore 
 Thou still would'st have listen'd to Loch Katrine's roar; 
 Unheeded thy heath-bell might bloom on thy isle, 
 And thy lakelet, unlov'd, in the sun-beams might smile, 
 And the cushat-dove's notes, as in days that are past, 
 Sound back to the moss-rocks the deer-hunter's blast. 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 257 
 
 How great is thy pow'r, then, thou bard of the North, 
 When thou giv'st to a pebble a diamond's worth; 
 When a little brown stone from Loch Katrine's shore 
 Is more valued by us than Peruvian ore. 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO THE WESTERN MUMMY. 
 [From the American Monthly Magazine.] 
 
 O STRANGER, whose repose profound 
 These later ag es dare to break, 
 And call thee from beneath the ground 
 Ere nature did thy slumber shake ! 
 
 What wonders of the secret earth 
 Thy lip, too silent, might reveal ! 
 Of tribes round whose mysterious birth 
 A thousand envious ages wheel ! 
 
 Thy race by savage war o'errun, 
 Sunk down, their very name forgot; 
 But ere those fearful times begun, 
 Perhaps, in this sequester'd spot, 
 
 By friendship's hand thine eyelids clos'd, 
 By friendship's hand the turf was laid 
 And friendship here perhaps repos'd 
 With moonlight vigils in the shade. 
 
258 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 The stars have run their nightly round, 
 The sun look'd out and pass'd his way, 
 And many a season o'er the ground 
 Has trod where thou so softly lay. 
 
 And wilt thou not one moment raise 
 Thy weary head, awhile to see 
 The later sports of earthly days, 
 How like what once enchanted thee ? 
 
 Thy name, thy date, thy life declare 
 Perhaps a queen whose feathery band 
 A thousand maids have sigh'd to wear, 
 The brightest in thy beauteous land. 
 
 Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye 
 Love kindled up the flames of war 
 Ah me ! do thus thy graces lie 
 A faded phantom and no more ! 
 
 (O ! not like thee would I remain, 
 But o'er the earth my ashes strew, 
 And in some rising bud regain 
 The freshness that my childhood knew.) 
 
 But, has thy soul, O maid ! so long 
 Around this mournful relic dwelt ? 
 Or burst away with pinion strong, 
 And at the foot of mercy knelt ? 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 259 
 
 Or has it in some distant clime 
 With curious eye unsated stray'd, 
 And down the winding stream of time 
 On ev'ry changeful current play'd ? 
 
 Or lock'd in everlasting sleep 
 Must we thy heart extinct deplore ? 
 Thy fancy lost in darkness weep, 
 And sigh for her who feels no more ? 
 
 Or exil'd to some humbler sphere 
 In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell, 
 And murmuring in the stranger's ear, 
 Thy tender melancholy tell ? 
 
 Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains 
 Shall from the muse a tear demand, 
 Who, wandering on these western plains, 
 Looks fondly to a distant land. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 [From the American Monthly Magazine.] 
 
 OH hide thy beams thou radiant source of light, 
 Pour not on me the dazzling flood of day ; 
 
 Dart not thy splendours on my wilder'd sight. 
 Nor mock my misery with thy envious ray. 
 
260 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 My early hopes were, as thy dawning, bright, 
 My youthful visions, as thy colours, gay ; 
 
 The winged hours that wafted new delight, 
 On noiseless pinions sped unheard away. 
 
 No lingering moment mark'd time's rapid flight, 
 Nor caution watch'd the storm that ambush'd lay, 
 Till o'er my head it burst with furious sway, 
 
 Shrouded the smiling scene in sudden night; 
 Dash'd from my lips the tasted cup of bliss, 
 And whelmed me in despair's profound abyss. 
 
 VERSIFICATION 
 
 Of a remark of Pliny that all the elements were, 
 in their turn, hostile to man, except the earth, who 
 sustained him with the kindness of a mother, fur 
 nished an antidote for every poison that he might 
 draw from her, and provided him with a couch of rest 
 at his death. 
 
 [From the North American Review.] 
 
 MAN, on the mingled elements depends 
 For food, for warmth, for solace, and for breath, 
 
 Yet foes attack him in the garb of friends, 
 To work his woe, and haste his hour of death. 
 
 Air, the sweet air, his feeble frame that feeds, 
 Mounts with the tempest, on the whirlwind speeds ; 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 261 
 
 Breaks the strong trees that o'er his mansion spread, 
 Strews the lov'd roof in ruins o'er his head ; 
 Lifts the white surge, the angry ocean sweeps, 
 And whelms the vessel in the foaming deeps. 
 
 The limpid water, which his health sustains, 
 And sends new vigour through his wasted veins, 
 Rising in wrath, a sudden deluge pours 
 To waste his crops, and desolate his shores. 
 His tall domes sink, his lofty fabrics float- 
 Where bloom'd his gardens, frowns a stagnant moat. 
 Slow, humid vapours from the bound arise, 
 And pestilential fogs obscure the skies. 
 
 The cheerful flame, his torpid blood that warms, 
 Blown to quick vengeance, like a fury storms ; 
 Amid the shouts of fear, and terror's cry, 
 Winds its red volumes round the midnight sky ; 
 Consumes the fabric that his labour rear'd, 
 Destroys the form, by ties of love endear 'd ; 
 Blackens his beauty, lays his glory low, 
 Feeds on his wealth, and riots in his woe. 
 
 See where its strength by marble bonds comprest, 
 In earth's dark caverns, heaves her tortur'd breast ; 
 Bursts from its vault, the trembling mountain rends, 
 In streams of wild, sulphureous wrath descends; 
 Blasts the green forests, ravages the plains, 
 Destroys the vineyards, cottages, and swains, 
 Rolls over cities vast its whelming tide, 
 O'er regal palaces, and tow'rs of pride; 
 
262 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 Their sculptur'd grandeur feeds the transient blaze, 
 And o'er their heads the burning billow plays. 
 Then oh, is man, with heaven's deputed sway, 
 At once the sport, the victim, and the prey ? 
 Have all the elements combin'd as foes, 
 His harm to compass, and his good oppose ? 
 No ; one alone, the hapless being spares, 
 Wages no war, and no resistance dares. 
 
 Yes, earth, kind earth, her new-born son beholds, 
 Spreads a soft shelter, in her robe enfolds, 
 Still, like a mother kind, her love retains, 
 Cheers by her sweetness, with her food sustains; 
 Paints her fair flow'rs to wake his infant smile, 
 Spreads out her fruits to soothe his hour of toil ; 
 Renews her prospects, versatile and gay, 
 To charm his eye, and cheat his cares away ; 
 And if her roseate buds, a thorn conceal, 
 If* some sharp sting the roving hand should feel, 
 A med'cine kind, the sweet physician sends, 
 And where her poison wounds, her balm defends. 
 
 But when, at last, her drooping charge declines, 
 When the dear lamp of life no longer shines ; 
 When o'er its broken idol, friendship mourns, 
 And love, in horror, from its object turns 
 E'en, while affection shudders, as it grieves, 
 She to her arms, her mould'ring son receives, 
 Sings a low requiem, to her darling birth, 
 " Return! thou lov'd one, to thy parent earth." 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 263 
 
 Safe in her bosom, the deposit keeps, 
 Until the flame that dries the watery deeps, 
 Spreads o'er the parching skies its quenchless blaze, 
 Reddens .her features, on her vitals preys. 
 Then, struggling in her last, convulsive throes, 
 She wakes her treasure from his deep repose, 
 Stays her last groan, amid dissolving fires, 
 Resigns him to his Maker, and expires. 
 
 TIME AND PLEASURE. 
 
 [From the North American Review.] 
 
 WHILE Time's vast car with furious force, 
 O'er Pleasure's fields its path pursued ; 
 
 She tried each art to stop his course, 
 And thus rebuk'd, besought, and woo'd. 
 
 " How dar'st thou o'er my garden ride, 
 " The haunt of beauty, youth, and love ; 
 
 " Thy iron wheels crush all its pride, 
 
 " And fright the songsters from my grove. 
 
 " Look at the ruin thou hast made ! 
 
 " My Paradise is half defac'd; 
 " Where thou hast pass'd 'tis all decay'd, 
 
 " All leafless, desolate, and waste. 
 
204 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 " These brilliant flow'rs before thee view, 
 " Whose odours all the air perfume ; 
 
 " For pity do not crush them too ; 
 
 " Spare me these few, for thee they bloom. 
 
 " Stay then awhile, and rest thee now, 
 " Here in my bow'r thy dwelling keep ; 
 
 " I'll twine my roses round thy brow, 
 " And lull thee in my lap to sleep. 
 
 " See Love and Beauty kneeling there, 
 " To beg, entreat thee to remain. 
 
 " Shall Beauty breathe a fruitless prayer, 
 " And winning Love implore in vain ? 
 
 " Why thus mispend thy precious hours ; 
 
 " What whim impels thy wayward mind 
 " To fly from Pleasure's couch of flow'rs, 
 
 " And linger when on thorns reclin'd ? 
 
 " Why, why this hurry to be gone, 
 
 " When all my bliss depends on thee ? 
 
 " Dear, do not drive so madly on, 
 " O stay one moment here with me. 
 
 " What, wilt thou go? then I'll not stay, 
 " Thy car shall be my blest abode ; 
 
 " I'll sing to cheer thy weary way, 
 " And scatter flow'rs along the road." 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 266 
 
 Pleas'd with the sweetness of her song, 
 
 Time took the Syren for his bride ; 
 But ere a year had roll'd along, 
 
 Disgust was born, and Pleasure died. 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY, 
 
 Occasioned by the sentiment, that Hope perishes with the 
 present brief existence, but that Memory is immortal. 
 
 [From the North American Review,] 
 
 1. 
 
 SWEET friend of Man ! whose airy form 
 
 With eye of azure ray, 
 Is seen through every gathering storm, 
 
 Companion of his way, 
 
 2. 
 
 Thou on his childish lip dost press 
 
 Thy signet with a smile, 
 And on through Nature's weariness 
 
 His pilgrimage beguile. 
 
 3. 
 
 When disappointments wake regret, 
 
 Or dangers threaten loud, 
 He scarce can shrink ere thou dost set 
 
 Thy rainbow on the cloud, 
 
 N 
 
266 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 4. 
 
 He scarce can weep, ere thou art nigh 
 
 To gild the falling tear ; 
 To snatch the half unutter'd sigh, 
 
 And paint thy visions clear. 
 
 5. 
 
 But chiefly, when the dying saint 
 
 On his last couch reclines, 
 When lights of earth are dim and faint, 
 
 Thy brightest lustre shines. 
 
 6. 
 
 Thy smile is glorious to his eye, 
 
 Thy brow like seraph fair ; 
 Thou point'st his journey to the sky, 
 
 But may'st not follow there. 
 
 7. 
 
 Thy friendship soften'd mortal ill, 
 Thy worth was drawn from woe ; 
 
 And thou wert nourish'd by a rill, 
 Whicn there can never flow. 
 
 8. 
 Well pleas'd wert thou to cheer the gloom, 
 
 Beguile the short pursuit, 
 And paint the future rich with bloom, 
 
 Till man might reap the fruit. 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 267 
 
 9. 
 
 But when his beating pulse declines, 
 
 Thy own is chill and dead ; 
 And when the real morning shines, 
 
 Thy taper's ray has fled. 
 
 10. 
 
 Yet one there is, who braves the blast, 
 
 When hope oblivious sleeps ; 
 Her glance averted, seeks the past, 
 
 Her page its record keeps. 
 
 11. 
 
 She gilds no fairy scenes for youth, 
 
 No flight with fancy takes ; 
 But in the holy cell of truth 
 
 Her silent temple makes. 
 
 12. 
 
 She guards the key, with wary eye, 
 Where knowledge hides her store; 
 
 To conscience gives th' unfading dye, 
 That glows when time is o'er. 
 
 13. 
 
 The wise, the virtuous love to wait 
 
 Within her sacred bow'r; 
 The thoughtless shun, the fickle hate, 
 
 The guilty, dread her pow'r. 
 N 2 
 
268 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 14. 
 
 When death's dark curtain veils the eyes, 
 
 Resplendent glows her ray ; 
 And when the unrob'd spirit flies, 
 
 She shares its unknown way. 
 
 15. 
 
 Through the drear valley, hung with gloom, 
 
 She bears her fmish'd scroll ; 
 And spreads it at the bar of doom, 
 
 Where justice weighs the soul. 
 
 16. 
 
 She dauntless treads the troubled sphere 
 
 Of darkness and despair ; 
 And those who stain'd her record here, 
 
 Must feel her vengeance there. 
 
 17. 
 If Mercy to a glorious land 
 
 The accepted soul invite, 
 She hovers round the perfect band, 
 
 Who dwell in cloudless light. 
 
 18. 
 And oft her tablet's varied trace 
 
 Of mortal care and pain, 
 From raptur'd angel harps shall raise 
 
 The loudest, sweetest strain. 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 269 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 [From Allstorfs Sylphs of the Seasons.] 
 
 AND now, in accents deep and low, 
 Like voice of fondly-cherish'd woe, 
 
 The Sylph of Autumn said : 
 Though I may not of rapture sing, 
 That grac'd the gentle song of Spring, 
 Like Summer, playful pleasures bring, 
 
 Thy youthful heart to glad ; 
 
 Yet still may I in hope aspire 
 Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, 
 
 And purifying love ; 
 For I with vision high and holy, 
 And spell of quick'ning melancholy, 
 Thy soul from sublunary folly 
 
 First rais'd to worlds above. 
 
 What though be mine the treasures fair 
 Of purple grape and yellow pear, 
 
 And fruits of various hue ; 
 And harvests rich of golden grain, 
 That dance in waves along the plain, 
 To merry song of reaping swain, 
 
 Beneath the welkin blue ; 
 
270 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 With these I may not urge my suit, 
 Of Summer's patient toil the fruit, 
 
 For mortal purpose given ; 
 Nor may it fit my sober mood 
 To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, 
 Or dyes of many-colour'd wood, 
 
 That mock the bow of heaven. 
 
 But know, 'twas mine the secret power, 
 That wak'd thee at the midnight hour, 
 
 In bleak November's reign ; 
 Twas I the spell around thee cast, 
 When thou didst hear the hollow blast 
 In murmurs tell of pleasures past, 
 
 That ne'er would come again : 
 
 -- ' ' ' ' V ' 
 
 And led thee, when the storm was o'er, 
 To hear the sullen ocean roar, 
 
 By dreadful calm opprest ; 
 Which still, though not a breeze was there, 
 Its mountain-billows heav'd in air, 
 As if a living thing it were, 
 
 That strove in vain for rest. 
 
 Twas I, when thou, subdu'd by woe, 
 Didst watch the leaves descending slow, 
 To each a moral gave; 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 271 
 
 And as they mov'd in mournful train, 
 With rustling sound, along the plain, 
 Taught them to sing a seraph's strain 
 Of peace within the grave. 
 
 And then, uprais'd thy streaming eye, 
 I met thee in the western sky 
 
 In pomp of evening cloud ; 
 That, while with varying form it roll'd, 
 Some wizard's castle seem'd of gold, 
 And now a crimson'd knight of old, 
 
 Or king in purple proud. 
 
 And last, as sunk the setting sun, 
 And Evening with her shadows dun, 
 
 The gorgeous pageant past, 
 'Twas then of life a mimic show, 
 Of human grandeur here below, 
 Which thus beneath the fatal blow 
 
 Of Death must fall at last. 
 
 Oh, then with what aspiring gaze 
 Didst thou thy tranced vision raise 
 
 To yonder orbs on high, 
 And think how wondrous, how sublime 
 'Twere upwards to their spheres to climb, 
 And live, beyond the reach of Time, 
 
 Child of Eternity ! 
 
272 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 THE PAINT KING. 
 
 [From Allston's Poems.'] 
 
 FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young, 
 
 No damsel could with her compare; 
 Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, 
 And bards without number in extasies sung, 
 
 The beauties of Ellen the fair. 
 
 Yet cold was the maid; and though legions advanc'd 
 
 All drill'd by Ovidean art, 
 
 And languish'd and ogled, protested and danced, 
 Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced 
 
 From the hard polish'd ice of her heart. 
 
 Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore 
 
 A something that could not be found ; 
 Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore, 
 With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound 'but the roar 
 
 Of breakers high dashing around. 
 
 From object to object still, still would she veer, 
 
 Though nothing, alas, could she find ; 
 Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear, 
 Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer 
 
 The bright barren waste of her mind. 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 273 
 
 But rather than sit like a statue so still 
 
 When the rain made her mansion a pound, 
 Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill, 
 And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill, 
 From the tiles of the roof to the ground. 
 
 One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined, 
 Pass'd a youth, with a frame in his hand ; 
 
 The casement she clos'd not the eye of her mind ; 
 
 For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind ; 
 Still before her she saw the youth stand. 
 
 " Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid, 
 
 " Ah, what with that frame can he do ?" 
 And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets, and pray'd, 
 When the youth pass'd again, and again he displayed 
 The frame and a picture to view. 
 
 " Oh, beautiful picture !" the fair Ellen cried, 
 
 " I must see thee again or I die." 
 Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied r 
 And after the youth and the picture she hied, 
 
 When the youth, looking back, met her eye. 
 
 " Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while) 
 
 " This picture I see you admire; 
 *' Then take it, 1 pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile 
 44 Some moments of sorrow; (nay, pardon my smile) 
 
 " Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." 
 N 3 
 
274 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprize 
 From the cunning young stripling receiv'd ; 
 But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, 
 When sparkling with rapture they gaz'd on her prize 
 Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceiv'd ! 
 
 Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd, 
 
 And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone ; 
 Yet he languished as tho' for its beauty he pin'd 
 And gaz'd as the eyes of the statue so blind 
 Reflected the beams of his own. 
 
 Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old ; 
 
 Fair Ellen remember'd, and sigh'd; 
 " Ah, could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold, 
 " Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold, 
 
 " And press me this day as thy bride." 
 
 She said: when, behold, from the canvas arose 
 
 The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame ; 
 With a furious transport his arms did enclose 
 The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze 
 The blood of the maid with his flame ! 
 
 She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing ; 
 
 " Oh, heaven ! cried she, who art thou ?" 
 From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, 
 As frowning, he thunder'd " I am the PAINT-KING! 
 
 " And mine, lovely maid, thou art now !" 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 275 
 
 Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift 
 
 The loud-screaming maid like a blast; 
 And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, 
 While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift 
 
 To the right and the left as he pass'd. 
 
 Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, 
 
 With an eddying whirl he descends ; 
 The air all below him becomes black as night, 
 And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright, 
 
 Like the surge of the Caspian bends. 
 
 " I am here !" said the Fiend, and he thundering knock'd 
 
 At the gates of a mountainous cave; 
 The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd, 
 While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd 
 
 Like an island of ice on the wave. 
 
 " Oh, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms, 
 But the PAINT-KING, he scoff'd at her pain ; 
 
 " Prithee, love," said the monster, " what mean these 
 alarms T 
 
 She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms, 
 That work her to horror again. 
 
 She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes 
 Behold the fair youth she would woo; 
 
 Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise ; 
 
 His face, like a palette of villainous dyes, 
 Black and white, red and yellow, and blue. 
 
276 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, 
 
 Sat the fiend, like the grim Giant Gog, 
 While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied, 
 Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried 
 As it looms through an easterly fog. 
 
 And anon, as he pufFd the vast volumes, were seen 
 
 In horrid festoons on the wall, 
 
 Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between, 
 Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney 
 Beane, 
 
 By the Devil dress'd out for a Ball. 
 
 " Ah me I" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet; 
 
 " Must I hang on these walls to be dried ?" 
 " Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprungfromhis seat, 
 " A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet ; 
 
 " Into paint will I grind thee, my bride !" 
 
 Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, 
 
 An oil jug he plung'd her within; 
 Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, 
 Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air, 
 
 All cover'd with oil to the chin. 
 
 On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone 
 
 Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid ; 
 With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone, 
 But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan ; 
 
 For life had forsook not the maid. 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 277 
 
 Now reaching his palette, with masterly care 
 
 Each tint on its surface he spread ; 
 The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, 
 And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair, 
 
 And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red. 
 
 Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, 
 
 " Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn !" 
 When lo ! from a chasm wide-yawning there came 
 A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame, 
 By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. 
 
 Enthron'd in the midst of an emerald bright, 
 
 Fair Geraldine sat without peer ; 
 Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light, 
 And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, 
 
 And a beam of the moon was her spear. 
 
 In an accent that stole on the still charmed air 
 
 Like the first gentle language of Eve, 
 Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair ; 
 " I come at thy call, but, Oh Paint-King, beware, 
 
 " Beware if again you deceive." 
 
 " Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart, 
 
 " Thy portrait I oft have essay '4; 
 " Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art 
 " The least of thy wonderful beauties impart; 
 
 " And my failure with scorn you repaid. 
 
9,78 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 " Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail !" 
 
 And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, 
 " If again with these magical colours I fail, 
 " The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, 
 " And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. 
 
 " But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine ! 
 
 " Thy promise with justice 1 claim, 
 " And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine, 
 " The bride of my bed, and thy portrait divine 
 
 " Shall fill all the earth with my fame/' 
 
 He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form 
 
 On the canvas enchantingly glow'd ; 
 His touches they flew like the leaves in a storm ; 
 And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm 
 
 Contending in harmony flow'd. 
 
 And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem 
 
 To the figure of Geraldine fair ; 
 With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem 
 Each muscle, each feature ; in short not a gleam 
 
 Was lost of her beautiful hair. 
 
 Twas the Fairy herself ! but, alas, her blue eyes 
 
 Still a pupil did ruefully lack ; 
 And who shall describe the terrific surprise 
 That seiz'd the Paint-King, when, behold, he descries 
 
 Not a speck on his palette of black ! 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 279 
 
 " I am lost !" said the Fiend, and he shook like a leaf; 
 
 When, casting his eyes to the ground, 
 He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief 
 In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief 
 
 Whisk away from his sight with a bound. 
 
 " I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he fell like a stone ; 
 
 Then, rising, the Fairy in ire 
 With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone, 
 (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) 
 
 And she swelled to a column of fire. 
 
 Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air, 
 
 And sulphur the vault fill'd around : 
 She smote the grim monster ; and now by the hair 
 High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair 
 
 Down the depths of the chasm profound. 
 
 Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, 
 
 " Come forth !" said the good Geraldine ; 
 When, behold, from the canvas descending appear 
 Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, 
 With grace more than ever divine ! 
 
280 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 THE WREATH OF LOVE. 
 
 [From Woodwork's Poems.] 
 
 LET Fame her wreath for others twine, 
 The fragrant Wreath of Love be mine, 
 
 With balm-distilling blossoms wove; 
 Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms 
 Bid laurels grace the victor's arms, 
 
 Where Havoc's blood-stain'd banners move 
 Be mine to wake the softer notes, 
 Where Acidalia's banner floats, 
 
 And wear the gentler Wreath of Love. 
 
 The balmy rose let stoics scorn ; 
 
 Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn, 
 
 And fear the pleasing pain to prove ; 
 I'll fearless bind it to my heart, 
 While ev'ry pang its thorns impart, 
 
 The flowret's balsam shall remove : 
 For, sweeten'd by the nectarM kiss, 
 Tis pain that gives a zest to bliss, 
 
 And freshens still the Wreath of Love. 
 
 Give me contentment, peace, and health, 
 A moderate share of worldly wealth, 
 And friends, such blessings to improve ; 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 281 
 
 A heart to give when mis'ry pleads, 
 
 To heal each rankling wound that bleeds 
 
 And ev'ry mental pain remove : 
 But with these give else all deny 
 The fair, for whom I breathe the sigh ; 
 
 And wedlock be a Wreath of Love. 
 
 Connubial bliss unknown to strife, 
 A faithful friend, a virtuous wife, 
 
 Be mine for many years to prove : 
 Our wishes one, within each breast 
 The dove of peace shall make her nest, 
 
 Nor ever from the ark remove; 
 Till call'd to heaven ; through ages there, 
 Be ours the blissful lot to wear 
 
 A never fading Wreath of Love. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Upon seeing an Infant asleep in its Mothers arms. 
 [From Dr. Farmer's Poems.] 
 
 SLEEP on, no cares thy couch molest, 
 
 No terrors yet alarm ; 
 Now, little stranger, thou art blest, 
 Thine empire, is a mother's breast, 
 
 Thy shield a father's arm. 
 
282 FUGITIVE POETRY. 
 
 The early rosebud hid in leaves, 
 
 That form for it a fragrant bower, 
 In stormy nights no ill receives, 
 
 But woe awaits the full-blown flower. 
 Sleep on no worldly blight is near, 
 
 Sleep on, secure from danger ; 
 I whisper to thee with a tear, 
 Thou knowest all the bliss that's here, 
 
 To woe alone a stranger. 
 May He that shelters the distrest, 
 
 Secure thy soul from guile ; 
 And may'st thou ever sleep to rest, 
 
 And ever wake to smile. 
 
 TO THE AEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 [From Dr. Farmer's Poems.] 
 
 I NEVER hear thy trembling string, 
 
 Its wild, its mournful notes prolong, 
 That fancy does not quickly bring 
 
 To mind, some bard of early song : 
 For once like thee his magic tale 
 
 In music's wildest lore was drest, 
 When sorrow bid his numbers wail, 
 
 Or hope delusive soothed his breast ; 
 
FUGITIVE POETRY. 283 
 
 But now he wants the zephyr's breath, 
 
 That hovers o'er thy trembling wire ; 
 That poet's voice is stili'd by death, 
 
 And cold those lips that could inspire ; 
 So shut thee from the airy sprite 
 
 That gives thy mournful song its breath ; 
 The swell that erst gave such delight, 
 
 Shall close its lingering notes in death ; 
 To sound no more for damp decay 
 
 Upon thy mouldering strings shall dwell, 
 And thou shalt breathe no further lay, 
 
 And thou shalt raise no future swell. 
 The bard whose harp is now unstrung, 
 
 Whose eye is closed, whose cheek is cold, 
 Again shall hear his anthems sung, 
 
 And see them play'd on lyres of gold : 
 A lovely muse, with sparkling eye, 
 
 Shall wake him from his listless sleep, 
 And lead him to the orient sky, 
 
 Where merit is not doom'd to weep : 
 But where a fairy minstrel's hand 
 
 Shall strike such lingering notes as thine, 
 While Shakspeare, with the poet-band, 
 
 Shall rouse the organ's peal sublime. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 J. M'Creery, Tooks Court, 
 Chancery Lane, London.