LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS 3 /- 3 POETICAL REMAINS POETICAL REMAINS OF THE LATE LUCY HOOPER, COLLECTED AND ARRANGED; WITH A MEMOIR, BY JOHN KEESE. Iseetheestill: Thou art not in the grave confined Death cannot claim the immortal mind ; Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, But goodness dies not in the dust. SPRAQUE. NEW-YORK : PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL COLMAN. SOLD BY COLLINS, KEESE & CO. NEW-YORK THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO. PHILADELPHIA I WILLIAM D. TICKNOR, BOSTON. 1842. LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by JOSEPH HOOPER, in the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New-York. ALEXANDER S. GOULD, PRINTER, No. 144 Nassau Street, New York. CONTENTS. Memoir of Miss Lucy Hooper 9 Tributes to the Memory of Miss Lucy Hooper . . 35 The Queen's Petition 45 The Light afar 53 The Appeal of Maria Theresa, 56 Lines St. Bartholomew's Night 60 The Last Interview 65 Lines On Francis the First . ... 70 Death of the Fair Pilgrim 73 The Speaking Picture 78 The Lock of Hair 81 The Turquoise Ring . . . . . . 83 Lines The Daughter of Herodias 88 The Serenade 91 A Fragment 94 Lines I S aw a Broken Flower 96 Lines He thought upon his Bride 98 Korner's Love 101 Lines To a little Wild Flower 106 6 CONTENTS. The Queen's Death and the Child's .... 108 To a Boy flying his Kite 112 Last Hours of a Young Poetess 114 Fidelity 122 Lines I may not gaze on Thee 126 Lines on Mrs. Isabella Graham 128 The Mission Bride 131 Lines A Voice is on mine Ear 136 The Martyr of Scio . 140 St. Peter healing the Cripple . . . . . 145 Lines Written after witnessing the ceremony of Confirm ation performed in Christ Church, Brooklyn . .156 Night . 160 The Cavalier's Last Hours 164 Lines To a Young Lady dying of Consumption . 167 Lines On the Americans who were shot at Tampico . 171 The Fairy's Funeral 174 Lines Written after visiting Newburyport . . .177 Lines Written in Autumn 181 The Old Days we remember . . , . . .185 Lines Written after examining the Portraits in the Eng. lish Annuals 188 Ballad Away, away those sad wild Notes . . .192 The Father's Return . . ... . . 197 The Ladies' Answer to the Bunker Hill Appeal . . 200 Lines Written on seeing a Picture of the Indian Chief Osceola 204 Lines Founded on a Romantic Incident . 208 CONTENTS. 7 . Lines Written on the Death of a Young Poetess . . 210 Lines Written on visiting Brooklyn Heights . . 214 Evening Thoughts .219 A Tale 222 Lines Say have I left thee 227 Autumn Scenery 230 Time, Faith, Energy 236 Lines Give me Armor of Proof . . . . 239 The Fair Student 242 Therese A Sketch ....... 247 Pencilling? 255 Lines Not unto thee, oh Death ! . . . 258 Stanzas Mother, 't is Evening now . . . .261 The Songstress 264 Lines On the Grave of a Child 267 Lines On reading the Private Memoirs of a very celebra ted Man 271 Madelaine A Ballad . 274 Lines It was not mine to meet . . . . . 280 Lines Suggested by a Scene in " Master Humphrey's Clock" 285 Lines On the Death of General Harrison . . . ' 289 MEMOIR MISS LUCY HOOPER. OUR American literature has already presented to the student the names of several writers, who at an unusually early age, have manifested abilities of a high order, and who after a brief but brilliant career, have sunk into their early graves, victims, too often, to severe study, or having worn out their physical energies by excessive intellectual excite ment. The names of Brainard, and of the two Davidsons, suggest themselves at once to the reader, and particularly the latter, as exemplifying in a painful degree, the effects of strong mental excit ability, (exhibiting itself in the poetic fervor of in spiration,) upon the corporeal frame and recall 2 10 MEMOIR. vividly the beautiful lines of Byron, upon the death of Kirke White, dying " when life was in its spring And his young muse first spread her joyous wing." The circumstances which have made the lives of these eminent persons, so interesting and attractive to the student, contribute, in like manner, a charm to our recollections of the amiable and beloved girl, whose literary remains are here collected. Called away from the scenes which she loved and adorned, at an age when her fame was ripening with the admiration of the learned and judicious ; and when the rich talents, which until lately she could only be prevailed on to exercise in secret, had attracted a large share of public attention from which, how ever, with the modesty of true genius, she was ever too much disposed to shrink she has left behind her a legacy, of intellectual wealth and Christian ex ample, that cannot fail of its due effect upon the heart and mind of her survivors. Lucy HOOPER was born in Newburyport, Mass achusetts, on the fourth of February, 1816, and was the fourth daughter of Mr. Joseph Hooper. Her father was a highly respectable merchant, who yet found leisure from the cares and anxieties of business, to devote an occasional moment to liter ature ; and being a man not only of strong intellect, MEMOIR. 11 but of considerable cultivation and withal of a de cidedly religious temper found at once his high est duty, and his most grateful occupation, in the superintendence of his daughter's nurture and edu cation. A justifiable pride too, in the early indi cations which she gave, of unusual ability, tended to make this superintendence, as much a matter of grateful pleasure as of duty and found its most fit ting reward in the uniform docility, and winning sweetness, as well as rapid development of his interesting pupil. Her own sense of her obligations to this judicious and affectionate parent, was often acknowledged by her after his death ; and it is a touching commentary upon the lives of both of them, as well as the highest reward, in a certain sense, of such devotion that almost her last request, (to her weeping relatives and friends,) when about to follow him to the tomb, was that whatever merit might be discovered in her writings, should be ascribed where, under Providence she deemed it to be most justly due to the untiring care and unremitting counsels of her father. Closely retired within the bosom of the family circle, and mingling no farther with the world, than the usual courtesies of society required few oppor tunities were presented in early life for the develop ment of the peculiar talents of our lamented friend. The circumstances of her family equally removed from the splendor which too often vitiates talent, by 12 MEMOIR. devoting its impulses to unworthy or insufficient ends, and the hindrances with which straitened means impede and retard improvement, by compel ling the mind to ungrateful repose afforded her at once the opportunity for study, and the means of improvement. These she was so far from neglect ing, that it was rather necessary to restrain her inclination to study, than to incite her to mental ex ertion. She herself was apparently unconscious of her own powers and accustomed in all things to be reverently guided by the counsels of one, in whom she trusted with the confident affection of a child ; and it is perhaps on this account as much as any other, that the recollections of her early life are more meagre than usually happens in the case of one of such eminent talent. It may be remarked however, as another instance of the fatality that appears to belong to unusual intellectual power, that her health from infancy was exceedingly precarious. From the first, like many a child of genius, who has early sunk into its " laurel-crowned tomb," she was a ten der and fragile flower ; though we are not aware that she yet gave any particular cause to apprehend an early termination of her earthly career, even to the watchful and affectionate eyes of her relatives. It is not to be doubted however, that the seeds of the treacherous and insidious malady to which she finally fell a victim, were early implanted in her system, and were fostered into the strength that MEMOIR. 13 finally overwhelmed her, by the irrepressible yearn ings of a mind, ever on the stretch, to observe, to investigate, to learn. Nor can we avoid the ad monition which her early death conveys to those who have the charge of youth ; and which teaches us, that even the capacities, which it is our duty to im prove, and the powers which God has not conferred to be wasted in idleness, are to be exercised under the restraints which the law of human infirmity and weakness imposes on all the creatures of clay ; and that these frail bodies, the tabernacles in which we dwell for a season may be as easily impaired and worn away, by the powerful working of the intellect, as by the attacks of sharp disease, in any of the many forms, in which it is the lot of mortals to suffer. When she had attained her fifteenth year the family removed to Brooklyn, L. I., and that city continued to be her residence until her death. She had now reached an age, at which her faculties were fast ripening, and the increased intercourse with the world and her fellows which she now enjoyed, enlarged at once the sphere of her ob servation, and the circle of her sympathies. It may be readily supposed that her new residence, in the immediate neighborhood of the metropolis of the Union, and close vicinity with the theatre of whatever stirring events the times produced, had its natural tendency to excite into strong and vivid action, all the energies of her mind : and contributed 3* 14 MEMOIR. naturally to the development of whatever was pecu liar to her character. Up to this period, her history is but the story of a young life of unsullied purity ; a tale of home affections, consecrated in the hearts of all survivors, and encircling in their sweet em brace, the domestic hearth Her hours were " Bright from the sunny hues of youth alone Gay from its unstirred sympathies" Death of the Fair Pilgrim. Now, she began to give definite form to the many colored imaginings which had heretofore been con fined to her own bosom. Gentle, quiet, and rever ent as she had always been, the fountains of poetry had hitherto flowed in secret, and all her thoughts, pent up in her heart " amid the flowers Of a glad home, grew beautiful." But now she sought to give vent to the " thoughts that breathed" within her, and to paint all her feel ings in " burning words," bubbling up from the deep well springs of her soul, " crowning Her life with all the flower wreaths of hope, And the sweet buds of feeling." She had from infancy manifested a singular foncP ness for flowers, and a remarkable sensibility to the MEMOIR. 15 charms of natural scenery. These inclinations had led her to take great delight in Botany, and as an aid in her general study of this delightful science, she also devoted much attention to Chemistry. She had also acquired a knowledge of the French, Spanish and Latin languages, -and was, remarkably well versed in classic English literature. Her his torical reading was also extensive, and her habits of orderly application had naturally tended to store her mind with much valuable information ; while the spirit of the authors in whom she especially de lighted, those " pure wells of English undefiled," had clothed her style with that purity and strength of diction, which place her early productions in the same rank of excellence, with the efforts of the mass of much maturer minds. Shortly after the removal of the family to the city of Brooklyn, Miss Hooper became an occasional contributor to the columns of the " Long Island Star," under the simple initials of L. H. Her contributions to this journal though for a long time unavowed by her, and therefore unprotect ed from criticism by the considerate indulgence which the tender years of their author would have so naturally bespoken were greatly admired and wide ly copied ; and procured for her signature a consider able reputation, among the readers of that respectable journal. Of course these early efforts had not the same order of merit as the later productions of her 16 MEMOIR. muse ; but one cannot help being struck with the melody of her versification, as well as the preco cious strength and nervousness of her expression. The love of the gentle and beautiful a true poetic sympathy with all the cravings and weaknesses of humanity an earnest longing for that state of per fect being, that dwells ever in the heart of the poet an irrepressible aversion to wrong and oppression in every form and a strong aspiration toward the good, the free, the beautiful, the just run through all these earlier efforts of her muse, and stamp them with a peculiar character of unity, directness and simplicity. Simple in construction, while elevated in ten dency, facile of comprehension, because of their truth to the natural impulses of goodness out of which they spring, they contain none of those " Weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of hate Rank at the core, but tempting to the eye, Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison !" but rather, as she has herself beautifully said in her verses on the " Death of the Fair Pilgrim ;" " Household tones, Sweet words of kindness visions of that time, When first amid her home's loved halls, her heart Woke to a knowledge of the truth." She had been educated by her parents in the MEMOIR. 17 peculiar tenets of the Episcopal Church, to which denomination of professing Christians her family had always been attached. At first, her own attach ment to this form of faith was the result of habit ; but hers was not a mind to be satisfied on so mo mentous a subject, without inquiry. The solemn ritual of the church, its imposing ceremonial, its venerable antiquity, and its sublime liturgy, failed not to have their natural effect upon a mind so throughly alive to the moral beauty and exquisite fitness of its service to the true ends of reli gious observance ; but these, by the superficial mind might be regarded merely as human devices, of no binding authority ; claiming rather our admiration for their beauty, jhan our reverent acceptance for their high sanction. She was therefore led to seek a reason for the faith that was in her ; and prompted to the inquiry by the love of truth, and guided as we are fain to believe by the spirit of piety ; wisely distrusting the rashness of human wisdom, and eschewing all " vain questionings" of the re vealed will of God which have led astray so many great minds, by a rash reliance upon mere reason in things that are beyond its ken she was at length able under the blessing of Heaven upon her anxious and earnest endeavors, to discover in the church in which she had been educated, the " faith once given to the saints ;" and to yield the ready obedience of conviction to doctrines, which pinions in religion, we ca ^MMUMIMMl'MAaMB ~ f ..!. m~l~ i.ll 4- " - - - - - - - - - . . _ - . T ' _ . i. .- _ - : _. _. . - - ia add sensible force to ike inherrerse. For tJas^h we are far f that iWn are no true poets who have wen sohdned in heart fay any SCTse of reti- im^^ vr* AU^^I *A own^^A ra.B --* 1 __K I.**.-.., *- '^-^ :T^__^_?.T xvoid uie condBS&on, dxa.wn not merely of Miss Hooper's mind, bat in an &om the case of others, who hare ac- ^^ oc & Lh, as regards the of the "onmedfchire/ tends the sool in other and lesser to the ill i MH,!!! ii to their ei- MEMOIR. 19 faith, we discern in the efforts of her muse, a still stronger heaven-ward yearning a more vigorous ex pression of her thoughts and a more earnest plead ing of the affections. Her musings are oftener of things sacred ; are more seldom the effusions of mere sentiment. She loves the flowers of the Held no less ; but in their beauty and variety she now recog nizes more clearly and directly the hand of God's Providence. She is now no less alive to all the wonders and beauties of nature ; but she more ha bitually and uniformly looks up from them to na ture's God. Accordingly, a large part of her later productions are upon sacred subjects paraphra ses of some portions of sacred history or the tale of her own emotions on witnessing some affecting ceremony of the Church. Her lines entitled " The Queen's Petition," the " Daughter of llerodia*," and those written " after witnessing the administration of the rite of con firmation in March, 1840," are specimens, as well of increased power in composition, as of the now prevailing cast of her sentiments. In addition to the compositions in verse, upon which Miss Hooper's fame principally rests, she was the author of many prose articles of a high order of merit, though altogether unambitious in their character and design. Without alluding to these in detail, it will suffice for the purposes of this brief memoir of her life, .to mention her beautiful volume 20 MEMOIR. entitled " Scenes from Real Life," published in 1840, and the essay upon "Domestic Happiness," published in the volume bearing that name and which obtained, deservedly, the prize offered by the editor of that valuable compilation as giving a fair sample of her powers in this department of com position. In the perusal of her remains in prose, we notice the same womanly tastes, refined by high cultiva tion, and devoted to the noblest purposes, which charm us in her poetry. It teaches while it en tertains us, and seems to attract the reader towards purity of life, not so much by pourtraying the hideous- ness of vice, as by dwelling on the loveliness of vir tue. She paints domestic scenes not in the gaudy colors of romance, but in the sober yet cheerful light of truth, we feel as we read that she draws from the life, and while she tells her story in such natural and apt language that we are persuaded of its reality, we find ourselves yielding our souls willingly to the gracious impulses which directed her pen, as they characterized her life. Her prose writings are all dictated by an earnest desire to benefit her own sex, and all denote that lively sensibility, that quick emotion, that felicity of expression, and those pure and womanly thoughts, that live and breathe in her poetry. Indeed they are themselves poetic in all but the form, and such is the harmony of her style, and the purity of her diction, that we are sometimes MEMOIR. 21 struck with the idea that it is nervous and polished verse we are reading. In fact, verse was the natural and spontaneous utterance of her feelings : never an effort to her mind, but a sort of recreation an irre pressible impulse. She appeared to think in verse ; and she uttered what she thought as she thought it. This was evident in her habits of composition. She very reluctantly submitted to the drudgery of cor rection, and rarely revised her writings. She ela borated nothing ; and was wont to think the first ex pression of her thought its best exponent. A re markably quick and exact ear, and a fund of happy illustration and rich imagery, drawn from the best source the contemplation of nature's works en- abled her to indulge this mode of composition without prejudice to her literary reputation. In early life, while she yet enjoyed the advantage of her father's counsel and guidance, she acknowledged that she was indebted ta him, for pruning the redundancies into which young minds so active and buoyant as hers are naturally betrayed ; and it is probably on this account, that her earliest compositions are quite as free from faulty and redundant construction as her later ones. Of course, there is not the same strength in those as in these the same ripeness of intellect the same breadth and completeness and it is only in these, the higher attributes of mind, that we perceive a difference between them. We have already alluded to the devotional tone of 3 22 MEMOIR. her compositions, which, evident enough in the ear liest of them, became more and more strongly marked as she advanced in years, and finally impressed it self with great vividness upon them as their pre dominant characteristic after her public profession. Not less remarkable, when we consider the whole tenor of her life, and all the manifestations of her womanly temper, is the masculine strength of her pen. She never trifles with a theme or falters in her song.. Her mind appears to have been pos sessed with the subject that engages her pen, singly and without hindrance. She betrays no hesitations no doubts. She utters her thoughts as one who knows their truthfulness, and has ascertained their foundation. She seldom speculates, but often de monstrates. Even in her merely sentimental poetry, she indulges in none of the allowable extravagan cies of imagination, but deals with the realities of feeling ; and one is persuaded, not that the poet dreams of unreal fancies, but relates tangible veri ties. Therefore she carries our hearts with her as she writes ; and whether her musings be of the lov ing youth, or the devoted maiden of the false knight, or the despairing ladye, we are persuaded that she utters truth, though in the guise of fiction : and when, waking a loftier strain, and tuning her harp to diviner themes, she presents in numbers the stories of Holy Writ always majestic, and often awful in their sublimity, we feel that a new idea is MEMOIR. 23 presented to our mind a new train of thought awakened that our perceptions have received a fresher light and our faith, if possible, a new strength. Another characteristic of her mind that breathes in her poetry, is the exceeding gentleness and refine ment even beyond the usual allowance of her sex that shone in her life, and illuminated all her walk and conversation. Herein we discern a spirituality about her character, which endears her memory in the hearts of all survivors. A more thoroughly un selfish person, or one more unenvious, we have not known. The charity which " vaunteth not itself is not puffed up doth not behave itself unseemly," was not more eminently characteristic of her muse, than present as a governing principle of her life. She could not but be conscious of great power ; and in the later years of her life, the evidences of pub lic esteem from the learned and eminent of the land were continually thrust before her observation. Yet how meekly she bore her many honors with what a gentle observance of the rights and claims of others with IIDW meek a charity of their inferiority and with what a womanly modesty she ever received their applauses of herself! Writing not so much to attract the applause of the world, as to give utter ance to the deep emotions of her strong woman's heart, and shrinking ever with maidenly sensitive ness from notice, she is always ready at the cause 24 MEMOIR. of suffering virtue or oppressed weakness, to affront the world's censure, while she declines its approba tion so that whatever about us is " seemly and of good report," never fails to sympathize with and ap prove her. Winning us by her modest demeanor, and subduing us by her tiuth, she presents to our contemplation a singularly happy combination of gentleness and energy, that conquers at once our judgment and affections. It is a somewhat, remarkable fact, that all who have in early life passed away to the tomb, after a brief but brilliant career of usefulness or talent, have stamped upon their remains an apprehensive character of sadness and melancholy, that seems after the event to foreshadow in prophetic spirit their early doom. The very earnestness though not exaggerated yet ample with which they seem to discover and apprehend all the beautiful scenes of life their strong humanity their trusting love their touching heart-sympathy with all the various forms of beauty that greet the eye in the gay flowers of the field the cheering song of birds the bland spring and the fruitful autumn and their enthusiastic enjoyment of whatever blessings God vouchsafes to man in his earthly career would seem to be typical to them of their threatening loss. And thus we find them all, falling as it were by an impulse of their nature, into a saddened and sub dued train of thought and expression mindful in MEMOIR. 25 their brightest moments of enjoying rapture, of the vanity of the present. To the dark unfathomed void of the future, all their thoughts appear to turn, as to the home where only they are to find rest ; and however a pure faith and a well grounded convic tion, together with a life as blameless as may be predicated of anything human, may in elevating their contemplations and spiritualizing their thoughts, tend also to create a sense of joy in the anticipa tion of that future, which they believe to be the only perfect state yet the immutable Jaw of their being seems so ever present in their minds, as to cast a melancholy shade over their loftiest thoughts and most joyous feelings. Thus too it was with Miss Hooper ; and superadded to these causes in her case, were circumstances of domestic affliction and her own precarious health. She had been called to mourn the loss of a beloved and affectionate parent, whose memory she evef cherished with the fond ness of a thankful child and the devotion of an ap preciating friend. Other near and dear relatives had preceded her to the tomb ; and the manifest warnings which she herself received of the insi dious approaches of her own fatal malady, all tended to impress her own thoughts and verses with the character of melancholy and tender foreboding that marks so many of her compositions. ' Nor was this tone diminished by her exquisite enjoyment of what soever comforts and blessings were vouchsafed to 3* 26 MEMOIR. her in the love and esteem of friends, and the delight ful communion of the domestic fireside. The very fame which she blushed to find surrounding her name, and the prospect opened to her mind, of a rank among those brilliant names which have already illustrated and adorned our literature, could not fail to present some charm to a spirit even as gentle and unambitious as hers, arid tend to increase that long ing for life, so natural to us all. These circumstan ces are enough to account for the despondent and melancholy turn which is so often characteristic of her poetry, for she saw that soon all these must pass away, and be no more to her, for ever. The flowers which she cultivated and loved, and which were ever eloquent to her soul of the bounteous goodness of God the bright sun and the twinkling stars the song of birds the music of waters and the universal voice of nature ^ to all these, she knew she was soon to bid adieu ; and though her well as sured faith in humble reliance upon the all-wise Father, gave her hope of infinite gain in the loss of every earthly blessing, she naturally longed for life, if only, in the more arnple scope and fuller develop ment of her powers, <' that her song With star-like virtue in its place might shine Shedding benignant influence, and secure Itself from all malevolent effect Of those mutations, that extend their sway Thro.ugho.ut the nether sphere !" MEMOIR. 27 But the crowning glory of her life and character, was the genuine maidenly modesty that shone in every thought and deed. Perfectly unenvious, as we have before remarked, she was ever the first to discover and applaud the excellencies of others, while she was apparently unconscious of her own ; and when their appreciation could not be repressed, she shrunk from encomiums as if she had not merited them. True, she was not in different to that fame which is the award of high capacity, for no well regulated mind can be ; and her modesty shone in this especially, that every new plaudit was deemed not so much a tribute to past achievement, as the strong incentive to further effort. We have thus considered the character of Lucy Hooper in its moral and intellectual phases com bined, and have perceived how the one was the fit and proper exponent of the other. Not without strength and masculine vigor, and yet of a true womanly spirit ; filled with all charity, and sympa thizing deeply with the infirmities of humanity, yet revolting with uncompromising indignation at all forms of wickedness and oppression ; her life attracts our love, and commands our esteem, and the same character invites the suffrages of the critic to approve her verse. In her own home, and to the circle of friends whom she admitted to familiar intercourse, her 28 MEMOIR. memory is hallowed by a thousand thoughts which no language can adequately convey. Home was her appropriate sphere and empire ; its duties and associations, its ties, affections and offices, her most fit occupation. And how shall we describe the wounds whicH they suffer, who have lost one, who made home beautiful, and adorned the private walk with such eminent virtue and feminine loveliness, that those who knew her, can only pourtray her character when they write her eulogy ? A life so pure and gentle, as we have described, had'its fitting end in the calm triumph of a Christian death ! But a few weeks before she died, though well persuaded that her end was rapidly approach ing, she devoted what time she could persuade her self to spare from holy thoughts, and the reading of the sacred volume, to the preparation of a work for the press that did not appear until after her death The Poetry of Flowers, and contemplated like wise a volume of prose, in a somewhat similar style though on a larger scale, than her " Scenes from Domestic Life." To all these plans the final sum- . mons put a period ; and resigning her immortal spirit to the Father of souls, she quietly sunk to sleep, to wake again, where sorrow and mourning cannot come. " And like a pure bright flower she lay, as if untouched by sin, Meet only for that perfect world, that she had entered in." MEMOIR. 29 Let us lay aside all the considerations of eminent talent, of high cultivation, and distinguished success in her vocation, which mark her course, and con sider her as a mere woman ; and how eminently the story of her simple life, fulfils our idea of the being created, like man, in the image of God, to be the helpmeet and ornament of our life. Strip her story of the romance of poetry, and invest it only in the daily beauty of its domestic home aptitudes ; let us forget that she was born and lived in an intellec tual sphere, somewhat elevated above the mass of her fellows, and looking only upon the practical example of her life, how does it realize to us the exquisite picture of Wordsworth ; We see her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free And step of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrow, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. And now we see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill j 30 MEMOIR. A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light ! Let her life and example be not without their due effect upon the reader of these pages, in which are contained the record of her thoughts and feelings ; persuading them not alone to the cultivation of their minds in all elegant and useful accomplishment, but urging them so to fulfil the great ends of life, that when Death comes, his advent may be joyful. And while they dwell with admiration upon the indica tions of genius, with which they are filled let them ever recollect with what holy meekness, she display ed her gifts, as a trust to be employed unto edification as well as enjoyment ; and as she wrote, and lived, not to gain man's applause and be therewith con tent, gather this useful lesson ; that our gifts and graces are high responsibilities, which we are to use as not abusing them ; that at the last dread hour, they may realize the strength of that trust, which enabled her to depart in peace, exclaiming in her own beautiful language, " Bright Earth / go ! but God a strength hath given Unto my heart ! / can look up to Heaven-!" We cannot more appropriately close this sketch of our lamented friend than by quoting entire a tribute to her memory and worth, from the pen of MEMOIR. 31 one who a trne poet himself strongly sympa thized with the teaching virtue and loveliness of her mind. And we desire no better excuse for our own partiality towards one whom " living we loved" than these verses ON- THE DEATH OF LUCY HOOPER, Who died in Brooklyn, (-L. 7.) on the 1st of the 8th mo. aged 24 years. BY J. G. WHITTIER. THEY tell me, Lucy, thou art dead That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished ; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead ! Cold twilight of a parted day. That true and loving heart that gift Of a mind earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave to the Beautiful and Good And sympathies which found no rest Save with the Loveliest and the Best Of them of thee remains there nought But sorrow in the mourner's breast A Shadow in the Land of Thought ? No ! Even my weak and trembling faith Can lift, for thee, the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death. Even as thou wast I see thee still ; And, save the absence of all ill, 32 MEMOIR. And pain and weariness, which here Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, The same as when two summer's back, Beside our childhood's Merrimack, I saw thy dark eye wander o'er Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of sere leaves by the west-wind blown. There's not a charm of soul or brow Of all we knew and loved in thee But lives in holier beauty now, Baptised in Immortality ! Not mine the sad and freezing dream Of souls that with their earthly mould Cast off the loves and joys of old Unbodied like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold ; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one In blank Annihilation blest ; Dust-atoms of the Infinite Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain, Their old unconsciousness again ! No ! I have FRIENDS in Spirit-Land Not shadows in a shadowy band Not others, but themselves, are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came, Their change the holy morn-light breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking A change from Twilight into Day ! MEMOIR. 33 They've laid thee midst the household graves, Where Father, Brother, Sister, lie, Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky ! Thy own loved Church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayar The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted, to thy bosom taken As symbols of a Faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; And, owning not thy creed, could see How life-like it must seem to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up intense and warm A life in every rite and form ; As, when on Chebar's banks of old The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, A spirit filled the vast machine A life " within the wheels" was seen ! Farewell ! a little time and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee, As pilgrims through the Gate of Fear Which opens on Eternity. Yet we shall cherish not the less All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; The memory of thy loveliness Shall round our weary pathway smile, 4 4 MEMOIR. Like moonlight when the sun has set, A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song. All lovely things by thee beloved Shall whisper to our hearts of thee, These green hills where thy childhood roved- Yoh river winding to the sea The sunset-light of Autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods These in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake, And all thou loved'st of earth and sky Seem sacred to thy memory ? Amesbury, 12th t 8ih mo., 1841. TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF LUCY HOOPER. ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER. " GIVE me armor of proof we would turn from the view Of a world that is fading to one that is true ; We would lift up each thought from this earth-shaded light, To the regions above where there stealeth no blight ; And with Faith's chosen shield by no dark tempest riven, We would gaze from Earth's storms on the brightness of Heaven.' : Lucy Hooper. 1 GIVE me armor of proof ?" oh, came there not thrilling A sound to thy heart fraught with mystery deep, Like the trembling of prayer-laden leaves when the stilling Of midnight's low wind lulls the flow'rets to sleep ? On earth thy song is hushed, and thou art gone In all the glory of thy early years, To the bright heaven thy gaze was fixed upon, The world unfading, and undirnmed oy tears, The voice of song is hushed the lute-note flown Which woke in woman's heart an answering tone. 36 TRIBUTES. Oh, sweetly-gifted ! was there naught could save ? Could not affection love, with mighty power Fame's quenchless burnings, vrin thee from the grave, When thou wast drooping like a storm-rent flower ? Naught, naught could stay thee in the realms on high Thy spirit sought and found its native sky. And shall we mourn thee ? for the gifted mind This earth hath trials which are hard to bear, Sorrows that like a clasping tendril bind The heart, and feelings none may share, Lying too deep for words, but understood By minds where kindred thoughts in silence brood. And woman's pathway in the world of song Is strangely girt with sadness, far away Floats the heart's wealth of beauty borne along Like the flower-fragrance of a summer-day, While the lone pining of the spirit craves, A look, a tone, a stay amid the waves. In the melodious murmurs of the night In all the passionate yearnings for the good In proud aspirings for those words of might Which stir the spirit like a tempest-flood In hours of vigils there are whisperings clear, Come to our world of love ! thy home is here ! We may not moum thee ! In thy glorious dreams Thou saw'st the sunny land beyond the tomb ; For radiant beauty comes in starry gleams Sweet flowers of paradise in richness bloom Glad strains triumphant float when turns the view From this false world to one unchanging, true ! TRIBUTES. 37 ' Give me armor of proof!" let the prayer be our own, We need armor of proof if the crown would be won, And Faith's chosen shield, by no dark tempest riven, Must be ours ere we gaze on the brightness of heaven. J. C. ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. AND thou art gone ! sweet daughter of the lyre, Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken long ; Gone as the stars in morning's light expire, Gone like the rapture of a passing song ; Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished, With genial fondness and devoted care, Whose dearest hopes, with thee, have sadly perished, And now can find no solace but in prayer ; Prayer to be like thee, in so meekly bearing Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker's hand ; Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wearing, And join thy anthem in the better land. Boston, August 5th, 1841, FROM THE NEW WORLD. DIED At Brooklyn, on Sunday last, in the 25th year of her age, LUCY HOOPER. A name which, though not so familiar to our readers as are the writings of her who bore it, must still in the minds of many be associated with genius, and gentleness, and womanly worth. Miss Hooper, whose verses were rarely marked by more than her simple initials, had for some years 4* 38 TRIBUTES. been an anonymous contributor to most of the leading periodicals of this city, before she became at all identified in name with the authorship of her own beautiful productions. The admiration they excited among persons of taste naturally awakened an interest as to the source whence they emanated, but the versa tility of power, and at times the masculine strength displayed in them, would hardly have allowed any one individual to be named as the author, were it not for a single trait which alike pervaded every one the womanly refinement which gave sweet ness to them all. But we must take some other opportunity to dwell upon the merits, of Miss Hooper's writings yet as a poetess only,, (one of the sweetest of oui; land ) as such only, perhaps, ought we to allude to her here for so retired and diffident was she in the exercise of her rare mental endowments, that one shrinks from offending the modest worth and the feminine gentleness that were buried with her, even while, barely alluding to them as the graces which adorned her genius- For how emphatically does one who knew her well, feel that " Underneath the grave doth lie As much beauty as could die, Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live." FROM THE BOSTON TIMES, They do not err,, Who say that when a poet dies Nature mourns a worshipper And celebrates his obsequies.. DIED at Brooklyn, N. Y. on Sunday last, Miss Lucy Hooper, aged 24 years. Thus, for the fourth time within a twelvemonth, has death taken away one of the few who, incur pra ;tical country, are devot- TRIBUTES. 39 ed to song. The subject of this notice was a genuine daughter of New England. She was a beautiful example of the high moral integrity of character and the native intelligence, which so- often distinguish the descendants of the Pilgrims. Miss Hooper was born in Newburyport, where there are still many whose hearts will bleed at the announcement of her departure. She possessed the soul of a true poetess, and, although her brief life, domestic affliction, and ill health prevented her from doing full justice to her powers, many of her effusions bear the stamp of true and feminine genius. We recall particularly some stanzas on Herod- ias, describing her feelings on receiving the head of John the Baptist which are full of high sentiment and touching imagery. This piece was selected by Mr. Bryant for his volume of Ameri can Poetry. But Miss Hooper's talents were by no rneaas the only tie that bound her to. the hearts: of her kindred and friends. Her strong benevolent tendencies, her purity of feeling, and her gentle and affectionate disposition, endeared her to all who- were so happy as to. be included in the circle of her acquaintance-. To her mother, sisters and brothers, her loss must be irreparable. Their chief consolation must be found in cherishing the memory of a character which was a blessing to all who knew her ; and in the confident hope of re-union with a spirit which even here below seeraed attuned to, the harmony of Heaven* FROM THE NEW YORK AMERICAN. IN closing our literary notices this week, we have the melan- eholy task of recording the decease of a young American lady, who bade fair to become one of the brightest ornaments of the growing literature of her country. Miss Lucy Hooper, who died at Brooklyn on Sunday last, in the 25th year of her age, was the writer of some of the most admired fugitive poetry of the $ay. Many of her elegant productions- feave from: time to time, 40 TRIBUTES. appeared anonymously in our columns, and in those of other periodicals of this city. The purity of thought, the refined sweet ness of expression, the happy and melodious versification which distinguished her writings, commended them to every reader of taste and feeling. But great as was the admiration they attracted, it was not -until within the last year or two that the modest name of Miss Hooper became associated with writings whose author ship the most gifted and fastidious might well be anxious to claim. Habituated as she was, from early girlhood, to see her produc tions in print, the applause which she received as an author seem- ed never to stifle or deaden the instinctive diffidence of the gen tle-hearted home-loving woman. Her genius impelled her to utterance, but her truly feminine temper shrank from publicity. And this it was, indeed, this beautiful union of strong, nervous talent, with great softness of character, which gave a remarkable interest to Miss Hooper. The lofty energetic spirit which breathes in many of her verses was doubled in its effect upon those who knew how meekly she bore her noble faculties ; which seemed only to be exercised as a trust whose responsibility she felt, yet whose glory was not hers. Of the prose writings of Miss Hooper, a single volume has been published under her name. It is a simple, unostentatious little work, written and put forth solely from the wish of doing good in the sphere wherein it was intended to circulate, and with no ambition of making a reputation for the writer, whose kindly nature impelled her to the task. Its success, however, seemed to inspire her with the desire of attempting something of greater magnitude in the same useful path of literature. Her natural taste and inclination was decidedly in a more elegant sphere of letters ; but she undervalued her own contributions there, as if poetic composition were to her a mere luxurious revel of faculties, from which DUTY claimed something more. The last months of her life, however, were devoted to the preparation of a work TRIBUTES. 41 far more congenial to her real taste. It is, if we mistake not, a beautifully illustrated volume upon the flowers of this country. It is now in press ; and its interest, when it appears, will be enhanced by the reflection, that she who had such sensibility to feel, and such eloquence to interpret, the mute preaching of Nature, can never here again be gladdened by the gentle influ ences whose effect upon her own spirit she had the rare gift of imparting to others. FROM THE NEW YORKER. DIED, in Brooklyn, on Sunday, August 1, Miss Lucy Hooper, aged 25 years. Silence is the fitting language of grief ; yet we cannot suffer, our rarely gifted friend to sink into the grave, with out some slight sad tribute of affection and gratitude. For several years past Miss Hooper has been an infrequent, but most efficient contributor to the periodical literature of our country, and might have achieved a proud rank among the female writers of the land, had she not listened rather to the dictates of femi nine diffidence, than the promptings of ambition. Her poetry as a whole is surpassed by that of few living women ; and indeed in its the pourtrayal of the tender and better affections of our nature, we know not who lives that could excel it. Truth, Passion, Gentleness, and the heart's undying devotion, have rarely found a loftier, purer minstrelsy than in her writings. Miss Hooper stood among the foremost of a circle of freewill contributors to the original columns of the New Yorker, to whom we are deeply indebted for whatever of public regard this paper has acquired. Death had already thinned that little band, yet this arrow has pierced more deeply than any preceding. It comes too with the suddenness as well as the stunning force of the thunderbolt, 42 TRIBUTES. living within the neighborhood almost of the deceased we had not heard of her illness even till we learned that her spirit had departed. LETTER TO THE EDITOR, BY PROF. J. W. FRANCIS, M. D., RESIDENT PHYSICIAN OF NEW YORK. THE late Miss Lucy Hooper will long be remembered with tender emotions by that circle of friends, to which she added grace and ornament. The characteristics both personal and intellectual which she exhibited were to my mind strikingly interesting and attractive. A professional acquaintance for several years of the latter portion of her life, entitles me to say, that her physical constitution, naturally feeble, gave but too evident signs that her temporal career could not be long, and must yield, in no great length of time, to the occasional assaults of disease to which she was subjected. For a period of many years the cultivation of her mind was little interrupted ; and though her corporeal suffering was often an obstacle to continuous effort she sustained with unabated ardor her studies in the ancient and modern languages, in polite literature, in botany, and in several of the other branches of natural science. Doubtless the extent of her reading and her acquisitions in varied knowledge contributed to cherish in her family the delusive expectation that her constitution was destined for a longer career of active exertion than fell to her lot. Mental effort may in some instances protract the duration of those ener gies which at length it consumes. But the hopes cherished by her too ardent friends never for a moment deceived herself. For the last four months of her existence her physical powers were yielding to the combined influence of disease and intellec- tualaction ; and after a few days of aggravated suffering, pain ful evidences were manifest of the fatality which was impending. TRIBUTES. 43 Her disorder was pulmonary consumption ; and the insidious peculiarities of that treacherous malady were conspicuous in her case in an eminent degree. Within three days of her dissolution she was occupied, with intervals of serious reflection, in her liter ary labors, and conversed freely on her projected plan of a series of moral tales, her book on flowers, and other works. Her life and habits of thoughts had long prepared her for the final event : severe examination and inquiry contributed to strengthen the consolation of religion. In her death, which was without pain and without a struggle, she bequeathed to her friends triumphant evidences of that hope which animates the expiring Christian. THE POETICAL REMAINS OF MISS LUCY HOOPER THE QUEEN'S PETITION. IT was an hour of silence, and its gloom Came on my spirit ; for my pulse had ceased Its quick and joyous motion, keeping time To the dull thoughts of sickness, and mine eye Conned listlessly the page of old romance, Till, casting polished song, and fairy tale Alike away, I sought the open leaves 5 46 POETICAL REMAINS. Of the inspired volume ; and there rose Beautiful forms before me, till the still And silent chamber seemed a hall of light In the far eastern clime, the fair abode Of Persia's proudest king. The glowing sky Bent kindly o'er it, and the summer wind Visited softly the transplanted flower That blushed so brightly in a monarch's court ; Imperial Esther, from her native land Stranger and outcast, yet with earnest hope Waiting on Judah's God,, and keeping bright Faith's holy torch midst dark idolatry And the vain splendors of a court. How fair Looked the young Jewish maiden, as she paused Before her sovereign's throne, with the soft blush Mantling upon her cheek, and her dark eyes Veiled by their silken lashes, and her slight And fragile form half trembling, yet upheld By the strange pride of woman. POETICAL REMAINS. 47 Could he pause Nor reach the golden sceptre ? There was power In every changing hue of that soft cheek To move his princely spirit, and a smile Broke o'er his features as he gently placed On that fair brow a diadem, and hailed The bending flower before him Persia's Queen ! Oh ! Pomp hath golden hours, but Love hath links Softer and sweeter far ; and from that hour . There was the memory of a haunting smile To stir young Esther's thoughts, there was a voice Mingling its low deep tones with all her dreams, There was a regal form that at her side Moved proudly, and a stately step that stilled Earth's music to her ear, while sky and flowers Wore brighter hues, and every fountain played In sweet accordance to her wandering thoughts, Tinged with Love's first bright dyes its morning dreams ! Came there no cloud upon so fair a sky ? Who was the holy man that slowly passed On to the palace gates, like one who bears 48 POETICAL REMAINS. A mournful message, yet whose heart is firm, Kindling with its high purpose ? He passed on Till with his noble mien he stood before The youthful Queen, and to her listening ear Unfolded his sad message, that her land Was clad in mourning, all her people doomed To death by Persia's monarch, that the lips Whose smiles she treasured, had that day pronounced On .them a fearful doom, and that no more Might he, who reared her from her earliest years, Folding his sheltering arms around her youth, Watch round her footsteps, should she fail to move The heart of that proud sovereign, should she pause, Nor trusting in the God of Israel, dare To plead her people's cause. The lip grew pale Of the fair listener, and the fairy dreams That shone so brightly o'er her path were dimmed, Yet the high spirit of her race rose up Lighting her prophet eyes, as she passed out To seek the help of Israel's God. POETICAL REMAINS. 49 She called Her maidens to her side, and bade them take Away her priceless jewels, and remove Her costly robes, then kneel around her there, Even as she prayed : God of my Fathers, hear ! Thou who didst move thy people's path before, As it was theirs with toiling steps to press On in the dark and weary wilderness, Still with thy mercy cheer Thy covenant people, who so meekly wait For thy deliverance from their dark estate. God of my Fathers ! meet Thy weak handmaid who turneth now to thee, Praying for strength to plead Aloud her people's need ; Casting away the idol dreams so sweet, Seeking the promise of thy help alone, Before she passeth to her monarch's throne. 5* 50 POETICAL REMAINS. God of my Fathers, hear ! Thou who didst give thy people might to move On through the stormy sea, Support and comfort me ; Bear up my soul with thine almighty love Let Judah's maid her people's cause confess, Let Judah's maid the trust of Judah bless. God of my Fathers, hear ! If in that fearful place my heart grow faint, As sweet and crowding memories fain would come, Oh ! let my people's doom Lift me above all weak and fond complaint, And turn away my heart from earthly things, As in Thy presence only, King of kings ! It was a fearful trial. There were thoughts Clinging around her heart that still refused All words to give them utterance ; there were hopes, Fluttering like uncaged birds around her path, POETICAL REMAINS. 51 That in that hour she dared not breathe- aloud ; There was one name still hovering on her lips, That yet she might not whisper ; for one hour, One brief, bright hour might shut all hope from her, If he should frown, what need of after words, " Die with thy people !" die Could life be aught When she had witnessed that ? She robed herself In all her queenly garments, and bound up The rich dark tresses of her hair, as once He smiled to see it worn, and with her heart Stilling the throbbings of its human fear By its deep trust in Heaven alone, she passed On in her innocent beauty, till she stood A form of light, a heavenly vision sent To the King's presence, with a kindling eye And a new trust awakened, as she cried, " A boon ! my lord, a boon !" 52 POETICAL REMAINS. The suppliant sank O'ercome with many feelings at his throne, Greeting again that strange peculiar smile, Touching that golden sceptre. She had saved Her people in that hour, and was hailed Queen of fair Persia, and of Persia's King ! THE LIGHT AFAR. HE was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; But on his brow they marked a shade, A still deep shadow that betrayed, E'en when he bowed at beauty's thrall, His spirit was not there But sought a dearer light afar, A gentler and a purer star ! He was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; When softest eyes did softly glance And fairy feet were in the dance, Dreaming amid their music fall Of one who was not there ; Sighing to greet that light afar The gentler and the purer star ! 54 POETICAL REMAINS. He was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; When music, stolen from Heaven above Was gently breathed by lips of Love, He heeded not the call ; But dreamed of notes more rich and rare, And worshipped still that light afar, The gentler and the purer star ! He was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; But ruby lips were vainly wreathed, And timid sighs as vainly breathed, For him in Pleasure's hall ; He might not greet her there, The one he loved, the light afar, The gentler and the purer star ! He was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; POETICAL REMAINS. 55 When -eyes looked soft in the moon's soft light, And tones grew low like the breath of Night, Or Music's dying fall ! Still, still unconquered there, His heart was her's, who dwelt afar, The gentler and the purer star ! He was among them all The bright, the young, the fair ; Only to dream of hours more sweet, Wishing that he were at her feet, Not midst the festive ball ; To see again her golden hair Bound up for him, his light afar, The gentler and the purer star ! THE* APPEAL OF MARIA THERESA. THE ceremonies attending the coronation of Maria Theresa, as Queen of Hungary, are well known, how she wore the iron crown of St. Stephen, and rode to the Royal Mount on a superb charger waving her sword in defiance to the four corners of the earth ; how that afterwards in the ban- quet hall, being incommoded by the heat, she removed it from her head, while her luxuriant tresses falling upon her neck, the assembled Hungarian nobles were thrilled with enthusiasm by her beauty, her youth and her noble spirit. The scene on which the following lines were written, took place when in the assembled Diet, she threw herself upon the tried fidelity and bravery of her Hungarian nobles. BEAUTIFUL looked the lady When she wore the iron crown, Beautiful at the banquet-hall With her shining hair unbound ; And queenly at the Royal Mount, As, with a warrior's air, She boldly waved the flashing sword, And reined her charger there. POETICAL REMAINS. 57 But more beautiful the lady, With her calm and stately grace, Glancing with firm and steadfast eye On knight and noble's face ; And casting to the idle wind A woman's passing fear, She turned to that assembled throng " Nobles of Hungary ; hear ! " As men do gaze in thickest night Upon a single star, So shines to me your steadfast faith With promise from afar ; I place my trust upon your arms, On yours, the true and brave, For Hungary's soil may never shield The coward or the slave ! " I call unto my rescue now God and St. Stephen's aid ; 6 58 POETICAL REMAINS. I gaze upon the swelling tide With spirit undismayed. Nobles and knights of Hungary, I pledge my queenly word To guard for you each sacred right Who draws for me his sword ? " Now, in mine hour of darkest fear, On you my hope I cast ; Nobles and knights of Hungary Will ye not bide the blast ? God shall defend my righteous cause I call ye to the strife Who for his leader and his queen Will peril fame and life ?" And swords were from their scabbards flung, And spears were gleaming bright, While loudly thrilling accents rung, " St. Stephen for the right ! POETICAL REMAINS. 59 Lady ! to thee our lives we pledge, The peril we defy ; Marie Therese shall be our queen, Marie, our battle cry !" Noble and knight, on bended knee, Came from that throng apart, And bathed with tears her gentle hand Who bore so true a heart ; And tears were in those shining eyes, Though flashed her spirit high, As louder swelled the thrilling words " For thee we live or die !" LIN.ES. ST. BARTHOLEMEW'S NIGHT. Charles the 9th, King of France, knew no rest after the fatal night of St. Bartholomew, its horrors were perpetually before him. In his last days lie fancied that the air was filled with the groans of the sufferers, and that the shades of those who were murdered that night were continually beside him. The Cardinal Lorraine who had advised the massacre, died also, and that year on Christmas day there was the most remark able tempest ever known in France. Sally's Memoirs. THE sun went down without a cloud, To tell of coining fate, And the King of France sat on his throne Arrayed in kingly state ; But his lip bespoke an evil heart With an evil pride elate. The sun went down without a cloud, And, through the summer air, POETICAL REMAINS. 61 Sweet hymns were floating softly up, And words of gentlest prayer, From lips that ere the morrow's dawn, Were cold and silent there. The sun went down without a cloud Yet woe for pleasant France, For vine-clad roof and lordly dome Wept idly vanished glance, And vain was woman's pleading cry, And vain the knightly lance. The sun went down without a cloud, The king sat on his throne, The stars saw fearful deeds that night The while they dimly shone, When ruffian hands were steeped in gore Alike from sire and son. The sun went down without a cloud But what a fearful night, G* 62 POETICAL REMAINS. The torch of truth went out in France Its blessed radiance bright ; Yet sat that king upon his throne Nor mourned the vanished light. The sun went down without a cloud, The skies gave forth no sign, There fell from heaven nor storm, nor fire, As in the olden time, And yet, oh God ! thine eye did'st mark, Each chosen one of thine ! The sun went down without a cloud The tide of Time again Rolled on as it had rolled before That night without a name And sat that King upon his throne, Another ! yet the same ! POETICAL REMAINS. 63 There were voices in the air, There was writing on the wall, And his soul o'er earthly splendors cast Its darkness as a pall Dreams of St. Barthelemie's night Were haunting him through all ! Alike from cell and bower they came, From cot and lordly dome, Pale spectres of the past to press Around that monarch's throne And midst his courtier bands he greets The martyred dead alone ! Upon his kingly throne he sat, But not in kingly pride, Terror and fear were round his couch, The dead were by his side : Were these companions meet to tread With him the pass untried ? 64 POETICAL REMAINS. Monarch of France ! the meanest serf Who walked in Truth's pure light, And bowed his neck to the headman's stroke In holy faith that night, Might pity thee, for the wrath of God Is a fierce and scorching blight. A fearful thing in sunny France, That year on holy day, The trees were rent, and the firm earth shook But their souls had past away, And an evil king and counsellor Alike in stillness lay ! THE LAST INTERVIEW. HE stood within her presence that brave knight, With his arms folded proudly, and his eye Bent scornfully upon the face, that once Shone as the day-star of his early dreams. Oh ! how doth falsehood mar earth's brightest things, Robbing the eye of lustre, and the brow Of the fair seal of truth, till we must gaze Strangely upon its surface, greeting not Its lost ethereal glory ! Thus he stood, Casting away proud trophy, and brave spoil, And last the silken scarf Love's treasured gage Low at her feet he placed them, as he spoke Bitterly in his anger ; 66 POETICA.L REMAINS. " 'T was a dream, Fair lady ! that beguiled me in the past, And it hath vanished ! 't was an idle dream, But in the battle's hour as a spell It nerved me to the conflict, and- 1 spurned Danger and toil that I might bring to thee High trophy, and a name more proudly spoken Than when we paited. " Lady, 't was a dream ! Yet those bright lips allowed it, and that eye Shone as the vow was spoken oh ! like Truth It did beguile me 't was a mocking dream, It wins mine ear no more i" The lady's eye Drooped 'neath his stedfast glances, and she spoke In a low tone, of time, and change, and doubt : Proudly he checked her POETICAL REMAINS. 67 " Speakest them of love ? Or of the fickle will of a weak heart ? Lady, the opal hath a changing gleam, But who would wear that jewel on his breast-? Give me the pearl for purity, for light The flashing diamond, and for constant glow The vivid ruby these may know no change So are my thoughts of Love, there's not a star In the bright Heaven but doth confirm my heart, In its first visions, Love must be to me As in the old romance, the fervid tale And the heroic legend ! " Was there doubt And change with these ? Were the bright pinions soiled Or drooped they feebly ? Lady, it may be Mine was a fiery spirit when I bound Yon scarf upon my bosom, as I deemed Thy heart did mirror the deep love of mine, And thy glad spirit treasure all for me Its pure fidelity ; Oh ! 't was a dream ; POETICAL I break the silken tie, I cast away All memory of that hour !" Serenely then The lady took from her fair neck a chain, His hand once placed there, but the golden links Shivered within her grasp, a fitting type Of the frail love she bore him. With a mien Proud as his own, she sought the rarer gems, That once were Love's first offerings, and she placed The flashing stones before him, but his lip Curled to a bitter smile. " I pray thee now, Fair lady, there was more, a priceless gift, Keep still these worthless tokens of an hour, Give me the one bright jewel !" POETICAL REMAINS. 69 On his face She gazed at first in doubt, but bitter tears Gushed as she read his meaning. " There was more Fair lady, than thou showest one bright gem Never thine own again, the priceless love Of a thrice noble heart, the pure esteem Of a high spirit this shall never rest Upon a changing bosom. This I take Back to my heart again. Its dream is o'er." LINES. Francis the first, being defeated at the battle of Pavia, was kept a prisoner by Charles the fifth. On being released from captivity, as he mount- ed his horse he exclaimed, " I am yet a king !" OH-! lightly on his barb he sprung, that monarch brave and free, While from his lips the cheering words broke forth exult- ingly, " I am yet a king, I turn once more unchecked my bridle rein, Now for the fields of sunny France, of France, mine own again ! " I am yet a king I am yet a king, oh ! France, that it should be That ever on thy monarch's brow should pale thy "fleur de lis,'' That brave, brave knight of thine should -e'er be forced to yield his lance, Yet, yet am I once more thy king, oh, sunny land of France ! POETICAL REMAINS. 71 I am yet a king I am yet a king, the heavy dream hath past, And light word to an evil foe, I ween, shall lightly last, For swords shall gleam, and blood shall flow, like rivers to the main, So shall thy king, oh ! gallant France, wash out the evil stain. I am yet a king I am yet a king, be mine the kingly pride To range once more in war array, my nobles at my side, To see their lances brightly shine, and tread my foemen down, Till in the dust, the glories lie, of his Imperial crown. I am yet a king I am yet a king, oh ! France, bright France for me, Thine are the golden lilies, thine, the flower of chivalry, Thine are the clear and sunny skies, and thine the glancing waters, And brave, oh ! brave are all thy knights, and fair thy smiling daughters. I am yet a king a king of thine, oh ! France, I feel it now What is the past that it should cast, a shadow on my brow, 72 POETICAL REMAINS. Again, again my hopes are high, again my course is free, Oh ! pleasant land and sunny land, who would not die for thee? I am yet a king I am yet a king, once more my sword is bright, The captive soon shall prove himself true king and noble knight, For richly shall the blood stream flow, and brightly lances shine, Oh ! France ere thou shalt ever blush for recreant son of thine ! DEATH OF THE FAIR PILGRIM. The following lines refer to- the well known history of the Lady Arabella Johnson. IT was her dying hour she was far From the proud halls of England, and the tones Of sweet familiar voices ; but the smile That rested an her lip, as yet untouched With the pale hue of death, and the deep eyes So full of quenchless fervor, as she gazed Round her new home, told of a heart that yet Had found no cause of sadness ; that for him Who bore an earthly cross, it had been hers To leave the scenes of childhood, and in faith Offer pure worship, and erect a shrine Unto his praise in that far wilderness ; Till from the mighty forests, and deep shades 7* 74 POETICAL REMAINS. , Of that untrodden land, there daily rose The breath of prayer like incense unto God. It was her dying hour. As a dream Melting away from memory, they passed The first bright scenes of youth, the careless hours When like a harp untouched, her heart found rest In- the gay halls of pleasure and there rose No sigh upon her lip, like those who tread Vainly Earth's glittering courts, and only quaff Mirth's sparkling chalice, but to cast aside The uncharmed cup in sadness. Hours like these, Bright from the sunny hues of youth alone, Gay from its unstirred sympathies, lived not Within her memory now, but household tones Sweet words of kindness, visions of that time When first amid her home's proud halls, her heart Woke to a knowledge of the truth, and felt Hers was the pilgrim's God, the pathless sea Was she alone ? Sweet tears from Memory's fount Thrilled to her eyes, when in her own she clasped The hand of one fond watcher, and gave breath POETICAL REMAINS. 75 To the sweet visions of their early love Dreams of that holy time, when first her heart Thrilled as the voice to others calm and stern Came to her ear as a soft breathing flute, Winning her to a knowledge of the truth. What from that hour her fair and stately halls Their gay and sunny bowers? the sparkling throngs Who did her homage ! Looked not the far home He spoke of in the wilderness more bright ? Could she forget 'mid lighter smiles, the one To which her spirit answered ? The deep prayer Went up in the still midnight ; and her home With its glad memories, its dreams of pride Its hours of sunny pleasures all were cast Upon Love's holy altar, and with tears That not in blessed England, might the lip Breathe out its homage freely, or the truth Find refuge with its nobles, did she pass On to the land untried -the pilgrim's bourne > Lit by Love's sacred star, led by high thoughts Across the pathless ocean ! 76 POETICAL REMAINS. It was found That refuge in the wilderness and now Amidst its vines and flowers, 't was hers to die With all its memories round her, holy prayer And quiet even-time, and trusting Love Bright hopes and mingled sorrows., and there came With these sweet thoughts, dreams of her native land. As a far vision, of her mother's voice, * * Bless thee, my child, oh ! bless thee !" In her heart All earthly strife was o'er, and with a smile Radiant and full of peace, she turned, and said, " Sing to me friends ! sing me a pilgrim song : The last the last I would that I might hear The breath of praise float up to Heaven once more, Sing to me, friends, oh sing !" All voices sought, Save one, to sing in concert a glad song Of cheerful triumph, giving praise to God ; POETICAL RI MAINS. 77 But deep tears checked the music, as they gazed On the bright vision, passing from their sight In such pure faith away. The strain had ceased ; And to the eye of him she loved, she turned, As she would gain a strength in that calm hour To meet the last dread foe. With a low voice, And faltering through deep tenderness, he read From the pure page of scripture, " He that leaves Father or Mother, for my sake, shall be Blest in the realms of glory !" It was sweet, To hear the words of promise, and she laid Her head upon her bosom, and breathed out Her spirit to the pilgrim's God in prayer ! THE SPEAKING PICTURE. Suggested by Vanderlyn's portrait of Mrs. Allston, daughter of Aaron Burr. Is it life, is it life in the picture I see Can the grave yield its victim, the past smile on me ? From caverns of ocean, from shades of the night Comes this vision of beauty, this being of light ? Let me gaze, let me gaze on that radiant brow, On the lips breathing life, on the cheek's mantling glow ! Oh ! 't is youth's purest bloom, it is life's sweetest grace 'T is the past smiling back from that beautiful face ! Let me gaze let me gaze ; can the picture be true 1 Was the eye's lustre thus, and the cheek's this bright hue ? Was it thus in the halls of the mirthful she shone, Like a star in the firmament, peerless and lone ? POETICAL REMAINS. 79 Was the hair bound with roses ? the eyes flashing light ? Let me gaze, let me gaze, on the youthful and bright ; So looked she, so smiled she in days that are gone, But we greet not her footsteps we hear not her tone ! Oh ! 't is life, but the friends of her youth are all fled, In the halls where she shone the fresh garlands are dead ; And the loving and leal wept her long and in vain, By the dim shore they parted, and met not again ! Oh ! 't is life, it is life in the picture we see 'T is the past breathing back in its beauty to me ; But there's grief with that beauty, there's wo with its bloom, When I gaze on that fair face, and think of her doom. In the silence of night from those lips came a moan On those bright sunny tresses the salt spray was thrown And those deep eyes sought vainly some help to descry, When the tempest swept past "and the billows dashed high ! 80 POETICAL REMAINS. Some pearly sea cave may now pillow her head ; By some nymph of the wave might her dirge have been said, As the white waters closed o'er the form once so fair, And the loud wailing winds rose above her wild prayer. Oh ! 't is life, it is life, for the picture smiles yet, With youth's mocking bloom, but her sun hath long set ! We gaze on her beauty, we sigh for her tone, But the grave keeps its trust, and the sea holds its own ! THE LOCK OF HAIR. A LOCK of hair ! and sent o'er land and seas, From softer climes fanned by the southern breeze ; A lock of hair ! what was the tale it told, Of Love that lingered till the heart grew cold, And still in death its last fond message sent, To one whose name with every hope was blent ! Who watched, with kindling heart, the evening star, And deemed his gaze met hers though distant far ! For her, for her that last and cherished token, For her, those parting words, that faith unbroken ! How did they reach her ? midst her home's bright flowers, Were hers no restless dreams, no weary hours ? Ah yes ! when Hope's sweet links were torn apart, Life had no charm to win the trusting heart ! Could she live on ? the rich cheek lost its bloom, Hers the low couch and hers the darkened room ; 8 82 POETICAL REMAINS. The voice grew faint whose welcome was so sweet, The brow grew pale that flushed Love's glance to meet ; Then linger not ! Love's last fond message bear, Give up thy charge ! one tress of golden hair ! Oh ! precious gift ! than costly gems more dear, Love's last memorial, bathed with many a tear, Borne over hill and sea with quenchless faith, In holy .trust brought to the couch of death, Linked with sweet hopes, radiant with Love's bright hue, Sent from one answering heart to one as true, Fondly to whisper that yon world of bliss Might bind again the parted links of this ; Loved pledge and sweet, her last her dearest care, She clasped in death the Lock of golden hair ! THE TURQUOISE' RING. In Miss Martineau's novel of Deerbrook," the heroine is made to preserve with great care a Turquoise Ring, which her lover had given her in the early days of their attachment, and during a long period of doubt and estrangement, to believe that while its hues continued undimmed, his faith remained to her unbroken. So poetic and fervent a belief met with its appropriate reward, the Turquoise Ring remained bright and the lover returned. THE Turquoise Ring ! 't was a gift of power Guarding her heart in that weary hour, As a magic spell, as a gem of light, As a pure, pure star amidst clouds of night. Bringing back to the pale, pale cheek its bloom, Strengthening her heart in that heur of doom ; There was hope, there was trust with its living hue, The gem was bright, and the lover true, As a sign to her heart, as a sign to her eye, The one bright gleam of a troubled sky. 84 POETICAL REMAINS. The Turquoise Ring ! oh ! the olden time Hath many a magic tale and sign, Bright gifts of treasure on land and on sea, But nought for the heart or the memory, For what might the fairy lamp of old, Yield to its owner but gems and gold ? And to her who sat in that lonely hall, The Turquoise Ring was worth them all ; For the heart hath a dearer wealth than lies In the earth's wide halls, and argosies ; And its hopes are more precious than stores of gold When richest and rarest by miser told, For what had been gems that brightly shone, To her who sat in her grief alone ? Oh ! the Turquoise Ring had a spell of power ! This was a gift for the weary hour, Linking the future to all the past, Breathing of moments too bright to last, Till they came in the light of their living bliss, To sooth, to gladden an hour like this, POETICAL REMAINS. 85 Oh ! Love hath wings they have said who knew, And that Love hath wings is a story true, But there lingers a bloom on his early hours, When his wings are folded 'mid opening flowers, When the streams are bright, and the sky is fair, And the hearts too happy that trust him there ; There lingers a bloom, and there rests a glow, A charm that the earth not again may know ! And when from that resting place he flies, Oh ! linked with a thousand memories, Each bud, and each leaf by our fond tears wet, May breathe of his sweetness and beauty yet ! So with the past, and its holy love So with its hopes, that soared above With the visions that came to her nightly rest Was the Turquoise Ring to her finger pressed, Oh ! beautiful to her its light, Could she forget that pleasant night, When first her fingers slender round Was with the golden circlet bound, 8* 86 POETICAL REMAINS. And blushed she, not to see it shine, But at the low tone, " Love, be mine !" Since then, since then, unchanged its hue, Her hope, her trust alike were true, But pale at times that cheek so bright, And dimmed those eyes of living light, For dreams were hers of pain and dread, Yet still the ring its lustre shed, They met and parted, as of yore Fond hearts have met, and chilled before, And coldness, sadness, fear had been, Like cloud upon the sunny scene. Yet woman's love will always strive, And woman's faith through all things live, And beautiful the maiden's truth, And beautiful her trusting youth ; Through all, through all, the Turquoise Ring, A hope, a dream, a joy could bring ; POETICAL -&EMAINS. 87 And still if clear and bright its hue, Her faith was firm, her lover true ! * Oh ! gift of power ! it brought at last, A bright, bright future for the past ! Oh ! gift of power, that cheek once more Wore the rich bloom that blushed of yore ! Oh! gift of power, who would not sing, For me, for me, the Turquoise Ring, For me, for me, when living faith, Faints in a world of change and death When sick with fear the heart may be, And sad, oh ! sad the memory, When dimly, dimly, dimly glow, The hopes, the trusts that cling below ; Then give me, give the Turquoise Ring, Or the pure faith, a better thing ! LINES. THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. Written after seeing among a collection of beautiful paintings, copies from the old masters, recently sent to New York from Italy, one representing the daughter of Herodias, bearing the head of John the Baptist on a charger, and wearing upon her countenance an expression, not of triumph as* one might suppose, but rather of soft and sorrowful remorse, as she looks upon the calm and- beautiful features of her victim. MOTHER ! I bring thy gift, Take from my hand the dreaded boon I pray Take it, the still pale sorrow of the face Hath left upon my soul its living trace, Never to pass away ; Since from these lips one word of idle breath, Blanched that calm face oh ! mother, this is death ! What is it that I see From all the pure and settled features gleaming ? POETICAL REMAINS. 89 Reproach ! reproach ! My dreams are strange and wild, Mother ! had'st thou no pity on thy child ? Lo ! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hushed lips my mother, can'st thou brook, Longer upon thy victim's face to look ? Alas ! at yestermorn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound 1 gaily danced, while crowned with summer flowers, And swiftly by me sped the flying hours, And all was joy around ; Not death \ Oh ! mother could I say thee nay ? Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away ! Take it ; my heart is sad, And the pure forehead hath* an icy chill I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given, And the pale face appals me, cold and still, With the closed lips, oh ! tell me, could I know That the pale features of the dead were so ? 90 POETICAL REMAINS. I may not turn away From the charmed brow, and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken, And that high brow in death bears seal and token, Of one, whose words were flame ; Oh ! Holy Teacher ! could'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed lips whisper, " I forgive !" Away with lute and harp, With the glad heart forever, and the dance, Never again shall tabret sound for me, Oh ! fearful Mother, I have brought to thee The silent dead, with his rebuking glance, And the crushed heart of one, to whom are given Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven ! THE SERENADE. OH ! wake thee, lady, wake ! For the stars are on the sea, And their holy torches burn But for thee, love, for thee ! Oh ! wake thee, lady, wake ! For the dew is on the flowers, And the quiet, quiet night, Must be ours, only ours ! Oh ! wake thee, lady, wake ! In the " day's sweet prime," Other voices whisper thee, Winning tones from thine. POETICAL REMAINS. But at night, but at night, Wake for me, wake for me ! When the holy stars are bright On the sleeping sea. Like the birds in twilight bower, I must sing to thee ; Lady love, and cherished flower, Keep thy tryst with me. Softly now the moon is beaming, As I come to thee ; And the jasmine stars are gleaming, Wake thee, love, for me ! As a holy torch that shineth, Though no eye may see, As a sun that ne'er declineth, Is my love for thee ! POETICAL REMAINS. 93 Then, wake thee, lady, wake ! While the burning stars are bright, And I will whisper thee, My dream of yesternight ! That the moon was on the sea, And the dew was on the flower, When thou did'st leave with me, Thy pleasant summer bower. Oh ! wake thee, lady .mine, .And keep thy tryst to-night, ]?or the moon is on the sea, And the holy stars are bright ! A FRAGMENT. THE stars of the old year shone last night, And bright were the beams they cast, But ray spirit likened each burning ray, To the torch-light of the Past ; For methought that many a heart would chill, To gaze on that glowing sphere, Should Memory's chords that evening thrill, To the dreams of the olden year ! To the garlands hung over -Hope's gay shrine, When the hours of that year were new, And we looked not for frost in the summer prime, Tn the place of the early dew ; Oh ! the stars should shine with a pale, pale light, When joy has been thus o'erthrown ; POETICAL REMAINS. 95 And the mourner weeps in the silent night, For his beautiful alone ! The stars of the old year shone last night ; They were linked with thoughts of pain, Like music we've heard in some happier hour, But would never list again, Like flowers the hand of Love hath plucked, That when parted we dread to see ; Precious yet twined with all mournful thoughts, Were their dying beams to me ! The stars of the new year shine to-night, There is hope in their faintest gleams, They come to my heart, with their spells of light, As linked with its angel dreams ! Sweet voices have broke on the weary day, I turn from the heavy Past ; While the stars of the new year softly say, Wearied one, rest at last ! January 1, 1841. LINES. I SAW a broken flower, .1 once li fid loved to rear, The bitter blight of an autumn night, Withered the plant so dear It faded iii an hour : . But time went by, arid summer's rain, Fell on the plant, it bloomed again, My tears were dried, my heart was light, My flower was beautiful and bright i I heard a gentle tone, Of music low and soft, But night drew on and the strain was gone, I lingered long and oft, ' The thrill of the harp was done ; Yet mourned I not in. bitterness, For soon a dearer strain to bless, POETICAL REMAINS. 97 My weary hours, came gently by And melted softly mournfully. I gazed upon a star, Bright in the evening sky, It led Night's host, it shone the most, Then melted and past by, Away, away and far, From the blue Heavens, so soft and clear, The calm untroubled atmosphere, But when again night chilled the air, I looked above, the star was there ! But darker hours drew on, I heard the voice I loved grow low, The eye flashed bright, with a clearer light, How could death mock us so ? That cherished one is gone ; Not like the flower, the star, the strain, Ever to bloom or come again ! LINES, HE THOUGHT UPON HIS BRIDE," Among the volunteers killed at the taking of St. Cos, was Sir John Armitage. This gentleman had served with great bravery on a former expedition, and was much and generally lamented. Happening to be present when the officers attached to this expedition came to take leave of the king, the brave old monarch, not knowing but that Sir John would accompany the expedition, turned to him and asked when he in tended to set out, Sir John, taken by surprise, answered " to-morrow," and unhappily kept his word, though at this time his mind was far dif ferently engaged in making preparations for his marriage with Miss Howe, sister to the three brave Lord Howes. Many years after his death, the lady married Sir Wm. Pitt, but to the end of her life wore a splendid brilliant necklace, covered by a black collar, round her neck, the gift of her ill fated lover. C orrespondcnce of H. Walpolc. HE stood before his monarch's throne, The gallant and the tried, And owned the call that urged him on, But thought upon his bride ! POETICAL REMAINS. 99 Oh ! what to him the hope of fame, Or proudest dreams beside, The soldier felt a dearer flame, He thought upon his bride ! But not of him, the nobly proved, V. False tale might recreant tell, He went, and left to solitude, The flower he loved so well. But first that lady's neck he bound, With glittering links of pride, Then turned and heard the trumpets sound, But thought upon his bride ! Well might that fair girl's blinding tears, Fall as he onward past, Half smiling at her timid fears, She met. him for the last ! 100 POETICAL REMAINS. For darker hours of trial came, The gallant soldier died, He fell among his armed train, His last thoughts on his bride. And Time swept on, again in hall And bower that lady stood, Not as when owning Love's sweet thrall, She pined in solitude. The brightest form the gazer met, Still one deep token proved ; How precious to her memory yet, The gift of him she loved. That glittering necklace, half concealed With all its links of pride, The secret of his fate revealed, Who thought upon his bride ! KORNER'S . LOVE. The betrothed of Korner was a young and beautiful actress, and when hardly recovered from the severe indisposition which the news of his sudden and melancholy death occasioned, she was obliged by the man ager to play the part of Thekla to an admiring audience. TEARS for the, sorrowful ! aye, Earth hath lone And silent places, where the sad may weep,. Telling their bitter histories, as the stream Glides by in music, and the winds of Heaven Lift the soft tresses from the aching brow : But can all seek those green and silent haunts ? Are there no halls of light where throbbing hearts Must break unseen .? fair Antoinette, thy tale ! Star of a minstrel's dream, a hero's love- Were tears for thee 1 The spacious hall was ringing With the loud plaudit, and dark eyes shone bright Through the soft mist of tears, and warrior hearts Forgot their dreams of triumph as they called, "Again, again for Thekla !" 102 POETICAL REMAINS. And she came Beautiful, beautiful as the embodied thought Of the rapt poet, with her azure eyes Lit up with sudden lustre, and her cheek Rich with the hue of fever, and her brow, That soft pure brow that was so wont to bear The quiet seal of thought, that night was flushed With a high sense of wrong, and the sweet lips Quivered with bitter feelings, as she bent Gracefully to the throng, and played again The part of Thekla, on the mimic stage. Wreaths for the magic actress wreaths, behold, Tears from stern manhood, woman's gentle pulse Throbbing with agony, and warrior heads Bowed down in sudden sorrow, thrilling shouts Of praise for Thekla, all to Thekla given ; No tears for her no sigh for Korner's Love No pity for the young and breaking heart, Mastering its grief that night. POETICAL REMAINS. 103 And yet his name, Brave Korner of the Lyre and the Sword, The minstrel soldier whose proud early grave Was like an altar, where the patriot heart Might offer up its vows, whose deeds were linked With all his country's music, and whose songs Were like a clarion, calling to the field True hearts and noble, yea, his name but breathed By those pale lips, had made the warrior grasp Again his shining blade, and to the cheek Of beauty called a triumph that her land Might boast the minstrel Korner ! But she stood, In her heart's grief, among the glittering throng, And honored but as Thekla. Yet the eye That shone that night, to him had been the star Of all his glorious visions, and her name As a high watchword in the battle's hour 104 POETICAL REMAINS. "Nerved him to conflict, and her love had been To him most precious, crowning as he said His life with all the flower wreaths of hope, And the sweet buds of feeling. .* She had listened To the rich music of the voice that now Was hushed forever, till the Earth had not For her an echo like, its tone. And now Could she live on, when never more that brow Might greet her own, when in his honored grave The hero slept, crowned with the laurel wreath Of a bright early fame, and in his hand The sword men called his bride. Oh ! mocking world Ye had no wreaths for her, no couch whereon The weary head might rest, yet tears were given Unto the minstrel's father, when he told Proudly his son's high deeds, and words of praise Flowed brightly o'er his loneliness, and tones POETICAL REMAINS. 105 Of gentle kindness to a mother's ear Had power to sooth her sorrow, as she wept Her brave, her beautiful, and there were linked Tales of soft pity with a sister's name And her enduring love. But when the hour Of the world's grief had past, and when the eye Of the fond mother had forgot its tears, And the brave father was resigned to yield Such offering to his country, and the form Of the sweet sister like a lily bowed Before a fearful tempest, sought repose Beside her warrior brother, and men named Sword, lyre, and flower together, there were tears In the soft eyes that minstrel prized, and hours Of holy vigil to his memory kept And lonely watches 'neath the stars of Heaven To tell who loved most deeply. 10 LINES, TO A LITTLE WILD FLOWER. I WISH I was this simple flower, Born 'neath the sky of May, Brightly to bloom my little hour, Then quickly pass away. I wish I was as low and small, Its destiny to prove ; For surely none would mind at all, Who did not mind to love. I wish that I was guarded so, From every cruel storm Mark how each taller plant doth throw A shelter round its form. POETICAL REMAINS. 107 And see ye not this little flower, Can fold its petals bright, "When storms do rise, or clouds do lower, Or draweth on the night. It only lifts its meek bright eye, Through summer days and spring, It gazes ever on the sky ; Oh ! 't is a happy thing ! I wish that I could change my form, And blossom on the plain, Live wild and happy though not long, Then die ere Autumn came. Or still more blest be plucked to cheer Some heart in lonely hour, That sick of human strife and fear, Would wish to be a flower ! THE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND THE CHILD'S. When the Empress of Austria lay on her death-bed, she forbade her atten dants to allow her to sleep in the last hours, saying that she wished to meet death awake ; but when a little daughter of Charles the first was dying, she folded her hands upon, her breast, and said she had not strength to say her long prayer, but she would say her short prayer, before she died, " Lord, lighten all my darkness, and suffer me not to sleep the sleep of death." A QUEEN lay on her dying couch, the shades were falling fast O'er cheek and brow, when from her lips the royal mandate past, And sadly every listener's heart thrilled at its import high " Let me not sleep let me not sleep, I feel that death is. nigh ! " Let me not sleep let me not sleep, it may not, may not be, That one as I have been should pass away unconsciously, POETICAL REMAINS. 109 I would awake, my past, past life comes thronging on my view, With all its proud and early dreams its hopes of sunny hue. " I would awake, my spirit now would gather all its powers, And the firm strength that never failed in life's most stormy hours, So would I greet my latest foe, so yield my regal crown, And at a mightier monarch's feet, lay kingly sceptre down." " Let me not sleep let me not sleep, before my closing eye, Float dimly now" and painfully, Earth's scenes of pageantry, No more for me a regal throne, I yield the signet ring, Yet, yet awake I meet thee now, oh ! Death ! the mighty king !" And the hushed lips no longer moved, the eye no more was bright, And sadly gleamed o'er pallid brow rich floods of golden light, But earthly pride had left its seal upon that forehead fair, With all its calm and still repose Death was the conqueror there. 10* 110 POETICAL REMAINS. A scene of softer purer light upon my vision shone, And yet a dying couch beside, and 'neath a kingly dome, A fair, fair child, too bright and pure to rest in earthly bowers, Called to a better world away, like Spring's first early flowers Oh ! softly on her pure meek brow were golden ringlets shining, And closely round that gentle heart were many hopes en twining, But the fair hands were clasped in prayer, 4ind meekly she essayed To pray in dying hour as once in health and hope she prayed. It might not be, the gentle voice was all t'oo faint and low, Death's icy touch was stealing fast upon the polished brow, But smiling tranquilly at last she prayed with faltering breath, " Oh ! lighten all my darkness, Lord, let me not sleep in death !" POETICAL REMAINS. Ill " Oh ! lighten all my darkness, Lord !" the prayer of childish faith, The sweet low tones have gained for her the victory o'er death, And like a pure bright flower she lay, as if untouched by sin, Meet only for that perfect world that she had entered in ! TO A BOY FLYING HIS KITE. AYE, swift be the motion and high the flight Of thy beautiful and buoyant kite, Fair boy may it fly far, far beyond This Earth, that in darkness hath pined so long, Nor stop till it reaches yonder cloud, That floats above as in beauty proud ; And deepened thought gathers o'er thy face, Hath it found in pure regions a dwelling place ? And will it away, and leave thee there, To trace its last path in the summer air ? A foolish dream and thy shout rings free, Its flitting form again to see, " While thy thought turns glad to the cord in thy hand, That a thing so wild is at thy command ! POETICAL REMAINS. 113 Blithe gladsome boy, upon thy brow Lies childhood's pride, on thy cheek its glow ; And I love, as I look on thy rising kite, To think it betokens thy spirit's flight, Which must sink 'neath the touch of care and pain, Like thy kite, but to rise and to soar again ! LAST HOURS OF A YOUNG POETESS " Alas 1 our young affections run to waste Or water but the desert, whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste Rank at the core, but tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison, such the fruits Which spring beneath her steps, as Passion flies O'er the wild wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit, forbidden to our wants !" Byron. THROW up the window ! that the earnest eyes Of the young devotee at Nature's shrine, May catch a last glimpse of this breathing world From which she is removing. Men will say This is an early death, and they will write The record of her few and changeful years With wonder on the marble, and then turn Away with thoughtful brows from the green sod, POETICAL REMAINS. 115 Yet pass to daily business, for the griefs That press on busy spirits, may not turn Their steps aside from the worn paths of life, Or bear upon the memory, when the quick And selfish course of daily care sweeps by. Yet, when they speak of that lost one, 't will be With tones of passionate marvel, for they watched Her bright career as ye would watch a star Of dazzling brilliancy, and mourn to see Its glory quenched, and wonder while ye mourned, How the thick pall of darkness could be thrown O'er such a radiant thing. Is this the end Of all thy glorious visions, young Estelle ? Hath thy last hours drawn on, and will thy life Pass by as quickly as the perfumed breath Of some fair flower upon the Zephyr's wings ? And will they lay thee in the quiet grave, And never know how fervently thy heart Panted for its repose ? 116 POETICAL REMAINS. Oh ! let the peace Of this sweet hour be hers, let her gaze forth Now on the face of Nature for the last, While the bright sunbeam trembles in the air Of the meek coming twilight, it will sooth Her spirit as a spell, and waken up Impassioned thoughts, and kindle burning dreams And call back glorious visions. Marvel not To see her color pass, and view the tears Fast gathering to her eyes, and see her bend In very weakness at the fearful shrine Of memory, when the glory of the past Is gone forever. Gaze not on her now, Her spirit is a delicate instrument, Nor can ye know its measure. POETICAL REMAINS. 117 How unlike That wearied one to the bright, gifted girl, Who knelt a worshipper at the deep shrine Of Poetry, and 'mid the fairest things, Pined for lone solitude to read the clouds With none to watch her, and dream pleasant things Of after life, and see in every flower The mysteries of Nature, and behold In every star the herald and the sign Of immortality, till she almost shrank To feel the secret and expanding might Of her own mind, and thus amid the flowers Of a glad home grew beautiful. Away With praises upon Time ! with hollow tones That tell the blessedness of after years, They take the fragrance from the soul, they rob Life of its gloss, its poetry, its charm, Till the heart sickens, and the mental wing Droops wearily, and thus it was with her The gifted and the lovely. Oh ! how much The world will envy those, whose hearts are filled 11 118 POETICAL REMAINS. With secret and unchanging grief, if Fame Or outward splendor gilds them ! Who among The throngs that sung thy praises, young Estelle, Or crowned thy brow with laurels, ever recked That wearier of thy chaplet than the slave May be with daily toil, thy hand would cast The laurel by with loathing, but the pride Of woman's heart withheld thee ! Oh ! how praise Falls on the sorrowing mind, how cold the voice Of Flattery, when the spirit is bowed down Before its mockery, and the heart is sick ; Praise for the gift of genius, for the grace Of outward form, when the soul pines to hear One kindly tone and true ! What bitter jest It maketh of the enthusiast, to whom POETICAL REMAINS. 119 One star alone can shine, one voice be heard In tones of blessedness, to know, that crowds Of Earth's light hearted ones, are treasuring up Against their day of sorrow, the deep words Of wretchedness and misery which burst From an o'erburdened spirit, and that minds Which may not rise to Heaven on the wings Of an inspired fancy, yet can list With raptured ear, to the ethereal dreams Of a high soaring genius. For this end Did'st thou seek Fame, Estelle ; and hast thou breathed The atmosphere of poetry, till life With its dull toil grew wearisome and lone ? Her brow grew quickly pale and murmured words That not in life dwelt on that gentle Jip, Are spoken in the recklessness of death. 120 POETICAL REMAINS. They tell of early dreams of cherished hopes That faded into bitterness, ere Fame Became the spirit's idol, of lost tones Of music, and of well remembered words That thrill the spirit yet. Again it comes That half reproachful voice that she hath spent Her life at Passion's shrine, and patient there Hath sacrificed, and offered incense to An absent idol that she might not see Even in death and then again the strength Of a high soul sustains her, and she joys Yea, triumphs in her fame, that he may hear Her name with honor, when the dark shades fall Around her, and she sleeps in still repose ; If some faint tone should reach him at the last Of her devotedness, he will not spurn The memory from him, but his soul may thrill To think of her, the fervent hearted girl, Who turned from flattering (ones, and idly cast, POETICAL REMAINS. 121 The treasures of her spirit on the winds And found no answering voice ! Then prayed for death, Since Life's sweet spells had vanished, and her hopes Had melted in thin air, and laying down Her head upon her pillow, sought her rest And thought to meet him in the land of dreams ! 11* FIDELITY. " In this trust I bear I strive I bow not to the dust." Mrs Hcman. THE lady sat in her bower and sighed, And the traitor knight to her thoughts replied, " Why lingers thy Lord when the war is o'er ? Tarries he still from his native shore ? Bright swords are sheathed, and brave foes have spoken Peacefully greeting, but scroll nor token Have cheered thee dove of a lonely nest, Once thou wert sheltered on his breast ; Lady, sweet lady ! my thoughts rush fast, Tell me, I pray, hath that fond love past !" And the lady answered with kindling eye, " He is far, he is far, but my trust is high, POETICAL REMAINS. 123 Think ye that Love was so lightly given, A drooping flow'ret to fade at even ; No ! it hath lasted through sunshine and rain, Doubt cannot blight, fears assail it in vain, Tarries my Lord, still that fond faith is sure ; Away away, it can well endure !" " Bethink thee, lady, when Glory gleams, How fades from the mind Love's idle dreams, Guideth its pure ray the wanderer back, Art thou the star of his varied track ? Aye, think ye, thy Lord recalls the vow Of his early days at the banquetrnow 1 Comes its memory in with the sweet song's flow Sparkles its light, in the wine-cup's glow "?" Proudly the lady's lip was curled, " Back on thy head be the slander hurled, Faithless and base. Lo ! I spurn thee now, What to my Lord is the wine-cup's glow, 124 POETICAL REMAINS. Tarries he still, then his footsteps fall Not in stately court, nor in banquet hall, Say'st thou Glory ? I joy in his fame, He went forth true he will come the same !" " Spurn me, aye spurn ; thy young face doth wear, Proud one, e'en now the dim shadow of care, Those are pale spectres thy busy thoughts bring, The love of thy heart is a troubled spring ! Beautiful lady, thy Lord greets the light Of smiles sweet as thine, joys in glances as bright, Soft voices are breathing around him, no more Comes thy tone to his heart Is its melody o'er ?" " Tempter away, lest thy doom should be sealed, To the noble and true shall thy words be revealed, Know ere we part that Love's fond faith shall burn, Purely and bright, till the cherished return, My cheek may grow pale, and my heart yearn to meet The wanderer's glances, his homeward steps greet, POETICAL REMAINS. 125 But the trust shall not falter, the hope shall not fade Till the joy of re-union hath absence repaid !" And fervently that woman's heart bore up through grief and fear, Till Autumn's pale leaves strewed the ground, and Autumn's skies were drear, At last, I ween the wanderer's steps were heard within his home, He had not been where wine-cups glowed, or beauty's glances shone, But in sadness, and in weariness, his hours had past away, As in durance vile 'midst coward foes the true and noble lay, Yet to the lady, and her lord what was the darksome past, A proof that Love when sternly tried, shines brighter to the last. LINES. I MAY not gaze on thee, Albeit thy smile is .sweet, For the glances of another My spirit yearns to meet. I may not list thy tone, As once I paused to hear, The accents of a thrilling voice, Now silent and most dear. . I may not smile en thee, As once 't was mine to smile, That token of a merry heart, Hath left my lips the while. For I would ever be, As bird in sheltered nest, POETICAL REMAINS. 127 Or a bright flower folded safely, Upon a. loving breast. And when my gleam of sunshine, Hath left Life's troubled sea, Then lonely be my future course, What light may shine for me ? When in an hour, a moment, A sudden change may fall, And life, and love and sunny hope Grow weary, weary all ! Who seeks again the flower, Albeit his path is dim That faded in its summer hour, Nor blessed, nor shone again. Then lonely, lonely be my heart, Or on a loving breast, There only might my spirit feel, Like bird in sheltered nest. LINES. When Mrs. Isabella Graham was once absent from the city, her daughter, Mrs. B , was surprised at the number of persons unknown to her, who came to inquire after her mother ; she asked them how they knew Mrs. Graham, their answer was, we live in the lanes and suburbs of the city, and she has often visited and relieved us, and it was our custom to come to our doors, and bless her as she passed. DAUGHTER of Faith ! and was it thine So rich a dower to gain, As blessings on thy silent way, From lips of care and pain, Thus did'st thou walk on Earth, who now Art with the Angel train ! While in the Saviour's work below, Thy willing footsteps moved, Till care looked up, and sorrow smiled, To greet thy form beloved ; POETICAL REMAINS. 129 Seeking no meed of earthly praise, Alone by God approved. From narrow laries and lonely streets, Did grateful offerings rise, As silently 't was thine to pass, In Charity's blest guise, While thrilling hearts called down on thee, The treasures of the skies. Daughter of Faith ! by care untouched, In Pleasure's stately hall, Full many a younger form was found ; Whilst thou, forsaking all Earth's joys, did'st walk the silent streets, Alive to Sorrow's call ! Daughter of Faith ! no' costly pearls, No broidered robes were thine ; The orphan's prayer, the widow's tears, Those gems which purely shine, 12 130 POETICAL REMAINS. Unto the eye of God alone, Were all thy jewels fine ! Blessings upon thy sainted name ! Daughter of Faith, 't was meet That whispered voice, and lowly lip Should breathe thy praises sweet, And with- the incense of the soul, Thy willing footsteps greet ! Oh ! true disciple ! earthly robe *T is thine to wear no more ; But clad in raiment pure and white . Thy Saviour's throne before, Dost thou not greet that Saviour's smile, Who blest his suffering poor ? THE MISSION BRIDE. When Mr. Judson first proposed for his wife, afterward so well known in the annals of missionary zeal, he stated very distinctly both to herself and friends the difficulties attending the enterprise, and placing in strong contrast the motives which should outweigh them all. THE rich deep tones fell clearly Upon the summer air, And the listeners' hearts were thrilling, To the noble speaker there ; " I ask of thee thy daughter," The father's eye grew dim, But woman's cheek such bright blush wore, As Love alone might win. " I ask of thee thy daughter Alas ! that it were mine To shield alike from care and pain Such cherished gift of thine ; 132 POETICAL REMAINS. But, I ask of thee thy daughter, To leave this home of love, And bear afar the exile's heart, At the call of God above ! " I ask of thee thy daughter And I know not for what doom, Upon her future path and mine, Alike may come the storm ; But if her earthly bliss to guard, Asked only Love unsleeping, Then would I bear upon my heart, Her name in holy keeping. " But earthly joy and earthly scene No more my course may stay, A voice upon mine ear hath been, Its summons I obey ; And I ask of thee thy daughter, That distant path to share, POETICAL REMAINS. 133 Perchance to sootl) the martyr's cell, To join the martyr's prayer. " Yea ! I ask of thee thy daughter, In the golden hloom of youth, To bear with rne to distant lands, The holy words of truth ; ' I ask of thce thy daughter, Ajnd oh ! for lot like this To one, o beautiful and yotftig, * I bring no earthly bliss. * " But the seraph spirit mountcth ; And woman's e'er hath l>ecn, Like the ministry of angels, In each dark and fearful scene ; To the captive's lonely cell She hath come with words of light, And the dying voice hath blessed her In the watches of the night. 134 POETICAL REMAINS. " So I ask of thee thy daughter, To tread my path of pain ; Yea, I ask of thee thy daughter, A heavenly crown to gain ; For shall the race of Faith, alone With feeble step* be trod ? No ! I ask of thee thy daughter, For the altar of thy God !" And brightly on the speaker's brow, Were bent the eyes he loved, And from those eyes the fervent faith, By years so nobly proved, Was beaming, as her father cast Ohe sigh of earthly feeling, Then solemnly and slowly spoke, Unto his God appealing. " As Mary poured her precious gifts Upon the Saviour's head, POETICAL REMAINS. 135 So would I on that holy shrine, My costliest offerings spread, Strengthen this feeble human heart, Oh ! Lord of Paradise ! I strive not with thy perfect will, Take thou, my Pearl of price ! Oh ! Joy and Grief were strangely blent With holy hope that night, And still with Joy and Grief we trace Their path of onward light, Joy for the pledge so nobly kept Grief for the ties so riven And holy hope that every link Is bound again in Heaven ! LINES. And should they ask the cause of my return, I will tell 'them that a mar may go far and tarry long away, if his health be good and his hope; high, but that when flesh and spirit begin to fail, he remembers his birth place, arfd the old burial ground, and hears a voice calling nim to com< home to his father and mother. They will know by rny wasted fram< and" feeble step, that I have heard the summons, and obeyed ; and th< first greetings over, they will let me walk among them unnoticed, am linger in the sunshine while I may, and steal into my grave in peace. Journal of a solitary man. American Monthly for July, 1837. A VOICE is on mine ear, a solemn voice ; I come, I come, it calls me to my rest, Faint not my yearning heart, rejoice, rejoice., Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest ; On the bright waters there, the living streams, Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary barque Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams, Sadly to feel that Earth to tbee is dark, Not bright as once ; oh ! vain, vain memories cease I cast your burden down, I strive for peace. POETICAL REMAINS. 137 A voice is on mine ear, a welcome tone, I hear its summons in a stranger land, It calls me hence, to die amidst mine own, . Where first my forehead, by the wild breeze fanned, Lost the fair tracery of youth, and wore A deeper signet, in my manhood's prime, To lie me down with those who wake no more, It calls me, those I loved, their couch be mine, I hear sweet voices from my childhood's home, And from my father's grave I come, I come ! Blest be the warning sound, my mother's eyes Dwell on my memory yet, her parting tears, And from the grave where my young sister lies, Who perished in the glory of her years, I hear a gentle call, " Return ! Return !" So be it, let me greet the village spires Once more. I come 't is wilding youth may spurn When far the burial places of his sires, But oh ! when strength is gone, and hope is past There turns the wearied man his thoughts at last ! 138 POETICAL REMAINS. So do we change ! I hear a warning tone, Yea, I, whose thoughts were all of by-past times, Of ancient glories, and from visions lone, I come to list once more the Sabbath chimes Of my own home, to feel the gentle air Steal o'er my brow again, to greet the sun In the old places where he shone so fair, The while each wandering brook in music ran, Answering to Youth's sweet thoughts, but all are fled, I come, my home, I come to join thy dead ! I heed the warning voice, oh ! spurn me not, My early friends, let the bruised heart go free, Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot, Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee ; Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile, Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train, Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile, Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain, Waiting my summons ; whose shall be the eye To glance unkindly I have come to die ! POETICAL REMAINS. 139 Sweet words, to die ! oh! pleasant, pleasant sounds, What bright revealings to my heajrt they bring, What melody unheard in Earth's dull rounds, And floating from the land of glorious spring The Eternal Home !-my weary thoughts revive, Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love. Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live, Fanned by soft breezes from the world above, And passing not, I hasten to my rest, Again, oh gentle summons, thou art blest. THE MARTYR OF SCIO. A native of Scio, who was taken captive by the Turks, was induced by the advantages offered him, joined to the fear 'of death, to adopt the Maho metan faith ; after a little time had elapsed, he rushed into the presence of his captors, and exclaimed, " Give me back my faith ; give me back my faith." Every effort was made to dissuade him, wealth and honors were offered him, but in vain, he continued firm. He was beheaded, and the Greeks of a neighboring convent obtained his body, and buried him at midnight with the forms of the Greek Church. HE tore the turban from his brow, And trampled it in dust, No fear was in his thrilling tones, " Give back my early trust ! Yea ! give me back my faith again, Let but my soul soar high, 'T were freedom then to wear the chain, 'T were victory to die ! POETICAL REMAINS. 141 " Give back my faith ! A Saviour's love Who died on holy cross, Strengthens this weak and feeble heart To bear its earthly loss ; Alas ! that I, of all my race That pure faith hath betrayed, Who with a sainted sister knelt Beneath the myrtle shade. " Before the memory of that hour, My idle fears are gone, Welcome to me the touch of death Welcome the martyr's crown ! Away ! the falsely spoken vow Away ! the Crescent's light ! Sister, can'st thou look down from Heaven Upon an hour so bright ? " Dost thou in bliss, recall our prayer Beneath the myrtle tree, 142 POETICAL REMAINS. When fearful cries were in the air, And last I knelt with thee ? Our vows to Him, who at the last Shall come with clouds of fire, While blazed the dwelling of our youth Round like a funeral pyre ! " Give back, give back my early faith No longer in my dreams May come that soft eye's deep reproach, Its spiritual gleams Oh ! lightly falls the wrath of man, When shines a light above, 1 see my Saviour's crown of thorns, I see his brow of love ! " I take again his holy cross, I fain would share his crown, My earthly gain I count as loss, My life I lay it. down !" POETICAL REMAINS. 143 He paused before his eager foes, And spurned with steadfast eye The costly gift, the whispered threat, Alike with courage high. " My faith ! I ask no other gift, Your wealth is worthless now, My faith, that I again may lift To Heaven a tranquil brow ; This little life ! your words how vain, Yet were it lighter load, What boots the smiling lip of man, Before the wrath of God ? " Lord ! hath a follower of thine So long a wanderer strayed And shall he ever pause again To own thy faith betrayed ? No ! every earthly fear hath past Light dawns upon my mind, 144 POETICAL REMAINS. Yet witness all that now I cast Your false creed to the wind ! " Let sorrows come ! my closing hours Be filled with earthly gloom, Lord ! what am I, that thou should'st give To me the martyr's doom ? Oh ! blessed forever be thy grace, That I for truth may die, And take me home to thine embrace. Lest I again deny." And he, who pardoned Peter's sin, Who granted Peter's prayer, Turned not away his face from him, Who thus besought him there ; And when the convent's bells that night Tolled for a martyr's death, Thanksgivings to the Lord of Light, Proclaimed that martyr's faith ! ST. PETER HEALING THE CRIPPLE. " And a certain man, lame from his birth, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them which entered into the temple." THE hour of prayer and silent throngs were pouring O'er far Jerusalem, to offer up Their vows in its famed temple. Manhood came, With his high purpose and his cherished aims, Seeking a blessing ; and Old Age knelt down, Praying for peace upon his silver hairs ; And gentle Youth, with all its opening buds, Bowed at that altar-shrine : and Woman's heart, With its deep gift of quenchless tenderness, Came, with the clasping tendrils of her love Closely entwined around some cherished thing, Praying for precious grace on that to fall, dew from Hermon's hill. 13* 146 POETICAL REMAINS. Oh ! very fair Looked the white temple, with its golden spires Lost in the floating clouds ; and very fair Was all the beautiful array of life Passing through its wide portals. But a cloud Was on the glorious picture ; for there lay A sorrowing man, even at the Beautiful gate Of that fair temple, and the hopeless tears Fell on his pallid cheeks. He had been lame And helpless from his birth ; and early joys Th' upspringing gladness of the childish heart, The sweet, sweet light of Hope for him were dreams That faded in his youth. But oh ! this morn, With its delicious fragrance, brought again Fond memories to his heart, it was so fair ; And the pure cheek of Youth, fanned by its breath, Flushing with softer crimson ; and the green And shady fig-tree, with its ripening fruit, Offering a shelter to the traveler ; While the clear fountain sparkled in the light, And the bright clouds looked joyous made the heart POETICAL REMAINS. 147 Of the sick man too sorrowful. There came Vague, restless thoughts of all that he had heard Of sinners cured, and of his case who lay Even at Bethsaida's pool ; and troubled dreams Came to him of the Lord of Life, whose name, Even as a wonderful prophet, now was fast Fading from people's hearts. They had forgot The fearful earthquake, and the Temple's veil Rent in the hour of darkness, and the graves That opened, and the saints who rose and walked Upon the earth again. These mem'ries came Like old traditions to the sorrowing man ; And then he wondered if that angel brow Had bent on him with mercy, and the tears Coursed down his cheeks that from the earth had passed The Hope of Israel, and he must lie Even at the Beautiful gate, a helpless man, Waiting and seeking the reluctant alms Of the proud Pharisee, and the dearer mite 148 POETICAL REMAINS. Of the poor widow dropped so silently Into his hand, yet with the heart's warm prayer. Oh ! had he known that yet that Prophet's name Had power among his people had he known That the sweet echoes of the hymn they sung Upon Mount Olivet were treasured yet With all the faithful, and by them would be Recorded through all time, how had his tears Been stayed for joy ! how had he marked the two That now were drawing to the temple gate ! One with a brow all mildness, and an eye Raised to the Heaven above, as he would hold Converse with Him who on the earth had named John the beloved disciple ; but the brow, The step, the eye of his companion, told The sanguine Peter, with his eager faith To walk upon the waters, and to share Death for his Master's sake. And yet his mien Was deeply solemn now, like one who wore Ever upon his soul that dying look Of fond and sad reproach like one who heard POETICAL REMAINS. 149 Upon his silent hours the warning tones, " Thou shalt deny me, Peter !" and whose hope Seemed only by his fervent zeal to show His warm sense of the pardoning love which washed Such bitter guilt away. The pitying eye Of the Apostle John, with all its light Of heavenly love, turned on the helpless man ; But Peter, with a bold and earnest tone, Said to the sorrowing cripple " Look on us !" And silently and slowly gave he heed For his expected alms. Th' Apostle spoke, " Silver and gold the treasures of the earth These are not mine to give thee, but grieve not, Such as I have is thine. Now in the name Of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I say To thee, rise up and walk ! 1 50 POETICAL REMAINS. He lifted up The lame man from the ground, and to his feet There came a living strength, and through his veins The tide of life ran thrilling with a new And conscious energy ; and he stood erect Even he, the helpless at the Beautiful gate, A strong man in his might. Oh, life ! new life ! How beautiful its kindling sense ! He stood With his lips parted, leaping from the ground, And murmuring, as in dreams, the blessed name, Jesus of Nazareth ! With th' Apostles then He entered in the Temple, praising God For the high miracle, and breathing still, " Jesus of Nazareth ! thrice bless'd his name !" And wondering at his strength in every limb, He sank before the altar-shrine, o'erpowered, Pouring his soul in prayer. POETICAL REMAINS. 151 The people ran together, in their haste And wonder, telling of the marvel wrought ; And gazing upon Peter and on John, Seemed as they thought that by some prophet touch, Or the deep power of holiness, the deed Was by th' Apostle wrought. Then Peter stood, Even in the Temple's porch, and solemnly To the assembled throng he turned, and spoke With a rebuking tone : " Why look ye thus, Ye men of Israel ! as it had been By our own might the marvel ye have seen ? As if the power of God might dwell with us ? Know that the gift of healing e'er must be From Him alone, and His rich mercy free. 152 POETICAL REMAINS. " But He hath glorified The holy one and true whom ye betrayed Who, by his one pure, sinless offering made, His saints hath justified ; So hath been cured the helpless and the lame, By faith in his high power and holy name: " Could ye remember not The words, by prophet, bard and seer foretold, Of the Messiah who should come and hold His reign on Earth, and in his lowly lot Be spurned by man yet looking unto Heaven, Meekly fulfil the holy mission given ? " His is a name of might Jesus of Nazareth ! The stormy wave Sunk at his footstep, and the silent grave Gave up for him its treasures to the light ; And this ye knew who silently denied The Lord of Life the Sinless crucified. POETICAL REMAINS. 153 " Now, in that holy name The name, oh Israel ! that ye still deny I bid ye to the only shelter fly ! He who hath cured the lame, Can look on ye with mercy, and can stay Th' avenging rod, and wash your sins away. " For he hath opened wide The fountains of his mercy unto all, And bids the heralds of his gospel call And point the sinner to his bleeding side ; So shall the helpless lay his burden down, And bear the cross below above, the crown ! " Come to the fountain now ! Come, ere the stream of his rich grace be passed Come, ere ye feel from God the threatening blast ; Low at His altar bow, And, in the name of Jesus, kneel and pray That He may blot each fearful sin away." * * # * * * 14 154 POETICAL REMAINS. The stricken crowd shrank trembling from the winged And fiery eloquence of Peter's words, And mem'ries came, to many a failing heart, Of the meek Son of Man how he had bent Over the couch of sickness, and had laid His healing touch upon the burning brow ; How patiently beside the lake's cool brink, And by the mountain summit, he had taughe A thirsting people ; in the garden shade How he had watched in agony, and wept, Even to tears of blood ; and on the cross His last and dying prayer " Forgive them, Lord !" Pierced their repentant hearts. But human pride Must do its office human wrath must yet Find fitting messengers : The hand of Power Was on th' Apostles laid. There was a scene In the deep midnight and the prison's shade : Unshrinking and unfearing in the gloom POETICAL REMAINS. 155 And silence, singing orisons to God, Peter and John were watching. By their side, Clad in his shining robes, stood suddenly The Angel of the Lord. Lo ! he unbound The clasping fetters, and with spirit touch Unclosed the prison doors, and on the hearts Of the Apostles shed a gift of might To bear reproach for Christ. The morning came : Th' Apostles sought the temple, and with them The lame man, too, bowed at the altar-shrine, Praising his God anew. How fair the Earth Looked now unto his eyes ! And many a heart, Tn stony Israel touched, came on that morn, Praying for mercy in the name of Christ, And, bowing humbly at his holy cross, Sought earnestly that he, whose grace could heal The lame man at the temple gate, on them Might look with pardoning love, and send some voice To say " Thou art forgiven ! in the name Of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise and live !" L 1 N 8 Written aflfif witnomiriff Uio rmmiy 0f Ottlihrmitiotl, pefformml Christ Church, Brooklyn, March 7ih ( lH4, On ! wofUy tliroiih the Tho sftttinK iwmbrtfinw It wn* n tbrilling hour to nil Within iho MUdroil lome For meekly knelt & nilent To Mltnra ft fitf? divine ; Ami Noleninly the prehito \Vho ilen It the holy i$n, Ufo, on each hownd nritl griwoful head, Hii eonec!mted Immlit lin hiid. POETICAL REMAINS. 157 Oh Lord ! defend thy servant now !" How fervent was the tone, Urging that youthful throng to cling With hope to Christ alone ; To leave a false delusive world, Its smiles and perils dare ; And as they signed the holy cross, The cross indeed to bear ; For God alone in mercy free To them might shield and shelter be ! Oh Lord ! defend thy servant now !" The accents firm and clear, Came as a warning sound to tell Of toils and dangers near Of hidden thorns in pilgrim path To pierce unguarded feet, Lord may thy precious grace be given, When foes like these they meet ! For foes like these to all must be, Who in this world would follow thee ! 14* 158 POETICAL REMAINS. Ah me ! it was a touching sight, Again the sunbeams shine ! I see the prelate robed in white The throng before the shrine ; And Manhood's fiery glance is there, And Woman's bending grace ! Nor these alone, with faith and prayer, Lord, in thy holy place, Meet those who lingered on the way, Yet sought and found thy grace to day. " Oh Lord ! defend thy servant now !" The tones are in my ears They bring again the blessed thoughts, The scenes of other years ! It comes again ! a kneeling band A home far distant now The pressure of a solemn hand, The memory of a vow, With thoughts of that unbroken chain, Which Earth may never link again. POETICAL REMAINS. 159 Oh Lord ! the dew upon the flower, The first fruits of the year Youth in its glorious morning's hour, Were they not offered there ? The fervent prayer, the contrite tear Paid on thine altar-shrine, Are they not cherished in thine eyes ? Then, Lord, with Love Divine, Keep through thine own eternal grace, That band who bowed in holy place ! NIGHT. WHY should I seek my rest, My thoughts are tranquil now, And pleasant scenes in Memory's track, And gentle hours come thronging back, Forgotten long ago, Till dreaming, waking, I am blest ! The holy, pensive Night ; Away with sleep for me I love the thoughts that round me press, The mystery, and the loneliness, The varied fantasy That come when vanishes the light. The day, the day I fear, With all its bitter " carking care" POETICAL REMAINS. 161 Its weaiy round of toil, its gain, Its strife, its pleasure, and its pain, Its many thorns that wear Into the struggling soul and rankle there ! Its heartless, hollow mirth, Its tempting voice that to the ear will come, Its gay delusions but to pass away, Before the sunset tells of closing day, Its rudely mingled hum, Bringing the soaring spirit to the Earth ! Oh no ! the busy day Hath few bright spells like these, most holy Night, Few dreams of Heaven no deep and thrilling tone, Soothing the chilled heart, and the spirit lone, Telling of worlds of light, Where yet our wandering steps may find a way ! Deep Night, one breath of thine On the flushed brow falls like a cheerful spell, 162 POETICAL REMAINS. There drops a healing balsam from thy wing ; A gift of thought, of peace 't is thine to bring Sounding the heart's deep well, Lighting its depths with many a ray divine ! Then shall I call it given For sleep, and seek my rest this holy time While the deep stars are looking from on high Stop the thrilled ear, and close the musing eye ? Is there not now some heart that once with mine Did mingle, watching the wide, solemn Heaven ? Give me, fond Memory, but one music tone, Give one bright presence back. Now wave thy wand Yet vain upon the ruined shrine thy glow, As if upon the sweet wild flowers that blow Far midst the rocky cliffs, in mine own land, Freshly and fair the passing moonbeams shone ! Oh ! Night ! thine is the power To call long vanished scenes around the soul POETICAL REMAINS. 163 With a new beauty, link the broken chain Once more, and weave the silken bond again, That o'er our spirits held a blest control In Youth's fair morning hour ! Then is it not most meet, That to the dreamer o'er vain hopes, but high, And to the seeker after visions gone The pensive, lonely wanderer, whose home Gleams not as once upon his waking eye Night should be sweet ! THE CAVALIER'S LAST HOURS. Written after reading in " Francesca Carrara," the death-scene of Francis Evelyn. A DIRGE, a dirge for the young renown Of the reckless cavalier, Who passed in his youth and glory down To the grave without a fear, The smile on his lip, and the light in his eye Oh ! say was it thus that the brave should die ? Midst the morning's pomp and flowers, By fierce and ruffian bands, In sight of his own ancestral towers, And his Father's sweeping lands ; Well that his Mother lay still and low, Ere the cold clods pressed on her son's bright brow ! POETICAL REMAINS. 165 Oh ! the tide of grief swelled high In his heart, that dawn of day, As he looked his last on the glorious sky, And the scenes that round him lay ; But he trod the green earth in that moment of fear, With a statelier bearing the doomed cavalier ! For fearless his spirit then, And bravely he met his fate, Till the brows of those iron-hearted men Grew dark in their utter hate Of the gallant victim, who met his hour With a song on his lips for his lady's bower ! The light of the festive hall, The bravest in battle array, Was it thus that the star of his fate should fali Was it thus he should pass away ? A dirge, a dirge for his hopes of Fame, The grave will close o'er the noble name ! 15 166 POETICAL REMAINS. And the tide of life flow on In its dull deep current, as ever, Till every trace of his fate is gone From its dark and ceaseless river. But one may remember oh, young cavalier Could'st thou gaze but once on the sleeper near ! That bright and fairy girl, With no shadow on her brow Save the blue vein's trace and the golden curl, She is dreaming of thee now. She whispers thy name in her gentle rest ; But how will she wake from that slumber blest ? A dirge, a dirge for the young renown Of the reckless cavalier ! He hath waved for the last his plumed bonnet around, And his parting words they hear, " God save King Charles !" a shriek ; a woman's cry Hath mingled with the martial sounds that rent the earth and sky ! LINES, ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY DYING OF CONSUMPTION. The wing of death is on thee. Prentice. OH ! tell me, gentle lady, art thou dying With that rich flush of beauty on thy cheek ? Is it thy knell this low soft wind is sighing ? Must thou depart so soon 1 Speak, lady, speak. How can they say the grave's dark shadows lie In the clear kindling glories of thine eye ? Must thy light footsteps go From the bright places of the earth away ? Is there no fountain here whose gentle flow, Blest with some healing gift can bid thee stay ? Hath Love no might at the meek shrine of prayer Say ; doth it pour its passionate fervors there ? 168 POETICAL REMAINS. In vain, and, with that radiance on thy brow, Must thou meet Death, and from the living throng Of Earth's fair ones be taken, smitten now From her bright breathing ranks in silence down. Such lot for thee ! Sure hath the arrow sped Yet silently, thy gentle voice hath said, " There is no hope." Upon thy spirit now Dim shadows steal, and dark mysterious dreams Visit thy slumbering hours bliss or woe Blent strangely visions, or the lightning gleams Thought catches of a distant world, far, far Beyond Earth's precincts, or the nearest star ! Lonely communings of the heart are thine Deep, quiet thoughts. I trace upon thy brow A thrilling presence, answering not to mine Something too high and holy, thou art now Sealed for the grave, calmly to that far bourne, Lady, thou passest fearless yet alone ! POETICAL REMAINS. 169 Still, still about thee shining There's a strange glow of life, a brilliancy As in the summer sky, the sun's declining Shows brighter than the glories of the day, The radiant West ! its rich and gorgeous dye How doth it sadden me that glowing sky With a cold dream of death ! its passing light So brilliant, like the hectic on thy cheek Linked to decay ; of darkness and of night 'T is but the harbinger that sun-set streak Sweet friend ! the gushing tears o'erflow thine eye, Doth thy heart fail thee as the time draws nigh ? Alas ! it is not for the young and fair Never to shrink from death. Sweet tones will thrill Upon their hearts, stirring each fountain there To its bright sources ; after years may fill The spring with bitterness, but now its power Pours fragrance out on every tree and flower. 15* 170 POETICAL REMAINS. Lady ! the world is glorious to thine eye So shalt thou pass away, before the glow Of Hope fades from thy mind the buoyancy Of Youth : and oh ! repine not, thou hast known Nought but the beauty and the joy of life, Seek not to feel its dimness and its strife ! LINES, Written after reading the account of the young men who were shot at Tampico on the llth of December, the first martyrs to the cause of li berty in Texas. These young men were all Americans, and met their fate with great bravery ; one of them, in particular, exhibited heroic courage and died encouraging his companions, refusing to have his eyes bandaged, he asked the soldiers if they thought he was afraid to look death in the face. TAKE off the bandage from my forehead free, And let me with a firm unblenching eye Look on the glorious sun before I die Before my blood streams o'er the verdant sod, Whence it shall rise a witness unto God ! Take off the bandage ! wherefore should I dread To look on Death ? Hail ! glorious monarch near ; Slaves, I have brought no coward spirit here This hour is welcome, it shall prove how pure The patriot flame that can so well endure ! 172 POETICAL REMAINS. Take off the bandage give the token word Mark if I quail, but let me die unbound, x A portion of the glorious world around ! Bright Earth, I go ! but God a strength hath given Unto my heart, I can look up to Heaven ! And bravely die, while yet the quiet hour Brings to my mind sweet visions ; far away Art thou, my Mother ! and each sinking ray Of sunset light, that 1 can see no more, Sheds beauty on the roses at thy door ! E'en now, perchance, thy wandering thoughts may rest On him, sweet Mother, who no more can come Over the green hills of his native home, But yields his life unto a radiant shrine Dying for Freedom in a foreign clime ! Not on the battle field, Nor in the open plain 'mid clashing swords And pealing clarions, and exalting words POETICAL REMAINS. 173 Not there, oh comrades ! o'er each lowly grave Our country's starry banner may not wave ! Deceived, betrayed, still let our hearts be firm ! If to the fearful even it were sweet Amidst the stirring fight his fate to meet, Is not our lot to die, when all is lost, More glorious still, with no victorious host Cheering us on ? let the faint hearted droop, We shrink not ! Spirits of the mighty Past ! We hear your tones, brave fathers ! on the blast ; Smile on your sons, yea, from the blessed sky Look on their conflict, strengthen them to die ! For ye, too, sisters, gentle ones at play, We would be firm, no brother's shadowed name Shall o'er your bright brows cast the cloud of shame, Farewell ! for him who battles for the free W T e leave our cause, with him is victory ! THE FAIRY'S FUNERAL. It was one among the many visionary fancies of the painter Blake, that he once saw a fairy's funeral, as here described. THE dreamer walked, at closing day, Among the folding flowers, While yet its last and brilliant ray Lingered midst summer bowers ; No bitter care, no jarring tone Disturbed him he was there alone, His thoughts were hushed in sweetest rest, Nature was bright her votary blest ! A strain of music filled The quiet sunset air, The listener's ear was thrilled Who were the players there ? POETICAL REMAINS. 175 No step was near, no voice to greet, But when was minstrelsy so sweet ? So low, so soft, so sad the sound, He paused the leaves were stirred around ; He bent to earth, unclosed a flower, Its azure bell proved fairy bower, And first to mortal eye were shown The wonders of a world unknown ! Beneath that folded leaf, He saw a moving throng, And listened to their music's breath, As the fairies stole along ; A bright and sparkling crowd, I ween, But where in that array, the queen ? On a rose leaf bed Reposed the dead, The tone of song From her lips has gone, And the crown from her lovely head ; 176 POETICAL REMAINS. But those who wept her,. by her side Had placed her fairy wand of pride. Entranced the dreamer heard, As the bright throng glittered by, That sweet, low fairy dirge, And its sad melody, As with many songs, and fairy grace, They chose the greenest resting place, Where summer flowers bloomed bright and fair, And sunbeams melted in the air, And gently laid the burden down, And then the radiant scene was done, The melody was heard no more, The listner paused the spell was o'er ; But gentle memories and song Clung to his heart and lingered long. Sweet dreamer ! would such thoughts could come To soothe me when I muse alone. LINES Written after visiting Newburyport, August 23, 1839. SWEET were the airs of home, when first their breath Came to the wanderer, as her gladdened eye Met the rich verdure of her native hills, And the clear glancing waters brought again A thousand dreams of childhood to the heart, That had so pined amid the city's hum For the glad breath of home, the waving trees, And the fair flowers that in the olden time Blew freshly 'mid the rocky cliffs. All these Had seemed but Fancy's picture, and the hues Of memory's pencil, fainter day by day Gave back the tracery, in the crowded mart 16 178 POETICAL REMAINS. There were no green paths where the buds of home Might blow unchecked, and a forgotten thing Weie Spring's first violets to the wanderer's heart, Till once again amid those welcome haunts The faded lines grew vivid, and the flowers The fresh pure flowers of youth brought back again The bloom of early thoughts. Oh ! brightly glanced Thy waters, river of my heart, and dreams Sweeter than childhood conneth, came anew With my first sight of thee, bright memories linked With thy familiar music, sparkling tide ! The rocks and hills all smiled a welcome back, And Memory's pencil hath a fadeless green For that one hour by thee ! Oh ! gentle home, Comes with thy name fair visions, kindly tones, Warm greetings from the heart, and eyes whose light Hath smiled upon my dreams. POETICAL REMAINS. 179 Yet golden links Were strangely parted, music tones had past, And ties unloosed, that unto many a heart Were bound with life, the musing child no more Might watch the glancing of the distant sails, And dream of one, whose glad returning step Made ever the fair sunshine of her home ; The sister's heart might thrill no more to meet One voice, that in the silence of the grave Is hushed forever, and whose eye's soft light Comes with its starry radiance, when her soul Pines in the silent hour. Home, sweet home ! There are sad memories with thee ; Earth hath not A place where Change ne'er cometh, and where Death Doth cast no shadow ! yet the moonlight lieth Softly in all thy still and shaded streets, And the deep stars of midnight purely shine, Bringing a thought of that far world, where Love Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems, 180 POETICAL REMAINS. And in whose " many mansions" there may be A home where Change ne'er cometh, and where Death May leave no trace upon the pure in heart, Who bend before their Father's throne in Heaven ! LINES WRITTEN IN AUTUMN. AN old man's thoughts in Autumn ! shall I give them as they flow, While I walk among the dropping leaves, and 'neath the with ered bough, And listen to the dreary wail of the melancholy wind, Like a passing dirge for Summer's pride unto my musing mind. An old man's thoughts in Autumn ! aye, when the Spring's first hours Were waking from their Winter's sleep the beautiful young flowers ; I wept that in the balmy air no precious gifts might be, To call the spirit of my youth, its freshness back to me. I wept to see the silver streams released from every chain, And sweeping on in flashing pride to meet the glorious main, 16* 182 POETICAL REMAINS. It was an old man's fantasy, but how I wished to lave My weary aching limbs once more in some transparent wave, That might give back my vanished strength, some fabled fount of youth, Such as in early days they sought, ere shone the star of truth, For mournful seemed it to my soul that Earth and all her flowers Should boast so many springs above this fleeting one of ours ! And every year for Life anew, be decked in beauty's bloom, When every year our pilgrim feet draw nearer to the tomb ! When Life to us doth darker grow with every fleeting day, Her glories all like setting suns that soon will pass away ! An old man's thoughts in Autumn ! should they be dark and drear, When the cloudless blue of Heaven proclaims the Sabbath of the year, POETICAL REMAINS. 183 When the very winds do seem to float from the Islands of the Blest, So softly that Earth's weary ones pine for their place of rest, And pray from life to be released, e'en as the flowers have died, To find in the flush of youth a grave by some lone fountain's side, So they might reach a purer world where the living fountains flow, And feel no more the burning thirst, or the pining spirit know! Give youth his wild impatient prayer I linger calmly now, Feeble and fluttering in the breeze, like the last leaves on the bough, Likening the few pale Autumn flowers that in the woods are met, To the pure unfading joys that bloom o'er my lonely pathway yet! 184 POETICAL REMAINS. Give Youth his sparkling pleasures still, I mark the rising moon, It lights the exile on his road, the hunter to his home, But in my solitary walk I greet its gentle ray, A lamp to guide my weary feet upon their homeward way ! Pausing to gain the scene no more in meditative mood, I wander by the fading trees, and " aster in the wood," But deem Earth's temple glorious still, though Change and Death were there, And feel my fervent thoughts ascend in humble earnest prayer, To Him who sits in Heaven above the fleeting scenes of earth, And makes her dim and changeful hours to kindling thoughts give birth, Till Hope walks 'mid the falling leaves, and lifts her thrilling strain, "Mourn not, oh man! as these revive, so shalt thou live again !" THE OLD DAYS WE REMEMBER THE old days we remember, How softly did they glide, While all untouched by worldly care, We wandereJ side by side. In those pleasant days, when the sun's last rays Just lingered on the hill, Or the moon's pale light with the coming night Shone o'er our pathway still. The old days we remember, Oh ! there's nothing like them now, The glow has faded from our hearts, The blossom from the bough ; In the chill of care, midst worldly air, Perchance we are colder grown, For stormy weather, since we roamed together, The hearts of both have known. 186 POETICAL REMAINS. The old days we remember, Oil ! clearer shone the sun, And every star looked brighter far, Than they ever since have done ! On the very streams there lingered gleams Of light ne'er seen before, And the running brook, a music took, Our souls can hear no more ! The old days we remember, Oh ! could we but go back To their quiet hours, and tread once more Their bright familiar track, Could we picture again, what we pictured then, Of the sunny world that lay From the green hillside, and the waters wide, And our glad hearts far away. The old days we remember, When we never dreamed of guile, POETICAL REMAINS. 187 Nor knew that the heart could be cold below, While the lip still wore its smile ! Oh ! we may not forget, for those hours come yet, They visit us in sleep, , While far and wide, o'er life's changing tide, Our barks asunder keep. Still, still we must remember Life's first and brightest days, And a passing tribute render As we tread the busy maze ; A bitter sigh for the hours gone by, The dreams that might not last, The friends deemed true when our hopes were new, And the glorious visions past ! LINES, Written after examining the beautiful portraits adorning the pages of the English Annuals. Oh ! what a pure and sacred thing Is beauty, curtained from the sight Of this gross world, illumining One only mansion with its light. Moore ARE England's daughters these Upon the pictured page, Spread out to win the passing look To charm the careless gaze ? Are these her types of loveliness ? Are these her gems of pride 1 Displayed, that strangers may confess How fair each blushing bride ! What says the lordly father, Who hath watched one bud at even, POETICAL REMAINS. 189 Guarding its leaves with tender care E'en from the winds of Heaven, To see at last the semblance Of that fair sheltered flower Open to every idle glance, To lure a weary hour. Or what the son and brother ? If far away, the while He meets such picture of his mother When thrilling for her smile, Or will his yearning heart rejoice To view his sister's form, Arrayed to win the flatterer's voice Now dearer than his own ? Or, being the fervent lover, Whose heart one name hath kept, Bowing as at an holy shrine, Watching while others slept, 190 POETICAL REMAINS. Here, let him on his idol gaze, . While sighing for her hand, She shines forth on the open page, As loveliest of the land ! Turns he not hence his aching eye, Feels not his spirit now, A beauty from the face hath past, A glory from the brow ? Oh ! knights of old ! were lance and spear Ere couched at lady's hest, That lineaments however dear, Might shine on every breast ? Away ! away such emblems far From all my country's daughters, Lending a wing to Folly's flight Across the dark blue waters ; Away ! for softer visions come, And welcome tones are showing, POETICAL REMAINS. 191 How brightly in each cottage home Are England's roses blowing. How proudly many a castle old Its fair frail flowerets keepeth, While turning from such views away The country's Genius weepeth, Bidding the softer visions rise No pencil yet hath shown, Smiling upon the sunny eyes That beam for Love alone ! BALLAD. A dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. Willis. " AWAY ! away! those sad wild notes, I weary of them all, Glad strains and cheerful notes alone may suit the festive hall !" Thus spoke a lady fair and bright to one who by her stood, Playing the minstrel lover's part, in waywardness of mood. " No more ! no more !" she spoke again," no more that mock ing song, Too proudly careless of our will its measures flow along, Oh ! give me gentle tones to-night, not bitter words to say How gladly now thy willing heart would cast Love's chain away ! POETICAL REMAINS. 193 " No more," 't was vainly urged I ween for heedless of her will, Though seemingly her worshipper, he sang that measure still, But on a fairer brow than hers, I marked his gaze was thrown, As he would mark once more those eyes so timidly cast down. Watching the quick and sudden flush that deepened o'er her cheek, And the quivering of the gentle lip that vainly now would speak To him, who could stand coldly by, and sing those parting words In careless scorn, and heeded not, her young heart's breaking chords. Was it a dream, that unto her alone that song was sung, She who so lately on his truth her fervent love had flung, 17* 194 POETICAL REMAINS. She who alone of all that throng could hear that bitter strain, And feel the import of those words upon her throbbing brain. Oh world ! strange world ! a word can make thy mocking glories pass, Like Morning's shadowy mists away, or the breath stain on the glass, So was it with that gentle girl, the youthful and the fair Standing amid the festive crowd, alone in her despair ! But oh ! how beautiful to view, beneath the golden flow, Of soft and starry light, that fell upon her polished brow, Shedding a fairer radiance down, o'er all her beauty's bloom As lost in pensive thought she stood within that stately room ; Pining to go forth from them all, unbind each glittering tress, And weep in burning tears away her sudden hopelessness, To lie down on the green, green earth, and 'neath the stars of Heaven, And yield up to her Maker's hand the being He had given ! POETICAL REMAINS. 195 Ah me ! another lot was hers, a wearier sadder task The weight of lonely hours to bear, and in the world's gay masque, Henceforth to live as others live, with others act a part, Smiling 'mid life's vain mockeries, the arrow at her heart ! But yet no shadow on her brow, no sorrow in her tone, To whisper that her bosom's hope and buoyancy had gone ; For trampled hearts learn bitter lore, and in her beauty's pride, Alike she cast Love's broken chain and worthless dream aside ! But years bring changes to us all, and on the book of Fate Were readings bright for her at last, the fair and desolate, And dearer hopes and prouder thoughts had quenched her early tears, When in a foreign land they met the loved of other years. Met ! but no more the faithless heard Love's soft and falter ing tone, No more he marked those glorious eyes beneath his gaze cast down, 196 POETICAL REMAINS. His glances past unheeded by, and on the varying cheek He read no more the tender tale that words might never speak. Oh ! worthless proved the cherished hopes that lured him o'er the sea, No more to him her gentle smile a guiding star might be, And altered from the wayward youth, who sang that careless strain, He sighed o'er woman's blighted love that, might not bloom again ! THE FATHER'S RETURN. I PAUSED upon the threshold of my home, Under the quiet shelter of the vine, Wreathed over its low dome, And prayed that on my head a gift divine Of peace might fall. How could I enter there With the dark earthly burden of my care ? Sweet sounds fell on my ear, They were my children's voices of wild glee, And silvery, yet my spirit sank to hear The sudden melody Of their clear tones, oh ! not for young flowers bright And fair like these, was the world's bitter blight ! Sportive and lovely beings, yet awhile At rest ye might remain, 198 POETICAL REMAINS. Meeting with joy each known familiar smile, And in the greenness of the Earth's domain Finding rich pleasure, and with raptured eyes Reading the opening glories of the skies. But oh ! how soon will fall The veil that dazzles even as ye gaze, How soon the splendors of the world will pall, And pining doubt, the bitterness, the haze Of Earth obscure your visions, but no gleams Of dark futurity now shade your dreams. All this will come, and fast I marked my laughing children as they stood Watching' the sunlight fade, till in my mood Of thoughtful sadness, wayward visions past, E'en as I heard their voices ringing free, While the red sunlight lingered o'er the sea ! Yet even then I felt the cheerful spell Of each glad tone, felt all its music fine ; POETICAL REMAINS. 199 Oh ! that from childhood's pure, untroubled well I still might drink ! another lot was mine And it had fevered me, the doubt, the care, The struggle of the world would I could bear These things more calmly, to my aching sight All men seemed foes, on the world's heaving tide My soul grew dark, I loathed the cheerful light Of day, and my unquiet heart aside From the still streams of peace had turned, till now I felt its living coolness on my brow. Meek Thought, and the soft voices of my home Soothed me at last, oh ! if the buds that die Bear tracery of His hand who rules our doom, We shall not perish as a breeze flits by, Life would not thus press out the Spirit's power, The breaking censer shows the expanding flower ! THE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BUNKER HILL APPEAL. The trumpet call Of Freedom hath gone forth Whittier. WE are coming, we are coming, We have heard the thrilling call ; We are coming from the hill-side, We are coming from the hall. The city pours its thousands, And the hamlet sends its pride, As fought our patriot sires of old, In battle side by side ; Again the call hath waked us, As it waked our fathers then, When the voice that thrilled the mountains, Thrilled the valley and the glen. POETICAL REMAINS. 201 We are coming, we are coming, The daughters of the brave, The memory of the patriot dead From cold neglect to save ; Holy and dear to all our hearts Those hero-sires of old, Who left " the herd upon the lea," " The ploughshare in the mould ;" We are coming to the rescue, We answer for the free ; The green graves of the slaughtered dead A hallowed shrine must be. We are coming, we are coming, Again their deeds to tell, Till the solid marble beareth Their names where first they fell, Joying to pour their heart's blood forth On soil so rich and free, And watering with that noble stream The tree of Liberty ! 18 202 POETICAL REMAINS. Now from each household of our land Beneath its ample shade, We are coming, we are coming, Be the thrilling answer made. We are coming, we are coming, To breathe its hallowed air ; We are coming, we are coming, From homes beautiful and fair ; We are coming, we are coming, High thoughts our bosoms fill, One watchword wakens every heart The name of Bunker Hill ! There Freedom's fire was lighted, And its flame was broad and high, Till a wakened and a rescued land Sent up its battle cry ! - , . ; i ' : ' ; c ' . , " Old Massachusetts," dost thou need To gem thy " lordly crown," Aught richer than that battle field Which tells of thy renown ? POETICAL REMAINS. 203 Home of the pilgrim sires who crossed The waste and trackless sea, Was it not meet that on thy soil The first brave strife should be ? Dear to thy children in thy home, Dear to thine exiles far ; To Freedom's sons in every age Tt shines a beacon star. We are coming, we are coming, To raise an altar shrine, Sacred to Freedom's honored name, On hallowed soil of thine ! We are coming, we are coming, That thy martyrs brave and free, In the record of the future, Shall e'er be linked with thee, That upon thy glory never One dimming shade may fall ; We are coming from the hill-side, We are coming from the hall ! LINES, Written upon seeing a picture of the Indian Chief Osceola, drawn by Capt. Vinton of the U. S. Army, representing him as he appeared in the American camp. NOT on the battle field, As when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet thee, Sounding the fierce war-cry, Leading them forth to die Not thus, not thus we greet thee. But in a hostile camp, Lonely amidst thy foes, Thine arrows spent, Thy brow unbent, Yet wearing lecord of thy people's woes. POETICAL REMAINS. 205 Chief! for thy memories now, While the tall palm against this quiet sky Her branches waves, And the soft river laves The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by, While in this golden sun The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, And sword and spear Rest harmless here, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight ; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern Thou of the deep low tone,* For whose rich music gone, Kindred and friends alike may vainly yearn ? Wo for the trusting hour ! Oh ! kingly stag ! no hand hath brought thee down ; Osceola was remarkable for a soft and flute-like voice. 18* 206 POETICAL REMAINS. 'T was with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurped no part, Thou earnest, a noble offering, and alone ! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, Or the wild vine's tangled shoots On the gnarled oak's mossy roots Their trysting place might be ! Wo for thy hapless fate ! Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief; Thy sadly closing story, Thy short and mournful glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief ! Wo for the bitter stain That from our country's banner may not part ; Wo for the captive, wo ! For burning pains, and slow, Are his who dieth of the fevered heart. POETICAL REMAINS. 207 Oh ! in that spirit-land, Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath past, Chief by those sparkling streams Whose beauty mocks our dreams, May that high heart have won its rest at last. LINES, WRITTEN BY REQUEST. Founded upon a Romantic Incident. THE lady paused, where shall I write my name ? 'T was the soft sunny spring-time of the year, And well the scene might some faint record claim With the dim cave, and the dark woods so near. While on the pleasant air were sweet tones ringing, And pleasant smiles were lighting up the scene, And unto gentle hearts fond Hope was singing Her softest lay, the echo of a dream ! And should the bright hour pass without a trace, Its sole memento Memory's page alone ? POETICAL REMAINS. 209 No ! fondly sought the lady for a place, To grave her name upon the enduring stone. But the firm rock refused the letters fine, And for a moment paused that lady fair, While one beside her smiled, " ah ! friend of mine From whence that mocking brow, I'll write it there !" She gaily threatened, then as Naids write On pearly shell some fair and mystic sign, She traced upon his brow with fingers light, The magic name and symbol, " Caroline." " Sweet lady," urged he then, " this name of thine May from my forehead pass, like words in air, But in my heart it hath a dearer shrine By Love's soft pencil traced, 't is deathless there !" LINES, Written after reading an account published in the New York Weekly Messenger, of August 1, 1833, containing the death of a young mission ary, who after leaving his home and friends in Connecticut, died in the wilds of Illinois, a martyr in the cause of Christ. HE lies afar in the forest deep, Away from his native home, By the prairie stream in dreamless sleep, He is resting still and lone. There in the path of the cold snow drift, Where the wild stream wanders by, And the Eternal trees uplift Their branches to the sky. In that wild spot, so -lone, so drear, Where never yet a human tear Had bathed the monumental stone Raised over friend or brother gone ; POETICAL REMAINS. 211 And never yet a human sound Had echoed on the still profound, We laid him quietly to rest, The quickly called, the early blest ! And deeply sorrowing memory Was o'er our spirits then, And troubled dreams of destiny Which from the haunts of men Had called our brother, in the glow Of holy fervor, and the flush Of youth, and when upon his brow We laid the curls, our thoughts did rush In bitterness, and dreams would come Of those who cheered his early home, And now perchance had breathed in prayer His name, but could not see him there ! No mother bending o'er him, And no father by his side, 212 POETICAL REMAINS. With the trackless wild before him, The Christian warrior died. His armor on his breast, His feet for duty shod, And his heart with zeal impressed, He waited here his God ! , i And when our wandering thoughts go back And tread the prophet's ancient track, Or list to that Apostle's strains, Who spurned at fear, and scoffed at chains, And told nor bond nor pain could shake His hope, nor death for Jesus' sake. Shall we lament the early crowned, Weep that our brother's rest is found, Grieve that in loneliness he died Far from his own blue river's side, When to his closing hour was given Perchance the hopes, the bliss of Heaven ! Joy ! for the youthful martyr laid So tranquilly at rest, POETICAL REMAINS. The Christian's prayer is o'er him said, And his early dreams are blest ! And from that narrow mound The forest flowers shall spring, And the forest trees around Their lofty shelter fling ; And his name shall be a token, And his memory a spell, Of faith to death unbroken, When the solemn tale they tell ! The throngs who stood beside us then Subdued and hushed, those hardy men, Awe-struck that he so still should lie, Who came to teach them, and to die ! 213 19 LINES. Written on visiting Brooklyn Heights for the first time. I STOOD on the green heights Alone, and gazed upon the spires beyond, As poured the sun his parting glories round, And shed his mellow light, Profusely rich, on all above, below, Till hill and wave were mantled with his glow. Deep thoughts came o'er me then, That made me lightly pass the brilliant sky The purple waves the illumined city by, For dreamings of the Past awoke again Thoughts of the noble dead whose memory Cherished and hallowed in these haunts should be. POETICAL REMAINS. 215 The little isle* afar, Lit up with sun-set gleams, and crowned with trees, That lightly waved with every passing breeze, Looked not as once when War Breathed his harsh discord on this quiet air, Waved his dark wand, and placed his warder there. Not then, as now, were seen The glancing sails in fair and open sight, Catching a momentary gleam of sun-set light, Lending a siiadowy beauty to the scene, Or passing on in peace but ships of war Kept their stern watch, and held their course afar. Then the deep watch-word rung On the calm silence, and the cannon's roar Sounded its heavy peal along the shore, And in a harsher tone these words were sung,f * Governor's Island. t Allusion is here made to the tune of ' Scots vvha hae," which some gentlemen, who were sailing by on the river, were singing, accompanied by a flute. 216 POETICAL REMAINS. That blended with the soft flute's harmony, Float sweetly o'er this hushed and gilded sea. Come musing Fancy, now, And lift the veil of years, that I may be Amid that patriot band, their ardor see When their crushed hopes lay low, And quelled their thoughts of victory, till prayer Burst from stern hearts that quailed not to despair. J T is past ! but noble worth Leaves hallowed memories round it, weaves a spell In the deep heart, whose after deeds will tell Of higher hopes than eaith, Of loftier influences breathed round it there, Than may be scattered on the common air. What though the brave were gone, The chief revered laid in his hallowed rest, Followed by all his band, their memories blest, POETICAL REMAINS. 217 Still lived and lingered on Within the precincts where the battle cry Summoned the noble for his home to die. Still shall they linger there, Holy and fading not like these sweet flowers,* That deck with brilliant hues the summer bowers, Shedding a fragrance on the quiet air, Yet passing soon, leave thoughtful hearts to say, Earth's signet was upon the leaves decay ! They shall live on this tfllng So full of hope must pass the laughing child Borne on the wings of careless mirth the wild And untamed boy so swiftly passing on To sterner cares in recklessness the brow Of manhood shaded o'er with feeling now * The floral embellishments of the residences round the Heights* 19* 218 POETICAL REMAINS. The maiden in her glee The old man all these forms must pass away, E'en like the fading clouds at closing day, Or melting like the sun-set on the sea, Seen and then gone but in this quiet spot Their memories shall be hallowed passing not. EVENING THOUGHTS. THOU quiet moon, above the hill-tops shining, How do I revel in thy glances bright, How does my heart cured of its vain repining Take note of those who wait and watch thy light- The student o'er his lonely volume bending, The pale enthusiast, joying in thy ray, And ever and anon, his dim thoughts sending Up to the regions of eternal day ! Nor these alone the pure and radiant eyes Of Youth and Hope look up to thee with love, Would it were thine meek dweller of the skies, To save from tears ! but no ! too far above This dim cold earth thou shinest, richly flinging Thy soft light down on all who watch thy beam, 220 POETICAL REMAINS. And to the heart of Sorrow gently bringing The glories pictured in Life's morning stream, As a loved presence back ; oh ! shine to me As to the voyagers on the faithless sea ! Joy's beacon light ! I know that trembling Care Warned by thy coming hies him to repose, Arid on his pillow laid, serenely there Forgets his calling, that at Day's dull close Meek Age and rosy Childhood sink to rest, And Passion lays her fever dreams aside, And the unquiet thought in every breast Loses its selfish fervor and its pride With thoughts of thee the while their vigil keeping, The quiet stars hold watch o'er beauty sleeping ! But unto me, thou still and solemn light, ' What may'st thou bring ? high hope, unwavering trust In Him, who for the watches of the night Ordained thy coming, and on things of dust POETICAL REMAINS. 221 Hath poured a gift of power on wings to rise From the low earth and its surrounding gloom To higher spheres, till as the shaded skies Are lighted by thy glories, gentle Moon, So are Life's lonely hours and dark despair Cheered by the siar of faith, the torch of prayer ALE. Oh ! fading human love ! Oh ! light by darkness known ! Oh ! false the while thou treadest earth Oh ! cold beneath the stone." LOVE ye a sorrowful tale ? Upon my mind a memory hangeth now Of a fair cheek that faded, and a brow Of youth and beauty that betimes grew pale, So let me breathe it here 't will suit the gloom That gathers round me in this lonely room. Where as the wild winds stir the drapery's fold, And the faint moonbeams struggle on the wall, Dim Fancy pictures from her airy hall Dark shadows rushing, each with visage cold, To hold discourse with me on topics high Life, and its deep unfathomed mystery ! POETICAL REMAINS. 223 So be it ; to my vigil still and lone, I bid ye welcome of the pass untried, The world unseen and fear not to your side In a few years I come, Too soon perchance then let my heart be free, Nor shrink Immortals, from your company. Oh ! that the veil were rent, That I might read the secret of His will, Who hath ordained that human hearts lie still, When trials dark are sent, And sorrows overhang the loved one's path, And on bright heads the vials of His wrath Are poured ; it is a fearful thing to see Hope pass from youth to view the canker there, On the young brow to mark the trace of care, And see the upspringing tree Bowing its head to die : oh ! why are these Dark readings for our souls, thou wandering breeze, 224 POETICAL REMAINS. Thy course not more mysterious than the lot Laid on man's heart, in this strange world of ours, With all its waving trees and gentle flowers, And fair things whispering not To untaught minds of bitterness or grief, A dim and fleeting world, where fades the leaf And Joy departs. Oh ! lost and early friend, How comes thy memory back ? with dance and song As first I met thee, fairest in the throng Of gay bright beings silvery voices blend, As then they fell in music on mine ear, Where art thou now ? the grave is cold and drear! Was such for thee ? Oh! peacefully at last Thy head is pillowed but for him who stood Beside thee in the dance, the high of mood, With glorious brow, where hath his footsteps past, That he forgets above thy grave to weep ? Sweet one ! his flute-like tones did haunt thy sleep, POETICAL REMAINS. 225 In days gone by : oh ! 't is a changing thing The love of man a changing thing and vain. That night I marked thee, dreamer, for the pain And lonely visionings of those who fling Their all of life on one, and yet thy smile Came as a sun-beam to his heart a while. Why did it pass away When prouder thoughts rushed in a glorious train Of thronging images upon his brain, Shutting thy memory out ? till day by day Hope lingering in thy heart did wait to hear The echo of his voice Hope chid by fear ! I may not tell ye now All of this bitter history. Go seek In the worn paths of life a fading cheek And soft voice faltering low, Yet mark the lip that still in grief would wear A masking smile, and know the spoiler there ! 20 226 POETICAL REMAINS. So was the lonely close Of her young life. Oh ! human love, thou high And mighty presence thine is agony, When a lone watcher by the faint repose Of thy departing trust thou may'st not pray For the sick-hearted pilgrim's longer stay In this dim world of death. The summer came And she went from us praying, if the will Of God had other purpose to fulfil, She might have strength to wear the rusting chain Yet longer but He gave a kinder doom, The lily flower sleeps reckless of the storm ! LINES. SAY have I left thee wild but gentle lyre, That on the willow thou hast hung so long ? Oh ! do not still my unbidden thoughts aspire From my heart's fount ? flows not the gush of song, Though heavily upon the spirit's wing Lies earthly care a dull corroding thing ? Must it be ever so That in the shadow and the gloom, my path Is destined, shall the high heart always bow ? Father may it not pass this cup of wrath Shall not at last the kindled flame burn free On my soul's altar consecrate to thee ? Say in my bosom's urn Shall feelings glow, for ever unexpressed, 228 POETICAL REMAINS. And lonely fervent thoughts unheeded burn, And Passion linger on a hidden guest Hath the warm sky no token for my heart, In my green early years shall Hope depart ? Peace at this quiet hour And holy thoughts be given. Let me soar From Life's dim air and shadowy skies that lower Around me, and with thrilling heart adore Thy mercy, Father ! who can'st sooth the wild, Forgetful murmurings of thine erring child. Aye, by the bitter dreams, The fervor wasted ere my spirit's prime, The few brief sunny gleams Ripening the heart's wild flowers, that ere their time Blew brightly and were crushed, by all the tears That quenched the fiery thoughts of early years. Yes ! by each phantom shade that Memory brings, Voices whose tone my heart remembers yet, POETICAL REMAINS. 229 Names that no more shall thrill departed things That I would fain forget By the past weakness and the coming trust, Father ! I lay my forehead in the dust. Meekly adoring yielding up my care To Thee, who through the stormy past hath tried A wayward mind, which else had deemed too fair This fleeting world, and wandered far and wide Astray, and worshipped still, forgetting Thee, The one bright star of its idolatry. Nor be these thoughts in vain To aid me in this rude world's ruder strife, When a high soul doth struggle with its chain And turn away in bitterness from life, Strengthen me, guide me, till in realms above I taste the untroubled waters of thy love. 20* AUTUMN SCENERY. THROW down thy pencil, painter ! There's no trace Of this deep Autumn beauty but will lose Its glow upon thy canvass. The fine spell Of thy rich art is vanquished ! Where's the hand To paint the deep and cloudless blue that tints The canopy of Heaven ? Or where the power To catch the faintest semblance of the hues Those trees have taken, as the sun-set clouds Had thrown the treasures of their mingled light O'er the green foliage ? -And what spell of thine Could give the delicate sounds that thrill upon The spiritual ear 1 the pensive thoughts That steal upon the senses, as one hears The light tones of the wind the Autumn wind, In its first visilings before it comes Thrillingly audible, and while its notes POETICAL REMAINS. 231 Have a sweet soothing in them, and its breath Is bland and pleasant, or what charm of thine Can give that strange and wayward joy we feel When listening to the Eolian harp, that seems In its wild changes to my rambling sense As if 't were not unlike that fitful thing, The spirit of an enthusiast. I love Its deep and warning music, for there comes A sense of mystery with it, and I feel At times like these as if there were some link Between our spirits and the outward world, Does it not shadow forth our fate ? Have not These changing times a language that a child Can even read ? Yes ! men have likened spring To the first burst of life that wakens up The joyous spirit, and in common tones They speak of the rich summer, as the time When the pulse bounds the lightest, when the mind Floats on the wing of mirth, and the young heart Throbs with delicious joy, and equally Gaze they on summer's glories, and the dreams 232 POETICAL REMAINS. Which a young spirit forms of bliss, they think That both alike will pass, nor care beyond ; This is their language. Throw ye them away, Their hackneyed terms, their phrases that bring down To the poor level of our common thoughts The sights and sounds, that mock the earnest gaze Of the philosopher, and turn from thee Their common reading of that hidden book Of wisdom, which the sage will own is closed, Seek to become a reader of the heart, A painter of the mind. Hast thou not seen A change like this come o'er the human heart, When sorrow's seal is prematurely set Upon the brow, and wanton joy hath past Till every ruder passion hath been calmed, Soothed into quiet, and the earnest soul Wakened from slumber throws its treasured light O'er every object, till each thought, each dream Is tinged with glory! POETICAL REMAINS. 233 All these outward things Which thou art wearing life away to paint Are linked unto corruption, and will pass ; But there are aspirations of the soul Uniting us to angels, there are calm And quiet sufferings, which wear a trace Upon our spirit, and refine its dross, But men will pass them by, for there are few Can enter in the temple of the heart And read its secret sorrows. I've a sketch To give thee at this hour. Once I knew A fond, devoted mother, whose whole life Was wrapped up in her children. There were three Bright, beautiful ones, who gathered round her board, And knelt before her at the evening hour, Lisping their prayers with earnest heart ; when all Were verging unto manhood, when the rich And fervid beauty of their youth began To wear its sterner graces, and the eye 234 POETICAL REMAINS. Of her who had watched o'er their infancy Glanced upon them exultingly, Death came And placed his marble signet on the brow Of the first-born, then turned aside to quench The joyous spirit in the flashing eye Of the next brother. Both were taken then, And she was left to bitterness and one, He was the -last, and there were fearful thoughts That crowded o'er her when her anxious eye Read the pale trace of sickness on that brow, Or marked how faltered now the buoyant step, Or saw the fearful hectic lighting up That pallid cheek, or watched the slow approach Of the sick fevered feeling that comes o'er The destined heart, and when the Autumn shades, Such as are gathering round us, had appeared, She felt his hour had come that he would die, And leave her as he did, while the mild breath Of Autumn soothed his spirit, and half stirred The dark curls on his forehead, as \ would give A semblance unto life. That mother sat POETICAL REMAINS. 235 Beside him then, and when the only link That bound her now to life, was broken, bowed Her will to the Most Highest, and though tears Were her sole heritage, He gave her peace. This is the history, I would rather read That lone one's feelings and of them partake When sorrow's seal is set upon my heart, Than sketch with Raphael's pencil. "TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."* HIGH words and hopeful ! fold them to thy heart, Time, Faith and Energy, are gifts sublime ; If thy lone bark the threatening waves surround, Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part. When thou would'st cast thy pilgrim-staff away, Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound, And faint not in the noontide of thy day, Wait thou for Time ! Wait thou for Time the slow-unfolding flower Chides man's impatient haste with long delay ; The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power Suggested by a passage in BULWER'S " Night and Morning.". POETICAL REMAINS. 237 Within the soul like soft bells' silvery chime Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won, Or if the heart where thou should'st find a shrine, Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way. Wait thou for Time it hath a sorcerer's power To dim life's mockeries that gayly shine, To lift the veil of seeming from the real, Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower Write golden tracery on the sands of life, And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal, To a high purpose in a world of strife. Wait thou for Time ! Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith, Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea : A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass Through a dim world, untouched by living death, A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night, Soothing the grief from which she may not flee A herald of glad news a seraph bright, Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be. 21 238 POETICAL REMAINS. Yea, Faith and Time, and thou that through the hour Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand, Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire, Gifted the drooping soul with living power, Immortal Energy ! shalt thou not be While the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire, Linked with each vision of high destiny, Till on the fadeless borders of that land Where all is known we find our certain way, And lose ye, 'mid its pure effulgent light ? Kind ministers, who cheered us in our gloom, Seraphs who lightened griefs with guiding ray, Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawning, Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless morning Joy that ye led us through the drooping night? LINES. GIVE me armor of proof, I must ride to the plain ; Give me armor of proof, ere the trump sound again : To the halls of my childhood no more am I known, And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath blown ! Till the conflict is over, the battle is past Give me armor of proof I am true to the last ! Give me armor of proof bring me helmet and spear ; Away ! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear ? Bring the steel of Milan 't is the firmest and best, And bind on my bosom its closely linked vest, Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain ! Give me armor of proof I have torn from my heart Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part ; 240 POETICAL REMAINS. Bring the sword of Damascus, its blade cold and bright, That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight ; And stay let me fasten yon scarf on my breast, Love's light pledge and true I will answer the rest! Give me armor of proof shall the cry be in vain, When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth amain ? The knight clad in armor the battle may bide ; But wo to the heedless when bendeth the tried ; And wo to youth's morn, when we rode forth alone, To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown ! Give us armor of proof -our hopes were all high ; But they passed like the meteor lights from the sky ; Our hearts' trust was firm, but life's waves swept away One by one the frail ties which were shelter and stay ; Arid true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain : Give me armor of proof, ere we ride forth again. Give me armor of proof we would turn from the view Of a world that is fading to one that is true ; POETICAL REMAINS. 241 We would lift up each thought from this earth-shaded light, To the regions above, where there stealeth no blight ; And with Faith's chosen shield by no dark tempests riven, We would gaze from earth's storms on the brightness of heaven ! 21 THE FAIR STUDENT, It is said that Lucretia Maria Davidson, having called one morning upon a friend, was, in the absence of the family, shown into the library, where she remained all the day absorbed in reading, and perfectly un conscious of the flight of time, warned only by the approaching twilight that it was lime to depart. THE rosy light of morning richly streamed Into a quiet room, and shed soft gleams Of beauty on the rare and breathing forms Carved by the sculptor's art ; and the dim shelves, Heavy with volumes of the olden time, And the illumined missal, all were tinged With that bright morning radiance ; and the hush, Alike of hour and place, seemed consecrate To the high power of Genius. Here the mind, Amid the mighty masters of the lyre, Might breathe aloud its homage ; and the heart, POETICAL REMAINS. 243 Worn with, its worldly conflict, might again Turn to its surer counsellors, and feel The untold magic of a book. And lo ! E'en as the shrine might boast a worshipper, And as the spirit of the place had now Evoked its fairy minister, there stood A form of beauty in a far recess Of that still room. Youth was upon her brow, And loveliness ; but even as you gazed You felt the presence of a rarer gift The glory of the mind. Oh ! what is youth, And what is beauty, to th' immortal charm Of a high genius ? to the fairy gift Of the divining rod that can unseal The living fountains of the heart, and call Bright thoughts, like angel ministers, to soothe The weary hour ? The youthful votaress stood Enwrapt 'mid volumes of the antique time, And the swift hours passed by with pace so light, Their course was all unheeded. So the morn Glided to its bright rest. 244 POETICAL REMAINS. The fervid light Of the deep noon came next, and busy life Paused in its mid-day course ; and Labor breathed One moment from its task ; but what the hour To the young student ? Mid the Paynim host Her busy thoughts were wandering, and she saw The lion banner wave on Syria's plain, And brave knights couch their lances, as the shout The pealing shout went up from England's host Midst the far Eastern skies. Oh ! call ye now The artist's power to paint the kindling flush O'er that fair brow to pencil the rich hues Of that soft changing cheek, warmed by the light The kindling light of Genius ! Eve draws on. Leaves the fair student now ? The crimson hues Pale in the distant west ; as a bright dream Of art and poetry this day has passed, Wrapt in its spells of beauty. Call again POETICAL REMAINS. 245 For the rich pencil of the artist, ere The spirit of her dreams from that fair brow Hath passed ! and let the picture, if a true one, bear A shade of sorrow ; for an early death Upon the face is written ; and the lip, With its sweet smile, shall pale ; and the soft light Of all her shining tresses beam no more, In the dim, silent grave ; nor shall the voice Breathe there its winning spell, or the deep lyre Be there attuned to harmony. Fair votaress ! Not in the dim old library, with the hues Of the bright sun-set round thee, as thy gaze Lingered upon the volume, may we greet Thy form again ! Thine was an early doom ! Thy mind was as a harp that God had tuned For his own ear alone, and not on earth Might its perfected harmony be breathed. Thy name comes to us as the opening rose, 246 POETICAL REMAINS. With its rare gift and fragrance, and its leaves On which no stain had gathered, from the place Where it had glowed in beauty early plucked, Yet leaving on the very air a charm Of rich, soft odor lingering. THE RE S E. A SKETCH. 'T WAS a bright eve. The quiet sun shed down Gleams of pale beauty on the gentle brow Of young Therese ; and flowers of summer bloom Poured fragrance round the room, like incense cast On the pure shrine of Youth. There was no sound To break the spell of silence that hung o'er The chamber like a presence, and alone Therese sat there, communing with the dreams Of her own passionate heart. Where roved her mind ? The air that through the open casement strayed 248 POETICAL REMAINS. Was soft and balmy, and the still room seemed A temple for sweet thoughts. A single lamp Like a bright incense poured a quiet flow Of radiance round : but on this haunted earth Where hath not Passion's step, intruding, passed, Crushing the flowers of Hope ? Those were strange tales They told in olden days of silken chains, And flowery fetters, these are seldom Love's ! His is a sacrifice of lonely thought Of vain, sweet fancies of rose-tinted dreams. His is the offering of burning tears, And vows the deep heart utters. How it melts That glory from our way ! till the whole earth Seems dark and lone the great magician's wand Broken and useless ! But too fair art thou, With thy bright locks undimmed, and the soft glance POETICAL REMAINS. 249 Of thy deep shadowy eyes, for the heart's blight, Lovely Therese ! yet thy clear cheek is flushed, As fever's touch were there ; and thy rich lip Quivers with strange emotion. This it is To shed the fragrance of the spirit out, Pouring the priceless treasures of the heart Like water on the sand, -a vain, vain gift ! Therese's heart was dim ; a cloud had passed Over her sky, bowing her fragile form, Like night-dew on the lily. I have said She was alone ; for tuneless to her ear, And harsh have grown all voices and all tones Save one oh ! that is music ! Common forms. Pass by unheeded. Thus she was alone ; But thought was busy ; beautifully rose 22 250 POETICAL REMAINS. One image in the still, deserted room. Radiantly bright in the pure light of Love Was her heart's idol ; and his accents fell Softly upon her ear ; yet how they mocked The dreaming girl ! Was he not far away From the still room ? Manhood hath rushing thoughts, And glorious visions. What is Love to him ? A tone of music, or a bright flower thrown Vainly upon his way an offering That in his haste he crushes, when his steps Pass on to Fame's proud temple, or the gleam Of Glory lures him, or the trumpet's sound Calls him to battle. So Therese mused : But where was he whose image in her heart Was shrined so deeply ? In the lighted hall, And throngs were round him ; breathlessly they hung POETICAL REMAINS. 251 Upon his magic accents. Fame ! oh Fame ! Thine is a glorious guerdon ! And for this Hath that young aspirant outwatched the stars, And patiently borne toil, when treasuring up The gems of Thought, and from the classic page Gathering the fragrance of departed minds, With fervent zeal : yet, beautiful Therese, Roved Fancy's pinions never, when, he paused, That student, from his lone, unsoftened toil, And bent his fevered brow to the cool breath Of the night air, and murmured as in dreams, " For thee, for thee, beloved ?" So he had passed, Even as a gleam of sunshine from thy path ; For Genius hath high aims, and gloriously Soars up its eagle wing from the dim air Of common life. And thus Alphonso's mind Impelled him on ; but, oh ! when Glory's meed 252 POETICAL REMAINS. Should crown his early efforts, and when praise From many censers should like incense rise Around his way, then would the still, small voice Of Love be melody, and he would come As a crowned victor, laying at thy feet His spoils, his triumphs. This was Man's proud dream ; This was the color that his passion took : Yet, master student, 't was an erring thought ; The flower needs moisture, and the timid heart Of Woman gentle words. The still night came ; Alphonso was rewarded ! he had met Admiring glances heard the loud acclaim Of praise from many voices. Morning dawned Softly upon the world ; to its meek light POETICAL REMAINS. 253 The eye of Grief looked up uncheered, and Care Again went bustling forth. The day wore on. Oh ! Fame hath countless tones ! Therese heard Alphonso's praises, and her pulses thrilled With quick and proud delight. Soft voices spoke Gently of him the beautiful ! the bright ! And bitter fancies mingled with the rush Of her wild rapture. What would early dreams Of Love be to him now ? A perfume shed Upon the idle wind. Again she sought Refuge in loneliness. x A footstep rang Upon the startled ear ; a strange hope thrilled The beating of her heart, and a deep voice, 23* 254 POETICAL REMAINS. How wished, how pined for ! broke the quietness " Therese /" It was no dream ! Oh ! Love returned How deep thy joy ! 't was thrilling in her tears \ PENCILLING S. How oft we seem Like those who dream and know the while they dream ! Mrs. Hcmans. IT was Ambition's hour. I laid down The glorious record of the olden time, The stirring annals of those mighty men, Whose names are channelled in the Eternal Rock Time's restless torrent laves. And there came dreams Vague but yet kindling fancies to my mind Of future glory, till my hand stretched forth To grasp the crown of Fame, but for whose brows Wished I that dazzling meed 1. Oh ! tell me friend ? Answer me gentle love, that hour was thine. 256 POETICAL REMAINS. Again I heard sweet music melting sounds Bearing all hearts away a sudden flow Of pleasant melody entranced I stood, Still wishing that some under tone might give Thine echo back unto my listening ear, The low, soft tone that thrilled in days gone by. I dreamed of thee. Once more. I marked the light, The warm, soft light of sun-set fall around The landscape, like a radiant veil. I gazed Upon the beauty of the fleeting clouds, And watched the tinted waves, reflecting back The sun-beams varied hues, till dim, sad thoughts Rose in my mind that all our hopes should pass E'en as that brilliant coloring. Awhile We gaze and call them beautiful anon They fade and leave no trace. Oh ! must it be That with these deep, sad memories to my mind, Thy name is linked ? POETICAL REMAINS. 257 Yet was this time the last, Dreamed I of thee no more ? The pleasant Spring Came in her blooming livery to array The bare and weeping shrubs to cast 'bright buds Over the verdant sod to bring again Beauty and bloom midst earthly boweis to dwell : But oh ! what shadows mar our brightest hopes, Thy steps came not ! I have had other thoughts. Aye, in the busy world men talk of change, And lightly whisper that Love's early vows Are lightly broken ; tell me, gentle friend, Must it be so with all? Is there no brow So high that Falsehood's traces may not rest Upon its glorious surface ? and no heart So noble that it keeps its gold undimmed ? So have I dreamed. -Read me that dream, sweet love ! LINES. " La mort est le seul dieu que J'osais implorer." NOT unto thee, oh ! pale and radiant Death ! Not unto thee, though every hope be past, Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no more, Nor Earth again one cherished dream restore, Or from the bright urn of the future cast Aught, aught of joy on me. Yet unto thee, oh ! monarch robed and crowned, And beautiful in all thy sad array, I bring no incense, though the heart be chill, And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill, Shines not as once the wonted light of day, Still upon another shrine my vows POETICAL REMAINS. . 259 Shall all be duly paid, and though thy voice Is full of music to the pining heart, And woos one to that pillow of calm rest, Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart, Still, not to thee, oh Death ! I pay my vows, though now to me thy brow Seems crowned with roses of the summer prime And to the aching sense thy voice would be, Oh Death ! oh Death ! of softest melody, And gentle ministries alone were thine, Still I implore thee not. But thou, oh Life ! oh Life ! the searching test Of the weak heart ! to thee, to thee I bow And if the fire upon the altar shrine Descend, and scathe each glowing hope of mine Still may my heart as now Turn not from that dread test. But let me pay my vows to thee, oh Life ! And let me hope that from that glowing fire 260 POETICAL REMAINS. There yet may be redeemed a gold more pure And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar Their flight the higher, Released from earthly hope, or earthly fear. This, this, oh Life ! be mine. Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bind Let others seek thy false and dazzling gleams, For me their light went out on early streams, And faded were thy roses in my grasp, No more, no more to bloom. Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, Shine out when all is dark, So would I, cheered by hopes more purely bright Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, If, but at last, the tossed and weary barque Gains the sure haven of her final rest. STANZAS. MOTHER, 't is evening now, But where may all the bright and loved ones be That once came round thee at this holy hour, Each with a half blown bud, or opening flower, An offering for thee. Oh ! where is that bright band, Who should be gathering round thee, as of yore, To lisp their evening prayer with voices low, Or breathe, with solemn air, the Christian's vow, Shall these be seen no more ? No more ? no more ? fond mother ! So soon hath sorrow to thy dwelling come ? 23 262 POETICAL REMAINS. And robbed thy life of its renewing bloom, And called thy loved ones to the silent tomb Away from their sweet home ! Yes ! they are vanished all, The green turf closes o'er their light forms now, And each one like the flower he used to bring Lies faded there, to Death an offering, Whose seal is on each brow. Yes ! thou wilt ne'er again As once behold their light forms flitting round, Nor list their welcome tread, nor pause to hear The sweet, glad tones, whose music won thine ear,- For ever hushed the sound ! Yet can His hand, sweet mother, Who deals thee grief in this thine early day, Uphold thee, that his light become not dim Within thine heart, if thou wilt turn to Him And at this holy even kneel and pray, POETICAL REMAINS. 263 Thou shalt arise with joy, And think how glorious are thine happy band, Changed to bright seraphs, bending low before The golden throne, nor fervently wish more To call the blest ones from the spirit land. And then at this hushed time, Thou wilt not turn in darkness to that sod, But gathering all thy crushed hopes, as the dead Brought thee bright flowers, wilt see that all are laid A tribute on the altar of thy God ! THE SONGSTRESS. The following lines were suggested by an incident related in Mrs. Jame son's " Diary de L'Ennuyee." 'T WAS a rich night in Italy ; the air Was filled with fragrance from the many flowers, And the sweet wind of Summer floated past, As if it bore no sigh from weary hearts ; While the soft, starry light of many lamps Filled one fair hall with radiance, and shone Brightly on many a young and jewelled brow. Gay was the fete, and in each languid pause There came rich strains of music, till the tears The unbidden tears rushed to the stranger's eyes, As Memory's links in that far land were all Unbound by its sweet spells. Again, again, POETICAL REMAINS. 265 How softly rose the rich and breathing notes Amidst that brilliant throng, and yet no lip Smiled on the singer, as her song had found No echo in their hearts ; but gentle eyes Looked coldly on the fair, pale girl, who shrunk From the unwonted scrutiny, and called With such a beating heart the hidden soul Of music forth from her rich instrument. Fair singer ! on her cheek so pure, so pale, There came no soft and changing tint to win The careless gaze, and the dark eye, so veiled By the long silken lash, might boast perchance, The glory of a star, but none that eve Might gaze upon its light so timidly 'Midst the gay throngs she stood, and yet her strains ' Gushed forth with a wild melody, as. hers Had been in truth the Silver lute, and hers Th' enchanted touch. Oh ! where was Woman's heart, To listen to the rich and melting notes, 23* 266 POETICAL REMAINS. Yet give no smile of welcome, as she paused Sadly at its bright close ! Fair singer ! that pale cheek Grew paler, but there came a sudden change ! An eye had met the glances of her own A voice beloved had breathed with restless joy, " Oh ! brava, brava car a !" Cheek and lip Wore the rich tint of morning ; to the brow There came a sudden light, and the soft eyes Lit up with Hope's first dream, and that pale girl 'Midst the gay fete looked brightest ! Love ! oh Love ! Thine is the magic wand the desert earth Blooms in thy presence, and thy votaries wear A glory on their foreheads, as they bend In worship at thy veiled and mystic shrine. LINES. Written after being shown the inscription on the grave of a child in the Brooklyn church-yard, bearing only the date, the age, and these simple words, " It is well" 'T WAS a low grave they led me to, o'ergrown With violets of the Spring, and starry moss, And all the sweet wild flow'rets that disclose Their hues and fragrance round the dreamless couch, As if to tell how quietly the head, That here had throbbed so feverishly, doth rest. 'T was a low grave, and the soft zephyrs played Gently around it ; and the selling sun Gleamed brightly on the marble at its head, Bearing the date the name the few brief years, Of one whose blessed lot it was to pass To the fair Land of Promise, ere the chill 268 POETICAL REMAINS. And blight of this dark world had power to cast A shade on life's pure blossom ; while the dew Of morning was upon its leaves, and all The outward world was beauty ; ere the eye Had ever wept in secret, or the heart Grown heavy with a sorrow unconfessed. Was it a bitter lot ? That stainless stone Answered the query ; but one line it bore One brief inscription, thrilling the deep heart Of those who, leaning o'er that narrow mound, Mused over life's vain sorrow : " It is well." Aye, the deep words had meaning ; but what grief Had taught the lone survivors thus to count The sum of all, and, struggling with their tears, Write only " It is well?" Oh ! well for her To rest on that green earth to lay the head Unwearied on its bosom, and to seek A refuge from the coldness of the world, Ere yet its shaft had pierced her^ POETICAL REMAINS. 269 " It is well." And, oh ! for us who, musing o'er that grave, Sigh for the rest a stranger's breast hath found, Were it not well, in the heart's hour of grief, When Earth is dim, and all her shining streams Discourse no more in music to our ears When shadows rest upon her brightest flowers, And the continual sorrow of the soul Doth darken sun and moon, to dream at last Of a still rest beneath the lowly stone A calm, unbroken slumber, where the eye Shall weep no more in sadness, and the pulse Forget its quick, wild throbbings ? O'er that grave Such were my musings, till a deeper truth Broke on my mind, as the blue violet shed Its sweetness round me, and the evening winds Brought fragrance from afar ; and then I prayed, In lowliness of heart, that I might bear In faith " the heat and burden of the day," 270 POETICAL REMAINS. And never, till His purpose was fulfilled, And every errand He had set performed In trusting patience, sigh for dreamless rest, Nor till th' impartial pen of Truth could write Above that quiet refuge " It is well." LINES, Written after reading the Private Memoirs of a very celebrated man. CLOSE up the book ! for I have read too far, Noble and bright ! to see the cloud descend The shade cast o'er the glory of thy fame ; O'er thine that unto me as a pure star Hath shone ; before whose light 't was well to bend With deepening awe o'er thine, whose very name Calls up a host of thoughts all proud and free : Oh ! tell me, could the shadow fall on thee ? So seems it ! but, I say, close up the book : It is a weary thing too near to trace The springs of thought, and on the unveiled heart Too long, or yet too curiously to look 272 POETICAL REMAINS. Scanning what most hath place Within that temple shrine that hidden part That to the human eye should ne'er be shown ; For who can spare the weakness not his own ? And who can tell how long Might be the struggle ere the mighty bowed Before the whirlwind's force ? how fast the tide Might hurry on the hapless, or how loud The breakers roared around the vessel's side, Ere she went down? or, through one moment given, How wild the appealing prayer swelled up to Heaven ! And there was heard : close, close the magic page ! That hath so held me with its thrilling power, While Time passed by unheeded. Oh ! to dream As once I dreamed thou beacon of an age Of thy unshadowed radiance ; but the hour For that is past ! No more I seek with tears, A life, a history, in those years POETICAL REMAINS. 273 That lingered not. I close the book and sigh ; Yet had I once but heard thine echoing tone, Leader and Patriot ! had I once but caught The vivid lightning of thy kindled eye, How could such visions come ? How could my mind embody them in thought 1 Yet wert thou man, and thy high spirit's wings Could stoop to Earth be soiled with earthly things. And thus do all things lose their early glow ; The idol falls the pure, pure gold is dim A cloud hangs o'er the surface of the stream A foot-print presses on the new bright snow Whose light is pure, if thus it was with him ? Go, mortal ! and unlearn thine idle dream ; And when o'er others thou the light clouds see How shouldst thou bear with them ? how they with thee 24 MADELAINE. A BALLAD. Written after'reading the affecting history of poor Madelaine, contained in Mrs: S. C. Hall's account of a visit to Honfluer. T WAS a light and golden evening ; They were sitting side by side, Watching its purple shadows fade The sailor and his bride. His hand was twined amidst her curls Her curls of golden hue ; His eyes were bent on hers, that shone With Heaven's unclouded blue. A fair and pleasant picture, A pleasant stream beside ; POETICAL REMAINS. 275 Its waters gave their image back The sailor and his bride. And happy were their hearts that night, The two who sat together ; Oh ! wo that in a world like this Love meeteth stormy weather ! And wo ! that but one sunny gleam Foretells an age of sorrow ! How happy were their hearts that night How sad upon the morrow ! No more they watched the closing eve, For when the morning came, She marked her lover's glancing sails, Bound to the Spanish main. Sad was her heart at dawning day Sadder at setting sun ; 276 POETICAL REMAINS. The stream that imaged both their forms Could image now but one. And pale her gentle lips awhile, And yet they smiled again ; For earthly grief was new to her The fair-haired Madelaine. And daily for his safe return She prayed in holy place, And offered up a solemn vow Unto our Lady's Grace. , And daily at her shrine she bowed, But morn and eve in vain ; For never came those glancing sails Back from the Spanish main. Yet still from every visioned night Her heart new joy would borrow, POETICAL REMAINS. 277 And every morning brought a hope, And every eve a sorrow. Her thoughts were always on the sea, Her offerings duly paid ; But where was he for whose return Before the cross she prayed ? Oh ! never can the loving leave t The loved one sad and dreary, Dreaming o'er faded memories Counting the moments weary. The eyes that shone with Heaven's own blue With tears were sunk and dim ; The brow that gave its sunshine back Was pale with fear for him. And yet she bowed before the cross, And yet she watched the sea ; 24* 278 POETICAL REMAINS. Oh ! human love and human hope- A mystery are ye ! Youth passed ; that hope was at her heart, The wilder for despair ; And still she watched along the shore, And still she prayed the prayer, Her reason fled her home she left ;. - . The in aster- thought the same ; His image in her heart she kept The faithful Madelaine. The sunny hair was turned to grey, The form was bent and old ; Can Time and Grief such changes work ? Lady of Gr.ace> behold ! Was this thy youthful vot'ry once - The fair, the fond, the free-*- POETICAL REMAINS. 279 Now a sleeper by the way-side, And a watcher by the sea ? For the treasure Earth hath not The one she'll meet again, Alone in the sunny land of flowers, Far from the Spanish main., LINES, Written upon being unable to attend the meeting held in New York, by the friends of the slave, August 1st, 1838. IT was not .mine to meet In the full temple, while the closing- : day Shone through the sacred aisles, and wildly sweet, From many a heart the swelling hymn found way ; Praise and thanksgiving ! that the galling chain Had melted from the Islands of the main ! It was not mine to raise My voice with kindred tones, to Him alone Whose eye looks down on all, ascribing praise That through His might the co'nflict had been won ; That in the Islands of the far-off sea, His truth had set the weeping bondman free. POETICAL REMAINS. 281 It was not mine to hear Each pleading voice ; but oh ! the kindled heart The piercing truth by silence made more clear The reaching sympathies where all had part And thanks, O Father ! for this work oi Thine, These, in the silence of the soul, were mine ! Nor was it theirs to see Who met in that full temple, how the sun Looked down that morning, glorious on the free, Whose bitter days of toil and stripes were done ; When the loud bell, that tolled their bondage out, Was lost in Freedom's overwhelming shout ! Oh ! in the far-off sea, Night ! didst thou ever wear so fair a guise, As when a rescued people looked on thee, Their saviour from oppression's agonies ! Feeling each moment brought the dawn more near, The -welcome dawn to truth and freedom dear I 282 POETICAL REMAINS. Dear to the mother then Who all unmocked of the blue smiling sky, Could weep away the memory of her pain, 'And upward point her child's exulting eye, To the bright clouds beyond, where He must be, Whose pitying love had set his people free. Joy ! for. the struggling heart, That had so writhed beneath the wearing chain, But now might tear the hated links apart, And never gaze upon its bonds again, Turning from hoarded griefs, arid burning tears, To the bright promise of its future years. Joy ! for the kindly ties That now might bind the sister and the brother, For the hushed voices that at eve might rise, All mingling softly children ! Father ! Mother ! In fervent prayer to Him, whose mighty power Had won for them the brightness of this hour ! POETICAL REMAINS. 283 Joy ! for a fair, bright land, Whose fruits might wear no more the shade of death, And' whose rich foliage might again expand, Fresh and imwasted by the Spoiler's breath, For now, no longer in its island bowers, Nestles the serpent underneath the flowers ! Joy ! for that martyr band Who, as they entered into Heavenly rest, From the dim borders of the Spirit-land, Saw this bright vision, and in faith were blest. Oh ! let their mantles still on earth be found ! And with their girdles be their children bound ! Then in the tempest's might, And in the darkness shall true hearts stand fast, Watching, Holiest ! but to greet Thy light And hear Thy summons, while the storm drives past, Listening not then to man's upbraiding tone, But the sad cry the helpless captive's moan ! 284 POETICAL REMAINS. "Then shall Thy guiding hand Scatter the clouds before truth's piercing day, And yet the shout of our enfranchised land Shall rise to cheer them in their onward way And like the winds, the clouds, the waters, free, Shall rescued hearts pour out their praise to Thee ! LINES, SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN "MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK." "Nelly bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and some times stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage There was but one lady, who seemed to understand the child, and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavorably at them,) and left her to herself. She motioned away a gipsy-woman, ur gent to tell her fortune, saying, that it was told already, and had been for some years, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers, put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep at home, for God's sake "" ' BEAUTIFUL child ! my lot is cast ; Hope from my path hath forever past ; Nothing the future can bring to me Hath ever been shadowed in dreams to thee ; 25 286 POETICAL REMAINS. The warp is woven, the arrow sped, My brain hath throbbed, but my heart is dead : Tell ye my tale, then, for love or gold ? Years have passed by since that tale was told. God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow, Ever as sinless and bright as now ; Fresh as the roses of earliest spiing, The fair, pure buds it is thine to bring, Would that the bloom of the soul could be, Beautiful spirit ! caught from thee ; Would that thy gift could anew impart The roses that bloom for the pure in heart. Beautiful child! may'st thou never hear Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear : \ Beautiful child ! may that, cheek ne'er glow With a warmer tint from the heart below : Beautiful child ! may'st thou never bear The clinging weight of a cold despair ; POETICAL REMAINS. 287 A heart, whose madness each hope hath crossed, Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost. Beautiful child ! why should'st thou stay ? There is danger near thee, away ! away ! Away ! in thy spotless purity ; Nothing can here be a type of thee ; The very air, as it fans thy brow, May leave a trace on its stainless snow ; Lo ! spirits of evil haunt the bowers, And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers. Beautiful child ! alas, to see A fount in the desert gush forth for thee, Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam, And thy life flow on as its silent stream Afar from the world of doubt and sin, This weary world thou must wander in ; Such a home was once to my visions given, It comes to my heart as a type of heaven. 288 POETICAL REMAINS Beautiful child ! let the weary in heart Whisper ,thee once, ere. again we part ; Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain Never can thrill in the throbbing brain, Till a sadder story that brain hath learned, Till a -fiercer fire hath in it burned ; God keep thee sinless and undefiled, Though poor, and -wretched, and sad, my child ! x Beautiful being ! away, away ! The angels above be thy help and stay, Save thee from sorrow and save thee from sin, Guard thee from danger without and within. Pure be thy spirit and breathe for m A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free ; In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside, Beautiful child ! be thy God thy guide. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF GEN. HARRISON. CALLED from the silent shades of calm repose, The Victor Chieftain o'er his country's foes, Like the old Roman, who his fields surveyed While to his view the purple they displayed, The Hero left his plough ; his country's boast That the brave soldier who the breach had crossed, In his " Log-Cabin" on the green hill's side, Dwelt like a freeman with an honest pride, And that the hands embrowned with sternest toil, Had traced deep furrows on his native soil. These were his country's honors, this his claim ; She called her patriot son, the Hero came. Came in an hour when all was dark and. drear, Came to light up the troubled atmosphere, 290 POETICAL REMAINS. Came as a sun-beam, that awhile in sorrow Shines for a moment and is gone to-morrow ! Bright was the Hero's dawning, and the shout From thousand hearts spoke thrilling gladness out ; We deemed the patriot spirits of the dead Had round us still their stately Egis spread, And that again had come the glorious time When honor, honor was, and crime was crime. Ah ! human pride and human hopes how vain ! The bark that rides so proudly on the main Is sweeping onward to a harbor nigh. We need our patriot. Must, our hero die ? God of the just ! on yonder stately floor A guest hath stepped who never stepped before, Pale Death ! Our hopes are crushed, our patriot lies On dying bed, but who shall close his eyes ? Ah ! friends, alas ! how little do ye know When those we fondly love are forced to go, And be on dying bed, no loved one near To bathe the forehead, wipe the parting tear. POETICAL REMAINS. 291 Hero and patriot ! thy name shall be Linked with our proudest hopes in memory With the old patriots, with the ancient days, When honorable conduct won its praise, When those we called our heroes had but one Proud freeman's heart within like Washington. We rear no shrine for thee, let gallant France Call out her troops, with shining sword and lance, And bear Napoleon to his second rest ; We give the tribute thou would'st love the best ; Show foreign lands a nobler if ye can, A nation's tears beside an honest man. THE END. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. Book Slip-20m-9,'60(B3010s4)45i Hooper, L. Poetical remains. Call Number: PS1999 H29 18U2 TS I H29 199044