SONGS OF THE SEASONS 
 
 AND OTHEK POEMS. 
 
 JAMES LINEN. 
 
 REDFIELD, 
 
 110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET. 
 NEW-YORK. 
 
JOHN A GRAY, 
 
 $rfntr, 
 
 97 Cliff, cor. Frankfort Street. 
 
ttrgatnt, 
 
 THE POET Vv HO WAS THK DELIGHT OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 AND 
 
 THE MAN WHO HAS BEEN THE FRIEND OF MY RIPER TEAR 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 IS KESPECTFCLI.Y INSCRIBED DY HIS ADOPTED COCKTIIYMAX, 
 
 JJMES /, 
 
 134838 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 BEING an occasional contributor to some of the most respectable 
 magazines of the day, I hope that the appearance of a selection 
 from my poetical effusions will not be deemed an impertinent 
 intrusion upon public attention. The smaller poems have been 
 so extensively copied into the newspapers throughout the United 
 States, some having even found their way into British periodicals, 
 that from their apparent popularity, I have been flattered into the 
 belief that they possess some degree of merit. My subscribing 
 friends having relieved me from all anxious solicitude of a pecu 
 niary character, they will be pleased thus publicly to accept my 
 grateful acknowledgments for their kindness, partiality, and 
 regard. With the critic I have nothing to do. I neither invite 
 his criticism nor defy it. The poems are simple and unpretending. 
 My Muse, however, is somewhat capricious. She is sometimes 
 grave and sometimes gay, and occasionally inclined to be satirical. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The present volume exhibits specimens of my moody but delight 
 ful companion. She is ever to me a source of ineffable pleasure. 
 She is too independent to court the favors of the great, and shrinks 
 from seeking the applause of the vulgar. Her joys are in the 
 sanctuary of the domestic circle. My task is simply to give to 
 the world the promptings of her inspiration. Should they be 
 received with the smiles of favor, she may be encouraged to future 
 exertion ; but should the tribunal of the public, before which she 
 is about to appear, doom liar in justice to eternal oblivion, let her 
 go unlamented. Whatever the decision may be, there is no 
 danger of my pining away under a feeling of withering neglect, 
 the common result of poetic aspirations. 
 
 New-York, December, 1852. 
 
Contents 
 
 THE PEASANT S SONG OF SPRING 11 
 
 THE PEASANTS SONG OF SUMMER ]t 
 
 THE PEASANT S SONG OF AUTUMN 17 
 
 TH E PEASANT S SONG OF WINTER 20 
 
 BALLADS OF MEXICO : 
 
 THE DEPARTURE 23 
 
 THE GREAT BATTLE ON THE PLAIN OF C.CUTLA 2!) 
 
 THE CHRISTAN CAMP is THE GROVE OF PALMS, AND THE PROCESSION ON 
 
 PALM SUNDAY ?A 
 
 THE DREAM OF THE AZTEC 40 
 
 APOLLYON; OR, THE DESTROYER 46 
 
 THE FAMINE; OR, THE VIRTUES OF WANT 
 
 THE COVENANTERS 
 
 TRUTH 
 
 FREEDOM 71 
 
 MERCY 71 
 
 POLAND 76 
 
 SCOTLAND 78 
 
 THE EMIGRANT S RETURN 7!) 
 
 WHEN FREEDOM AN EXILE FROM FOREIGN LANDS CAME 81 
 
 THE POET S FIRESI D K g3 
 
 LINES TO MARY . 8 3 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LINES TO ELLA 83 
 
 ISRAEL RESTORED 90 
 
 THE STARS 94 
 
 THE DEPARTED 98 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD 10 
 
 THE SLAVES OF AMBITION lft4 
 
 THE COQUETTE... 
 
 106 
 
 THE WORLD OF FASHION Ul 
 
 JENNY LINO S SONG OF SWEDEN 115 
 
 LINES OV THE DEATH OF WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON 116 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL ZACHARY TAYLOR 118 
 
 KOSSUTH 12() 
 
 THE AUCTIONEER... 
 
 122 
 
 MY BACHELOR HEART 12G 
 
 THE ALBUM 
 
 127 
 
 THE WELLS O WEARIE 128 
 
 THE WINTER SONG OF THE SHEPHERD 132 
 
 AULD DA VIE 
 
 135 
 
 AULD SNUFFIE 138 
 
 LUCY LEE J42 
 
 LIZZIE LAIRD 143 
 
 JESSIE PATERSON 14G 
 
 MY AIN SWEET JEAN 14S 
 
 MY BONNIE WEE LIZZIE 149 
 
 THE YOUNG BRIDE O MAVIS-BANK HA l- r > 
 
 ICANNA LEAVE MY MINNIE J54 
 
 DONALD AND LUCY 15G 
 
 THE SCENES THAT NEVER WEARIE 158 
 
 SWEET ISABEL, MY DEARIE 16 
 
 HELEN, THE ROSE OF THE GLEN 1G2 
 
 ARCHIE GRIEVE 16G 
 
0f i\t 
 
SONGS OF THE SEASONS, 
 
 THE PEASANT S SOXG OF SPRING. 
 
 FAK from the smoke o the sickly toun, 
 Let me blithely spend the hale year roun 
 Where the mind from racking care is free 
 As the April clouds that over me flee. 
 
 The Spring is come wi its buds and flowers, 
 Wi its rainbows bright and sunny showers; 
 An emerald robe now mantles a 
 That lately was wrapped in Winter s snaw. 
 
 The streams, from their strong ice-fetters free 
 -Dash on with their waters to the sea ; 
 The angler, bent on his finny prize 
 Heeds little the tears of weeping skies 
 
12 THE PEASANT S SONG OF SPUING. 
 
 Now the lilacs wear their purple plumes, 
 And the hawthorn hedge is white wi blooms; 
 And the willows wave their tassels green, 
 Where the burnie steals alang unseen. 
 
 The daisy, tipped wi a fringe o red, 
 On the lea shoots up its modest head ; 
 The bells and the bonnie cups o gold 
 Their, sparkling treasures o dew-drops hold. 
 
 On echoing hills the lambies bleat, 
 Where the heather-linties sing sae sweet ; 
 And the woodland glen and shady grove 
 Now choral ring wi their lays o love. 
 
 Oh ! the laverocks build their nests and woo 
 In the fields o clover weet wi dew ; 
 And far above, on fluttering wing, 
 They warble their joyous songs o Spring. 
 
 Mingled sounds o gladness fill the air, 
 And the broidered sward is fresh and fair ; 
 The bursting bud and the leafy tree 
 Have a thousand nameless charms to me. 
 
THE PEASANT S SONG OF SPRING. 13 
 
 The fields I plough, and the seeds I sow, 
 And nursed by the sun the harvests grow ; 
 My roses o health, above all price, 
 Can never bloom in the haunts o vice. 
 
 Let others boast o 7 their classic lore, 
 My learning is drawn from Nature s store; 
 The skylarks up from the meadows spring, 
 And sweetly teach me the way to sing. 
 
 For a the joys that the toun may gie, 
 The peasant s life is the life for me, 
 Where Mind is led from the flowery sod, 
 Through Nature away to Nature s God. 
 
THE PEASANT S SOKG OF SUMMER. 
 
 Now tripping along through morning dew, 
 Blithe Summer comes with a rosy hue ; 
 To greet her, the hills their voices raise, 
 And the woodland songsters hymn her praise. 
 
 Like her sister Spring, when lately seen, 
 She s drest in a vernal robe of green ; 
 And her flowing skirt that Nature weaves 
 Is broidered o er with flowers and leaves. 
 
 On her head a fragrant wreath she wears, 
 And her hand a golden sceptre bears ; 
 Like some beauteous queen, with regal pride 
 She scatters her blessings far and wide. 
 
 She passes on with an air of grace, 
 
 And roses blush on her bonnie face ; 
 
 She smiles on fields, and they greener grow ; 
 
 She breathes on flowers, and they brighter glow. 
 
THE PEASANT S SONG OF SUMMER. 15 
 
 Her reign is sweet, yet anon so wild, 
 She is wanton as a playful child ; 
 She unbinds the winds that howling sweep, 
 And lash the waves of the surging deep. 
 
 Oh ! she tears the misty veil away 
 
 From the mountain s brow where lambkins play. 
 
 And the tainted air she purifies 
 
 With her flashing lightning from the skies. 
 
 She gives her scents to the passing breeze, 
 And ripens the fruit on bending trees ; 
 She points to the fields of golden grain, 
 Which tell that labor is not in vain. 
 
 Where the humming bees in blooming dells 
 Sweet honey sip for their waxen cells, 
 The sun may scorch, but she nightly showers 
 Her gentle dews on the drooping flowers. 
 
 Where the peasants mow on yonder lea, 
 There are mingled sounds of social glee ; 
 They laugh and sing, and they toil away, 
 And of withered grass make russet hay ; 
 
16 THE PEASANT S SONG OF SUMMER. 
 
 While sets the sun in an opal sky, 
 Away to their cottage homes they hie, 
 And the smiles of Peace aye meet them there 
 And the day is closed with grateful prayer. 
 
 I love the fields, and to Nature s shrine 
 My heart still clings like a clasping vine ; 
 With bliss so pure, and with joys so rife, 
 Oh ! give me the peasant s happy life ! 
 
OF THE 
 
 UWVE&S1TY 
 
 THE PEASANT S SONG OF AUTUMN. 
 
 THE winds sweep by with a mournful tone, 
 Telling that Summer is past and gone ; 
 The leaves are sere, and genial showers 
 No vigor give to the fading flowers. 
 
 There s a withered look in Nature s face, 
 And her steps have lost their vernal grace ; 
 But what though she seems so pale and wan, 
 She s rich with stores for the wants of man. 
 
 Though heaving woods toss their russet plumes, 
 And the fragrant dells are strewn with blooms, 
 To the peasant bounteous Autumn yields 
 The treasures of all her golden fields. 
 
 Though no more the groves and forests ring 
 With the notes of rapture wild birds sing, 
 Afar on the moorland breeze are borne 
 The stirring sounds of the hunter s horn. 
 
18 THE PEASANT S SONG OF AUTUMN. 
 
 By the crystal brook and mountain lake, 
 In the ferny dell and marshy brake, 
 Away, where the lapwing lonely flies, 
 The keen fowler seeks his feathered prize. 
 
 The peasant is up at break of day, 
 And off to his harvest fields away ; 
 "With a joyous heart unknown to care, 
 He whistles some love-inspiring air. 
 
 And see yonder band so blithe and free, 
 How they reap and sing in rustic glee ; 
 In the sunbeams flash the whetted blades, 
 Swept by hardy hinds and buxom maids. 
 
 And behold the gleaner young and fair, 
 "With her rosy cheeks and yellow hair ; 
 Content with her poor but happy lot, 
 She bears her sheaf to her mother s cot. 
 
 Away from the noise of city strife, 
 Give me rural scenes and rural life ; 
 Let me trip o er hills and valleys green, 
 Where slaves of fashion are never seen. 
 
THE PEASANT S SONG OF AUTUMN. 19 
 
 Oh ! let me live where no cares annoy, 
 To taste the sweets of unmingled joy ; 
 And abroad with Nature let me roam, 
 Till called away to a better home. 
 
 When life s Autumn comes, as come it will, 
 And my beating heart is cold and still, 
 Where pale Sorrow ne er may vigils keep, 
 In some lone spot let me quietly sleep. 
 
THE PEASANT S SONG OF WINTER. 
 
 AUTUMN has fled, and Winter is come, 
 The groves are mute, and the birds are dumb ; 
 The winds are cold, and the skies are gray, 
 And the weary sun makes short the day. 
 
 And the gushing streams and tiny rills, 
 That danced and leapt down the rugged hills, 
 And meandered through the withered plains, 
 Are bound in fetters of icy chains. 
 
 Like fragments of robes that seraphs wear 
 Now the fleecy snow-flakes fill the air ; j 
 And the crispy earth is wrapt in white, 
 And moon nor stars lend now their light. 
 
 But snows may drift and the clouds may scowl, 
 The hail may beat and the tempest howl ; 
 They bring not want to the peasant s door, 
 Whose thrift has garnered his winter store. 
 
THE PEASANT S SONG OF WINTEE. 21 
 
 All the joy he feels no tongue may tell, 
 For love and peace in his cottage dwell ; 
 And he scorns the slave of base desires, 
 While he lives as lived his honest sires. 
 
 Though trees are stript of their leafy plumes, 
 And the gardens glow no more with blooms, 
 Oh, the little snow- drop, sweetly chaste, 
 "Will blossom soon on the hoary waste ! 
 
 Warm suns will shine, and the soft winds blow, 
 And rivers swell with the melting snow, 
 And the daisies soon again be seen, 
 And the teeming fields be clothed in green. 
 
 Torpid Nature into life will spring, 
 The orchard bloom and the skylark sing ; 
 While the swallows back again will come, 
 And the woodlands be no longer dumb. 
 
 The bees will steal from their cloistered cells, 
 To gather sweets from the cups and bells, 
 And the dreary mountains joyful be, 
 
 When Nature is set from Winter free. 
 2* 
 
22 THE PEASANT S SONG OF WINTER. 
 
 So the changing seasons come and go, 
 While the springs of life still onward flow ; 
 And faith and hope cheer the peasant s end, 
 When the chilling dews of death descend. 
 
 He knows, when his earthly race is run, 
 That the golden prize of life is won ; 
 He goes to a better land than this, 
 To traverse fields of eternal bliss ! 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 STfje 
 
 CORTEZ, suspecting that Velasquez, the Governor, would deprive him 
 of his commission as Captain-General of the expedition, leaves St. Jago 
 clandestinely, at midnight, November 18th, 1518. He lands at Trinidad, 
 and erects his standard, of "black velvet, embroidered with gold, and 
 emblazoned with a red cross, amidst flames of blue and white, with this 
 motto in Latin beneath : Friends, let us follow the Cross; and under this 
 sign, if we have faith, we shall conquer, He receives reinforcements at 
 Trinidad and Havana. At Cape St. Antonio, the appointed place of ren 
 dezvous, he harangues his soldiers upon the greatness and importance of 
 the enterprise. Celebration of Mass : dancing of the Indian allies : final 
 departure for the coast of Yucatan, February 1 8th, 1519. 
 
 IT was midnight in the tropics ; the islands were asleep, 
 And bright the starry welkin was mirrored in the deep : 
 It was midnight in the tropics, when Cortez and his crew 
 To friends in St. Jago bade a quick and last adieu. 
 
 
 
 Ho ! the anchors they are weighed, the sails spread to the 
 
 breeze, 
 Now soon the little squadron will plough the Indian seas : 
 
24 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 "Brave cavaliers and comrades," the chief was heard to 
 
 say, 
 "Valiant will Velasquez be, if he our course can stay." 
 
 At gray break of early dawn, that streaks the eastern sky, 
 And awakes to busy life all that hushed in slumber lie, 
 Soon spread in St. Jago the spirit-stirring tale, 
 That Cortez and his faithful band already had set sail. 
 
 There was bustling in the streets, there was running to 
 
 the shore, 
 
 On wings of wind the tidings flew all sunny Cuba o er ; 
 Since pious benedictions were showered on every head 
 Gould glory fail to follow where Spanish valor led ? 
 
 Amid strains of martial airs and the sounds of merry song, 
 The little navy speeds its way the island-coast along : 
 What heed the fearless mariners, though winds and bil 
 lows rave ? 
 The good San Pedro will protect the gallant and the brave. 
 
 The manly Cortez walks the deck ; he dreams of con 
 quests vast, 
 And o er him streams his pennon from the gently-bending 
 
 mast ; 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 25 
 
 His thoughts are of the future, not of those he leaves 
 
 behind ; 
 Ambition s airy visions flit across his ardent mind. 
 
 The motley troops soon land again ; no braver e er were 
 
 seen ; 
 
 And soon a tented camp appears upon the flowery green : 
 Banners now are flaunting gaily, while loud from shore to 
 
 shore 
 The cannon and the falconets their deafening thunders 
 
 roar. 
 
 With blooming flowers deck beauty, ring the bells of 
 
 Trinidad, 
 Drink the wines of Andalusia, let each saddened heart be 
 
 glad; 
 
 From Havana and Matanzas all ye daring spirits come 
 Oh ! hear ye not the bugle and the rolling of the drum ? 
 
 There are marches and parades, and reviews and active 
 
 drills, 
 
 There is music in the valleys, there are echoes on the hills ; 
 The peasants leave the plough for the buckler and the 
 
 spear, 
 And rally round the standard of the gallant cavalier. 
 
26 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 From fountains warm and tender there gushed the crystal 
 
 tide, 
 The husband left his spouse, and the bridegroom left his 
 
 bride : 
 Proud hearts were bounding high, and fair bosoms heaved 
 
 with pain, 
 And fond lips met that parting day that never met again. 
 
 Before his soldiers stood the chief who knew no slavish 
 fear, 
 
 Before their chief the soldiers stood, devoted and sincere ; 
 
 With helmets bright and waving plumes, they round him 
 closely pressed, 
 
 When Cortez to his volunteers these stirring words ad 
 dressed : 
 
 " Ye gentlemen of Arragon, of Leon and Castile ! 
 I trust in this great enterprise ye bear unblemished steel : 
 Grand ends can only be secured by long incessant toils, 
 And only to the brave belong the victor s golden spoils. 
 
 " Be loyal to your sovereign and to the Spanish crown, 
 And win the hero s fadeless wreath of honor and renown ! 
 Then all the proud distinctions and treasures may be yours, 
 And all the dearest guerdons bright that chivalry secures. 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 27 
 
 il While loyal to your sovereign, be to your chieftain true, 
 As, friends and brave hidalgos ! he 11 ever be to you : 
 And by that gold-broidered banner, and the red cross that 
 
 ye see, 
 And this Toledo blade he wears, he 11 with the boldest be. 
 
 " Oh ! where is fair Granada that Castilian arms defied ? 
 And where is the Alhambra in all her ancient pride ? 
 Did not your valiant fathers subdue the Moorish braves, 
 And where paled the Crescent moon, the Cross in triumph 
 waves ? 
 
 " The blood that ye inherit from your chivalrous sires 
 
 To deeds of splendid daring and manly valor fires ; 
 
 Ye go, to conquer kingdoms more fair than Europe 
 
 claims ; 
 Ye go, to make each name ye bear a heritage of Fame s. 
 
 " Though your numbers are but few, your cause is great 
 
 and just, 
 And who can say we may not lay proud empires in the 
 
 dust? 
 With arms so strong, and hearts so bold, and aspirations 
 
 pure, 
 My friends and fellow-countrymen, our victory is sure. 
 
28 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 " On, then, ye soldiers of the Cross 1 we leave this island- 
 shore ; 
 
 Our well-manned fleet will nobly ride the waste of waters 
 o er: 
 
 We leave our homes, we risk our all, high honors to attain, 
 
 When we return our days to spend in our beloved Spain." 
 
 Ho ! sounds of loud rejoicing now rent the tropic air, 
 And some the priest Olmedo joined in fervent chanting 
 
 prayer ; 
 In the sunbeams lances gleamed, and war-steeds gaily 
 
 pranced, 
 And platoons of dusky Indians to music wildly danced. 
 
 The fleet has left its moorings, and ere the day is done, 
 Far on the dim horizon s verge toward the setting sun 
 The brigantines and caravels, with their white canvas 
 
 wings, 
 Are faintly seen by anxious eyes, like dim departing 
 
 things. 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 29 
 
 SSattle on tfje $tain of 
 
 CORTEZ, hearing that " the country was every where in arms," and being 
 cooped up in the city of Tabasco, which he had taken possession of for 
 the crown of Castile, prepares to leave it, and march against the Indians, 
 who are encamped on the Plain of Ceutla. He reviews his army, and 
 appoints his officers to their respective commands. Prescott says : " The 
 General commanded that Ordaz should march with the foot, including 
 the artillery, directly across the country, and attack them in front ; while 
 he himself would fetch a circuit with the horse, and turn their flank, when 
 thus engaged, or fall upon their rear." The Spaniards leave Tabasco : the 
 sunrise of the misty morning : the appearance of the Tabascans, and their 
 hideous battle-cries : the thunders of the cannon during the battle : the 
 arrival of Cortez with his small troop of cavalry : St. James, the patron 
 Saint of Spain, is seen heading the rescue, mounted on his gray war-horse : 
 the Indians, panic-stricken, " supposing the rider and the horse, which 
 they had never before seen, to be one and the same," fling away their 
 arms, and fly off in confusion. 
 
 WITHIN Tabasco s wooden walls, 
 
 The streets with music ring ; 
 "Within Tabasco s Pagan halls, 
 The Christians matins sing : 
 T is early morn of Lady Day, the flowers still drink the 
 
 dews, 
 While gallantly the cavalier his faithful band reviews. 
 
 The chief s Castilian prancing steed 
 His rider proudly bears ; 
 
30 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 The offspring of a noble breed, 
 
 A noble look he wears. 
 
 He seems the Babieca, on which rode the Cid of Spain, 
 That neighing, longs to trample down the Infidels again. 
 
 See, Cortez heads the cavalry, 
 A small but valiant band ; 
 And Ordaz of the infantry 
 
 Now bravely takes command. 
 Come, Olid, Leon, Avila ; come, gallant Alvarado, 
 Fight like your sires who crushed the Moors, the brave 
 Moors of Granada ! 
 
 The pennons stream, the banners wave, 
 
 The trumpets loudly blow ; 
 While from Tabasco march the brave, 
 
 To fight the Indian foe. 
 No fears have they who draw the sword, so burning is the 
 
 zeal 
 Of those who battle for the Cross, and the glory of Castile. 
 
 O er fields of maize and dripping grass, 
 
 O er marshes rank and wide, 
 The glittering troops of Christians pass, 
 
 With steps of martial pride, 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 31 
 
 Till sounds of barbarous minstrelsy break on eacli startled 
 
 ear, 
 And dimly seeming legions of the dusky foes appear. 
 
 Eound as Minerva s gilded shield 
 
 That on her temple stood, 
 The sun springs up o er Ceutla s field, 
 
 Eed as a globe of blood ; 
 
 And melts the misty covering where, marshalled, are con 
 cealed 
 
 Full forty thousand armed men, who savage weapons 
 wield. 
 
 Now loudly wild Tabascans yell, 
 And curse the Spanish name ; 
 So, Mesa, charge the cannon well, 
 
 And fire with deadly aim : 
 
 To hostile ranks confusion send, and soon the fierce array 
 Of feather-crested warriors shall vanquished flee away. 
 
 The Indians stretching far and wide, 
 
 "With lightning in their glance, 
 JSTow, quick as flows the surging tide, 
 
 Mid savage cries advance : 
 
32 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 On helmet, buckler, escaupil, in showers their arrows 
 
 fall, 
 But fail to kill, while on their gods they frantic loudly 
 
 call. 
 
 The heavy guns their thunders roar, 
 
 The marshy meadows shake ; 
 And echoes, never heard before, 
 From slumber startled wake. 
 
 The horrid scene of smoking blood the boldest heart ap 
 pals, 
 And priests and gods alike are dumb to patriotic calls. 
 
 The death-storm rages on the plain 
 Where slaughtered thousands lie ; 
 And files, that open, close again 
 
 Where balls and arrows fly : 
 
 The weary Christians, closely pressed by a brave and stub 
 born foe, 
 
 With spear in hand, deal right and left full many a deadly 
 blow. 
 
 But see ! yon Indian columns heave 
 With panic-struck dismay ; 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 33 
 
 T is Cortez and his horsemen cleave 
 
 Through maddened ranks their way ! 
 " San Jago and San Pedro !" the soldiers bravely cry, 
 And dash through fierce battalions, that now affrighted fly. 
 
 The eye of Faith without a stain, 
 
 Undimmed by guilf or doubt, 
 Could clearly see the Saint of Spain 
 
 The Unbelievers rout, 
 Well mounted on his gray war-horse, like some chivalrous 
 
 knight, 
 
 Who proudly throws the gauntlet down, for lady fair to 
 fight. 
 
 The combat s o er ; this awful morn, 
 
 So pregnant with dark fears, 
 Shows squadrons slain, and banners torn, 
 
 And bloody swords and spears : 
 But now the sun propitious shines where all was sullen 
 
 gloom ; 
 The Christians march to victory the Pagans to their doom ! 
 
34 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 Christian Camp tit tfje (Srobe of Bairns, antr t&e 
 procession on $alm Suntraa?. 
 
 THE Spaniards leave the battle-field, and retire to a palm-tree grove, 
 where they offer up thanksgivings to the Almighty for their victory over 
 the Tabascans. Cortez sends away his captive warriors with a message 
 to their countrymen. A deputation of inferior chiefs comes and craves 
 leave to bury their dead. The granting of the request : arrival of the 
 nobles and a numerous train of vassals at the Christian camp: their 
 splendid reception : Olmedo and Diaz enlighten their minds respecting the 
 mysteries of the Faith : the solemn procession on Palm Sunday : the image 
 of the Indian deity deposed, to make room for that of the Virgin : the 
 celebration of Mass: the Indians moved to tears: departure of the 
 Spaniards for the coast of Mexico. 
 
 SOME have an air of triumph, and some dejected look ; 
 Some hasten to the gushing stream that feeds the little 
 
 brook : 
 While leaning on their comrades, with measured step and 
 
 slow, 
 The wounded and the weary across the moorland go. 
 
 In the flower-enamelled grove where tower the stately 
 
 palms, 
 The Spanish troops victorious peal forth thanksgiving 
 
 psalms ; 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 35 
 
 While some are counting o er their beads and round their 
 
 standard cling, 
 With Te Deum Laudamus fen and woodland sweetly ring. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Chivalry hurrah ! for gallant 
 
 Spain 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! long live the King, and glorious be his 
 
 reign ! 
 One loud hurrah for Cortez now, whose flag triumphant 
 
 waves ! 
 He comes to scatter seeds of Peace, and break the chains 
 
 of slaves. 
 
 " Stand forth, ye captive warriors," says Cortez, loud and 
 
 stern ; 
 
 "I hope ye may from this sad day a lasting lesson learn. 
 Back to your homes unharmed return, but tell your friends 
 
 from me, 
 That some of your Caciques and Chiefs I soon expect to 
 
 see. 
 
 "And, gentlemen, pray tell them too," he adds with 
 
 haughty air, 
 11 That they to my liege lord the King must quick their 
 
 fealty swear;* 
 
36 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 Or by the great San Pedro and the honor of my word, 
 All, all that in Tabasco live shall perish by the sword !" 
 
 Away they with the tidings speed ; and early on next 
 morn, 
 
 A band of wretched men appear in garments spare and 
 torn : 
 
 " Great Chief! we come with heavy heart, and your per 
 mission crave 
 
 To carry off our slaughtered friends, and lay them in the 
 grave." 
 
 " The leave you ask, Tabascans ! at once I freely give, 
 And none shall e er be harmed by me who wish in peace 
 
 to live ; 
 But quickly your Caciques must come, for, troth, it is not 
 
 meet 
 That I who represent a King should with inferiors treat." 
 
 Soon a long and motley train through the stately maize 
 
 is seen ; 
 
 Now they skirt a hacidnda, now cross savannahs green ; 
 And now they tread the meadow where the tall grass 
 
 gently waves : 
 T is the nobles and their vassals, with a score of female 
 
 slaves. 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 37 
 
 Straight as palm-trees walk the men, with a firm and 
 noble air, 
 
 But some look gaunt. and savage with their black and 
 flowing hair ; 
 
 The slaves- oh ! what can be their hopes and what can 
 be their fears ? 
 
 For some skip lightly o er the sward, and some are shed 
 ding tears. 
 
 Now they leap a little stream, and they pass a flowery 
 
 swamp, 
 And mid music sweetly pealing, they reach the Spanish 
 
 camp, 
 
 Where Cortez and his gallant staff assume an air of state, 
 And, like true gentlemen of Spain, upon the nobles wait. 
 
 Mid greetings and rejoicings, and many nameless queries, 
 The Christians with the Pagans quaff the good old wines 
 
 of Xeres : 
 
 Oh, soon forget the soldiers all their sorrow and their pain, 
 And sing to the Indian damsels the witching airs of Spain. 
 
 Now Diaz and Olmedo, whom faith and love inspire, 
 The heathen hearts soon melt with sparks of sacred fire : 
 Can it be the work of grace, or the logic of the sword, 
 That so rapidly extends the kingdom of the Lord ? 
 
 3 
 
38 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 The merry night is past, and the bugle and the horn 
 Awake the camp, and usher in a sunny Sabbath morn : 
 The wild birds from the meadow in countless numbers 
 
 spring, 
 And lovely flowers that gem the grove around their 
 
 fragrance fling. 
 
 Before they leave in gladness this fair but goldless land, 
 The Christians in procession, with a palm-branch each in 
 
 hand, 
 Through sheeny dew in gay review before their chieftain 
 
 pass, 
 Then march in pomp to celebrate the sacrifice of Mass. 
 
 See, the amice round the neck is negligently flung, 
 The chasuble of purple o er the alb of white is hung ; 
 The girdle and the maniple, and richly broidered stole, 
 Adorn the holy fathers who gravely head the whole. 
 
 Behind them walk the pages who sacred symbols hold, 
 The censor, and the chalice, and crucifix of gold ; 
 One bears the Cross in front with a cassock long and dun, 
 And one a golden Virgin with her ever-blessed Son. 
 
 With curved necks like a crescent next come the mettled 
 
 steeds, 
 And Cortez on his charger like some knight-errant leads ; 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 39 
 
 Caparisoned so richly and decked with garlands fair 
 Oh, well may the Tabascans in wonder mutely stare. 
 
 Now, with a gallant bearing, the infantry advance, 
 And flashing in the sunbeams are musket, spear, and lance ; 
 The banners are unfurled and flaunt gaily in the train : 
 Ah, t is a pageant worthy of the chivalry of Spain. 
 
 Ere long they reach the temple ; and within its gloomy 
 
 walls, 
 The hideous god is quick deposed, and headlong down it 
 
 falls ; 
 
 A sweetly-sculptured Mary, with a radiant face divine, 
 Soon fills its place, and smiles on all who worship at the 
 
 shrine. 
 
 Some say the Pater Noster, and some an Ave utter, 
 Some Angelus Domini in hurried accents mutter ; 
 While others join the chant and devoutly bend the knee, 
 Like true Christian cavaliers, Almighty God ! to Thee. 
 
 The dark, sun-bronzed Tabascans, illumined in the faith; 
 That points to bliss eternal beyond the shades of death, 
 "Who have nobly dangers braved, and have no coward 
 
 fears, 
 Stand, a spectacle to move the heart, with eyes suffused 
 
 in tears. 
 
40 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 Hark ! now the clarion peals, and deeply rolls the drum, 
 And see, in glittering splendor, away the Spaniards come ; 
 They still bear their incensed palms as they had clone 
 
 before, 
 And as they to the temple marched, so march they to the 
 
 shore. 
 
 Freshly blow the tropic winds, and on a surging tide 
 . Once more the Spanish caravels the rolling billows ride : 
 Hurrah ! hurrah I they bravely leave Tabasco s burning 
 
 strand ; 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Mexico, the glorious gulden land ! 
 
 THE Emperor Montezuma retires to his bower in the garden when he 
 hears of the massacre of Cholula, and the determination of the Spaniards 
 to visit him in his own city, and broods over his inevitable destiny. He 
 falls asleep, and Quetzalcoatl appears to him in a dream, the benevolent 
 deity who had long abandoned the country, and of whom it is said, 
 " When he reached the shore of the Mexican Gulf, he took leave of his 
 followers, promising that he and his descendants would revisit them here 
 after, and then entering his wizard skiff, made of serpents skins, em 
 barked on the great ocean for the fabled land of Tlapallan." Tradition 
 and mythology say that "under him the earth teemed with fruits and 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 41 
 
 flowers," and that " the air was filled with intoxicating perfumes, and the 
 sweet melody of birds." The awful predictions of the vision, and the 
 dismal apprehensions of Montezuma. 
 
 IN the vale of Anahuac, like glory s golden crown, 
 Behind the porphyry mountains the sun is going down ; 
 While the Aztec Montezuma to his garden bower repairs, 
 But his eyes are downward cast, and a troubled look he 
 wears. 
 
 On his feet are burnished sandals, on his head a plume of 
 green, 
 
 And his feathered tilmatli is gemmed with stones of spark 
 ling sheen. 
 
 Cascades are leaping by his path, and woodland minstrels 
 sing, 
 
 While shrubs and brilliant flowers around delightful odors 
 fling. 
 
 What to him are battle trophies and bannered palace ^alls, 
 Where feast his nobles and his priests in palm-leaf matted 
 
 halls? 
 What to him his jewelled crown and the pageantry of 
 
 state, 
 When his mighty heart is crushed, and he bends beneath. 
 
 the weight ? 
 3* 
 
42 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 Pavilioned in Ms fragrant bower, he seeks a brief repose 
 From his court-harassing cares and the fear of coming 
 
 woes ; 
 The passing zephyrs gently fan the swarthy monarch s 
 
 brow, 
 And dreams of dark forebodings disturb his slumber now. 
 
 A vision stands before him with a lofty god-like air, 
 And a dark and flowing beard such as mortals never wear ; 
 He seems like some good aged seer whose race is nearly 
 
 run: 
 
 Oh ! comes he from Tlapallan or the region of the Sun ? 
 
 " Submission to the laws of Fate a monarch well beseems ; 
 I am the long-departed god who haunts you in your 
 
 dreams ; 
 I come my mountain land to claim, far from an eastern 
 
 shore, 
 To scatter blessings o er the realm, as in the days of yore. 
 
 " "What though the sanguine Tlaloc showered no reviving 
 rain, 
 
 I ever plenty sent to all throughout this wide domain ; 
 
 In Anahuac s halcyon days no desert spots were seen, 
 
 And clothed were hills, that now are bare, in rich peren 
 nial green. 
 
BALLADS OF MEXICO. 43 
 
 "The air was filled with, sweet perfumes, birds ever joy 
 ous sang ; 
 
 With music wild and ravishing the rocks and Valley rang. 
 
 Now, a mildew blights the flowers, and a gloom pervades 
 the land, 
 
 O er which I waved in glory enchantment s golden wand. 
 
 "You tremble, Montezuma! Why starts the coward 
 tear? 
 
 Be worthy of your princely race : the brave ne er shake 
 with fear. 
 
 Your very days are numbered now ; from Fate you can 
 not fly ; 
 
 And, as an Aztec you have lived, so like an Aztec die. 
 
 "The pale mysterious strangers in pomp and triumph 
 come, 
 
 And yet, unhappy monarch, your oracles are dumb ; 
 
 They climb the steep sierra, they march o er wastes of 
 snow, 
 
 And fierce Tlascalans swell their ranks, your most abhor 
 rent foe. 
 
 
 
 "Showers of arrows harmless fall, and Caciques in anger 
 
 frown, 
 Yet the temples they despoil and the idols tumble down ; 
 
44 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 Lightnings flash and thunders roar in their victorious 
 
 path; 
 They surely are the ministers of Heaven s avenging 
 
 wrath. 
 
 " Impervious is the armor of the Children of the Sun, 
 "Who bring a purer faith than yours, and have no gods 
 
 but one ; 
 
 They speak of man s redemption and universal love, 
 And tell of glorious mansions in a happy world above. 
 
 " They soon shall reach your city gates, soon all your 
 
 treasures claim, 
 
 For to those bold invaders no terror has your name : 
 You cannot stay their onward course, so for the worst 
 
 prepare ; 
 Where your tasselled thongs are hanging you soon shall 
 
 fetters wear. 
 
 "All your gods shall quickly vanish, and never more 
 
 return, 
 
 And palace and teocalli in flames terrific burn ; 
 Ascending smoke shall blacken yon blue and cloudless 
 
 sky, 
 And your boasted Tenochtitlan in wide-spread ashes lie. 
 
OF THE 
 
 OF 
 
 du 
 
 BALLADS OF MEXICO. 
 
 "The waters of Tezcuco shall be crimsoned with the 
 
 blood 
 Of valiant Aztec soldiers, who the brunt of wars have 
 
 stood ; 
 Your subjects that are spared, with a sad and broken 
 
 heart, 
 Shall from fair Anahuac in wretchedness depart. 
 
 " In vain you trust your bloody priests, and on your gods 
 rely, 
 
 Whose altars smoke with hecatombs that loud for ven 
 geance cry : 
 
 The tribes who loathe your very name, yet fear your 
 dreadful sway, 
 
 Shall with a hellish laugh behold your empire pass away." 
 
 As gathering mists the mountain hide, the phantom dis 
 appears ; 
 
 The sweat falls from the monarch s brow, whose eyes are 
 dim with tears ; 
 
 He weeps, whose royal will is law, who never brooked 
 control ; 
 
 The vision and his dismal dream sink deep into his soul. 
 
APOLLYOtf ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 Lo! Man shuddered and trembled when Sin gave me 
 
 birth, 
 
 And Omnipotence crowned me dark lord of the earth : 
 In my right hand he placed a dread sceptre, to wave 
 O er his creatures, all guilty, and doomed to the grave. 
 
 Unseen as the whirlwinds that fiercely pass over 
 Wild regions that wisdom hath yet to discover, 
 I sweep through the bounds of all peopled creation, 
 Jehovah s grand agent of dire desolation. 
 
 I career through the world on a mystical steed, 
 That is swifter by far than a thunderbolt s speed, 
 Join the wild howling tempest, mid thunder and gloom, 
 And the life-blasting march of the desert Simoom. 
 
 Brooding Murder I saw stain the pure virgin sod, 
 Till it blushed, and cried out in loud accents to God, 
 "Who in wrath, with a curse and a withering vow, 
 Set a mark of red guilt on the homicide s brow. 
 
APOLLYON ; OK, THE DESTROYER. 47 
 
 Dark dominion I held when fair Virtue was spurned 
 From the bosom of man, where foul wickedness burned ; 
 And Yice reared her vile altars in every clime, 
 Till e en hell rung with joy at the triumph of crime. 
 
 When the elements raged, and the red lightnings flashed, 
 And the loftiest hills by the billows were lashed, 
 And the mountain-tops rung with the shrieks of despair, 
 In the deluge I plunged the last wretch that was there. 
 
 When sulphur and fire rained in torrents from heaven, 
 Till thousands expired, with their crimes unforgiven, 
 Mid the crashing of cities, and horror, and pain, 
 I triumphantly swept all the dark smoking plain. 
 
 All the empires of old, that were rivals in guilt, 
 And cemented their walls with the blood they had spilt, 
 From existence have passed ; and the vile and the just, 
 With their temples and idols, lie mingled in dust. 
 
 Ere dark priestly creeds every knd had enslaved, 
 Or the sceptre of power by a monarch been waved 
 Ere a sword had been forged, or a diadem worn, 
 Sad bereavements taught Pity to weep and to mourn. 
 
48 APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 Ere the lamp-burning Magi had darkly begun, 
 Like the priests of Osiris, to worship the sun 
 Ere the fable-sprung Brahma s dread name had been 
 
 feared, 
 Shapeless structures, to mark out my triumphs, were 
 
 reared. 
 
 Ere India could boast of her rock-sculptured isle, 
 
 Or young Science had built her huge fanes on the Nile 
 
 Ay, long, long ere the East with her light had been 
 
 blessed, 
 Human frailty succumbed at my awful behest. 
 
 Ere the Druids, white-robed, paid grave honors divine 
 To Albion s green oaks and the sweet-flowing Ehine, 
 Wildly chanting their hymns where fire-shrines were 
 
 lighted, 
 To me bowed a world in dark error benighted. 
 
 I reigned ere Saturn, or Ammon, or goat-bearded Pan 
 Their grim empire maintained o er the worship of man, 
 And ere Virtue and Truth ever dared to assail 
 The altars, blood-stained, of Astarte and Baal. 
 
 Though old Time, like myself, has grown hoary in crime, 
 And complacently views all his trophies sublime, 
 
OR, THE DESTROYER. 49 
 
 Ere his ruins, wide-spread by my subjects, were built, 
 Nature s debt had been paid, and man s blood had been 
 
 spilt. 
 
 When Egypt s proud king, with his satraps and slaves, 
 Shrieked in terror, the sport of infuriate waves, 
 Lo ! I stood and threw o er them my mystical pall, 
 And the billows obedient passed over them all. 
 
 When Sennacherib s host for darkness and error, 
 For carnage and conquest, destruction and terror, 
 Was at midnight asleep on the tent-covered plain, 
 On it lightning I breathed, and it ne er woke again. 
 
 The rude land of vast wastes and of primitive rule, 
 Where the Hadjis encamp by streams grateful and cool, 
 With its wandering tribes still unconquered and free, 
 Has for thousands of years paid large tribute to me. 
 
 Grave Antiquity proudly oft points to the land 
 Where its pyramids lofty still sullenly stand ; 
 But its kingdom, and crimes, and wisdom, and glory, 
 Alike with its annals, live darkly in story. 
 
 Fierce avengers besieged the proud city of old, 
 
 And its walls tumbled down, as the prophets foretold ; 
 
50 APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYEK. 
 
 And now vampires and owls feed their ravenous brood, 
 And beasts dismally howl, where great Babylon stood. 
 
 Where is Nineveh now ? Tis a desolate scene, 
 Swept away from the earth, as it never had been ; 
 And the cities of Commerce that stood by the sea 
 Gave their walls to Decay, and their people to me. 
 
 Sounds of gladness and mirth are unheard, as of yore, 
 And the wilderness rings with sweet music no more ; 
 For Palmyra s lone columns sublimely declare 
 That the last of its people sleep motionless there. 
 
 Where hoar Winter sits throned on his high peaks of 
 
 snow, 
 
 Viewing Summer, all smiling in valleys below, 
 Stern Invasion I ve seen, with his hosts from afar, 
 Cover Syria s plains with the horrors of war. 
 
 From the Persian, and Mede, and star-gazing Chaldee, 
 Becollection reverts, old Damascus, to thee : 
 Where in fresh beauty grow the palm, cypress, and rose, 
 Lie the ashes of armies in dreamless repose. 
 
 What rich harvests I ve reaped on thy beautiful plain ; 
 And the changes I ve seen I may ne er see again : 
 
OK, THE DESTKOYEE. 51 
 
 Side by side, friend and foe, and heap piled upon heap, 
 The Jew, Moslem, Crusader, and fierce Tartar sleep. 
 
 J Mid thy desolate ruins sits rampant Decay, 
 
 Baal-bee ! sun- worshipper passing away ! 
 
 Where once teemed busy life reigns a silence profound, 
 And thy glory and pride topple fast to the ground. 
 
 Thy columns Corinthian still splendidly stand, 
 Disputing the power of Time s levelling hand ; 
 Though dismantled and sacked by rude Caliphs dread 
 
 arms, 
 Yet still lovely thou art mid thy perishing charms. 
 
 Salem ! where are thy kings and thy mighty men now, 
 And the glittering crowns that once graced their proud 
 
 brow ? 
 
 Ah ! fulfilled are the words of thy prophets at last, 
 And the sceptre of Judah for ever hath passed. 
 
 1 still lurk in thy streets, narrow, close, and unclean, 
 Where Destruction and Slaughter triumphant have been ; 
 But no sounds are e er heard of deep sorrow, to wail 
 The mute millions that sleep in Jehoshaphat s vale. 
 
52 APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 I have seen gallant armies thy temples defend, 
 And grave creed after creed thy possession contend : 
 Now the Crescent surmounts mosque and tall minaret, 
 "Where the royal bard sung, and the Sanhedrim met. 
 
 The sky deepened in gloom, earth trembled in wonder, 
 Heaven s armory flashed, and rocks rent asunder - 
 I myself stood appalled, when HE, to save mortals, 
 Passed through my dim shadows and entered my portals. 
 
 Unrestrained mong the hills of Libanus I rove, 
 And still linger, unseen, by stream, fountain, and grove, 
 And where mountains Armenian sublimely arise, 
 Till their snow-covered summits are lost in the skies. 
 
 Greece ! thy sun sadly set o er thy valleys and plains, 
 And where plenty once smiled desolation now reigns ; 
 Hordes unsparing kept Carnage and Euin at work 
 Noble prey for fell Eoman, Goth, Yandal, and Turk ! 
 
 Classic land ! thy lore is the Present pervading, 
 Encircling thy name in a glory unfading ; 
 Beacon -light of the Past ! thy poets and sages, 
 Enshrined in their splendor, shall live through all ages. 
 
APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 53 
 
 On thy rock-rugged shore, since I first o er thee ranged, 
 All all, save the face of rough Nature, is changed ; 
 To thy herbage she still imparts dews and fresh showers, 
 And the bees gather sweets from Hymettus fair flowers. 
 
 All thine altars and fanes now in wide ruin lie, 
 Haughty Carthage, who dared with Earth s mistress to 
 
 vie! 
 
 Like Phoenicia, thy mother, thou liv st but in name, 
 And the world little knows of thy glory or shame. 
 
 Where are they who marched forth at thy war-trumpet s 
 
 call, 
 
 In barbarian pomp, from ISTumidia and Gaul ? 
 Where are Hannibal s troops, renowned only to yield 
 To my terrible sword on the fierce battle-field ? 
 
 When thine armies were slain, and thy fleets were de 
 stroyed, 
 
 Eevenge, reeking with blood, in wild ecstasy joyed ; 
 When Eome s merciless victors thy walls were around, 
 Amid curses and flames thou wert razed to the ground. 
 
 Where, oh where, Syracuse, all thy splendor of yore, 
 In the sunbeams that gleamed and flashed bright on thy 
 
 shore, 
 
 4* 
 
54: APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTKOYEK. 
 
 "When thy prowess so bold, near thy perilous coast, 
 Crushed the proudest armada that Athens could boast ? 
 
 Since Koine s greedy eagles first perched on thy rocks, 
 "War s hell-hounds of Carnage and Earthquake s dire 
 
 shocks 
 
 Have conspired as one foe, until, weary at length, 
 Flushed Success prostrate laid all thy beauty and strength. 
 
 Eome, stupendous and grand, from obscurity rose, 
 Built its splendor on ruins, and plunder, and woes ; 
 To the dust thrones and states were successively hurled, 
 Till the wings of its eagle o ershadowed the world. 
 
 Where is mighty Home now, and the gods it adored 
 And its empire, marked out with a blood-reeking sword ? 
 The sad tales of a fierce, lawless anarchy tell 
 How, crime-bloated and gorged, self-subverted, it fell. 
 
 Oh, ye nations that live, ye shall too pass away ; 
 Even now ye show symptoms of certain decay : 
 And if Eeason, and Truth, and fair Virtue but lead, 
 Old Corruption will die, and new systems succeed. 
 
 Sceptred princes and lordlings must bow at my throne, 
 Where all rank and distinction alike are unknown ; 
 
APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 55 
 
 For the monarch and peasant, the master and slave, 
 Are but food for the worms that inhabit the grave. 
 
 Yes ! the mother in fondness may dote on her child, 
 And her bosom with hopes all delusive be filled ; 
 But in mercy I breathe and, all sinless, it dies, 
 Like the snowflake unstained as it falls from the skies. 
 
 And the maiden all sprightly may dance at the ball 
 Like a goddess of beauty, be worshipped by all 
 And her looks and her air length of days may bespeak ; 
 But I lurk neath the rose that blooms fair on her cheek. 
 
 Lovers, tender, and young, and devoted, and warm, 
 "With no doubts to perplex, nor dark fears to alarm, 
 Eesign life at my will ; and vows that are plighted, 
 With Hope s fairest blossoms, lie prostrate and blighted. 
 
 Virtue, Peace, and Contentment, all smiling and sweet, 
 Throw their charms round the hearth where its glad 
 
 members meet ; 
 
 But how altered their looks, and how mournful the scene, 
 When pale Sorrow tells, weeping, where late I have been 1 
 
 Sweet minstrels may sing of deeds deathless in story, 
 And bards tell of Carnageso falsely called Glory ; 
 
56 APOLLYON ; OR, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 But I come and the soul-stirring notes of their lyre 
 Are unheard in the halls they were wont to inspire. 
 
 The wan, shivering wreck of God s image may quaff, 
 In mean circles, where loudly profane scoffers laugh ; 
 But I nod and the clamorous drunkard is mute, 
 And Derision expires in the hope of the brute. 
 
 The vile miser may worship his coffers of gold, 
 
 Till old age bleach his locks, and his last knell is tolled ; 
 
 And when, as a captive unwilling, I bind him, 
 
 May cling to his idol but leaves it behind him. 
 
 The dissembler, smooth-faced, puts his trust in a name, 
 And oft climbs up the Cross to high honors and fame ; 
 But I seize him at last, with his world-cankered heart, 
 And a conscience more keen than a death-dealing dart. 
 
 Heroes, haughty and proud, at my withering frown, 
 All their blood-crimsoned wreaths and their trophies lay 
 
 down; 
 
 And the insolent hand of Oppression is crushed, 
 And the voice of the babbler and demagogue hushed. 
 
 Turbancd ruffian the dazzling tiara may wear, 
 And fell wretches the will of the tyrant declare ; 
 
APOLLYON; OK, THE DESTROYER. 57 
 
 But they shiver and reel, coward-like, when I come 
 Give a shudder and groan, and for ever are dumb. 
 
 Yea, bold, daring aspirants may pant for renown, 
 And e en lofty Ambition may grasp at a crown : 
 Poor impotent fools ! I but flap my dark pinions, 
 And lo ! they are dashed to my breathless dominions. 
 
 Oh, had dungeons but tongues, to tell mortals below 
 Crime s unregistered deeds, which they never can know 1 
 For Oblivion s black wings still securely conceal 
 The foul guilt and the murders of bigoted Zeal 
 
 Victorious I ride o er the red battle-ground, 
 Where I marshal my shadows and compass it round ; 
 And where Pestilence dire, as my herald of wrath, 
 With its victims all writhing, strews thickly my path. 
 
 When winds lash the waves into fury and madness, 
 And mariners songs change to wailing and sadness, 
 Undismayed, robed in lightnings, the world I defy, 
 Throned on billows that toss their proud crests to the sky. 
 
 When earth s fiery depths in hot fury I enter, 
 The planet convulses and heaves to its centre : 
 
58 APOLLYOK; on, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 More fierce glow volcanoes, while the lava moves on, 
 Till tower, temple, and city are all overthrown. 
 
 My trophies are millions of millions, that slumber 
 All speechless and still as the dust they encumber : 
 The Future mysterious must share the same doom 
 Tread the path of the Past, and be laid in the tomb. 
 
 Ever onward in triumph my course shall I speed, 
 Through the mazes of time, on my lightning- winged steed, 
 And when systems and suns from their spheres shall be 
 
 hurled, 
 I ll expire in the flames of a perishing world. 
 
THE FAMINE ; OR, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 
 
 BEHOLD ! the squalid sons of Want 
 In thousands pace the street, 
 
 And Sorrow s cloud hangs dark upon 
 The brows of all you meet. 
 
 In wretched hovels mothers pine, 
 And children cry for bread ; 
 
 While the anguish of a father s heart 
 In heavings may be read. 
 
 The depths of grief are fathomless 
 That whelm the human mind, 
 
 When mute Despair to nature s call 
 No utterance can find. 
 
 See parents with their little ones 
 Their last sad morsel share, 
 
 And strangely gaze around their cot, 
 All desolate and bare. 
 
THE FAMINE; OK, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 
 
 Their household things have one by one 
 
 For food been pledged or sold ; 
 But all their nameless pangs remain, 
 
 Unwritten and untold. 
 
 Some bid their wretched home adieu, 
 
 Sad spectacle of woe ! 
 They bundle up their little all, 
 
 And forth as wanderers go. 
 
 The storm is drifting on the hills, 
 The moors look cold and bleak ; 
 
 While Famine s wan and starving band 
 A place of shelter seek. 
 
 Night, wrapped in fearful gloom, draws near ; 
 
 Tis now the close of day ; 
 And to yon lordly hall of pride 
 
 Behold them wend their way. 
 
 Anon they stand ; at last they reach 
 
 The massive, sculptured gate ; 
 The husband, sad, proceeds alone, 
 
 His wife, and children wait. 
 
THE FAMINE; on, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 61 
 
 Now fast and thick tlic snow-flakes fall, 
 
 While little offspring numb 
 Cling close around maternal Love, 
 
 All shivering and dumb. 
 
 The mother hugs her dying babe, 
 
 "Weeps o er her tender trust, 
 Yet wonders why she suffers so, 
 
 Since Grod is great and just. 
 
 How many hearts are crushed by Want, 
 
 And in despondence sink ! 
 Some from the cradle to the grave 
 
 The gall of anguish drink. 
 
 But hush ! the watch-dog s bark, aloud, 
 Sounds fiercely through the trees, 
 
 And faintly music s strains are borne 
 Upon the stormy breeze. 
 
 The bell is rung; a menial comes 
 
 A haughty liv ried knave, 
 Who struts and apes the great, and yet 
 
 His master s fawning slave, 
 5 
 
62 THE FAMINE; OK, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 
 
 " What brings you here," lie rudely says, 
 " Where mirth goes bravely on? 
 I ll set old Nero at your heels : 
 Be off! away! begone 1" 
 
 Kepulsed, unheard, he meekly leaves, 
 
 But oh ! his bosom burns 
 With quenchless love for those to whom 
 
 Heart-broken he returns. 
 
 " God s will be done !" his wife exclaims, 
 " We can no farther go ; 
 The heath must be our place of rest, 
 Our winding sheet the snow !" 
 
 " Dear wife, behold ! the star of hope 
 Gleams from yon shepherd s hut ; 
 Tis rare the dwellings of the poor 
 Against the poor are shut. 
 
 " Despair not ! we may live to see 
 
 A smiling home once more ; 
 These little ones all nicely clad 
 As they have been before." 
 
THE FAMINE; OK, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 63 
 
 "Way- worn they reach the humble door 
 
 Of unassuming "Worth ; 
 And soon are snugly placed around 
 
 The welcome blazing hearth. 
 
 Retired, upon a bed of straw, 
 
 No cover o er them spread, 
 The morrow comes the mother wakes, 
 
 And lo ! her babe is dead. 
 
 This is no fancied, idle tale ; 
 
 Tis Truth that gravely speaks, 
 And calls aloud in melting tones 
 
 That "Want assistance seeks. 
 
 Poor orphans wander shelterless, 
 
 A paltry pittance crave ; 
 And some, alas ! soon pine away, 
 
 To fill an early grave. 
 
 The widow s face is bathed in tears, 
 
 And furrowed deep by care ; 
 In sombre weeds she mutely stands, 
 
 The image of Despair. 
 
64 THE FAMINE; OK, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 
 
 A little boy, her darling child, 
 
 Her only pledge of love, 
 A fond attachment manifests 
 
 That would a stoic move. 
 
 Oh ! spurn thou not the trembling maid 
 Whose tears thine aid implore ; 
 
 Tis Virtue clothed in rags, that stands 
 A beggar at thy door. 
 
 Back to your dens, ye hungry wolves, 
 That pant for spotless prey : 
 
 The child of Penury hath charms 
 Gold cannot lure away. 
 
 Nursed in the lap of Poverty, 
 And fed by Christian hands, 
 
 Crouch, Yice ! before her wasted form, 
 She thy superior stands. 
 
 And see Old Age, a mendicant 
 On life s lone verge, appears ; 
 
 He craves, receives, a blessing gives, 
 And thanks the God he fears. 
 
THE FAMINE; OR, THE VIRTUES OF WANT. 65 
 
 meek-eyed Charity ! go forth, 
 
 And with thee take Eelief, 
 To cheer Despondency and stem 
 
 The gushing tide of grief. 
 
 The drooping and the helpless raise ; 
 
 Keen, anguished feelings calm ; 
 And into riven hearts infuse 
 
 A soothing, healing balm. 
 
 While wretched Suffering eats the bread 
 
 By Pity freely given, 
 Lo ! kneeling Gratitude implores 
 
 The richest gifts of Heaven. 
 
THE COYENAUTEBS. 
 
 " L TiiEY lived unknown 
 Till Persecution dragged them into fame, 
 And chased them up to heaven." COWPEB. 
 
 ALL hail, Caledonia I and hail to thy towers, 
 Thy landscapes so lovely, and wild shaded bowers ; 
 To thy mountains, that once in sweet melody rung, 
 And reechoed the songs that our forefathers sung. 
 
 At Pentland and Bothwell, the blood of the slain 
 Gushed forth in red torrents and dewed the green plain ; 
 At Aird s Moss the faithful assembled together, 
 And sung their last song mid the wild blooming heather. 
 
 O Fancy ! go back to those dark stirring times, 
 When Bigotry revelled in carnage and crimes, 
 And visit the heath where the remnant were scattered, 
 And their pale wasted forms lay bloody and shattered, 
 
THE COVENANTERS. 67 
 
 Though stern Persecution stands circled in gloom, 
 Pointing out with his sabre the path to the tomb, 
 They, true to their Master, in faith yet unshaken, 
 "With sweet songs of Zion the wild waste awaken. 
 
 Hark ! a trumpet sounds loudly ; the foe is advancing, 
 The horsemen look fierce, and the war-steeds are prancing : 
 In the breeze blowing softly their banners are streaming, 
 And bright in the sunbeams their helmets are gleaming. 
 
 Frowns shadow their brows as they shout, as they yell, 
 Like demons let loose from the fetters of hell ; 
 And with lances still reeking with blood they have spilt, 
 Heaven-daring and reckless, plunge deeper in guilt. 
 
 The war-tempest rages ; the lightnings are flashing ; 
 Through the smoke-shrouded ranks the coursers are dash 
 ing; 
 
 The brands of destruction are fearfully flying, 
 And deep are the groans of the wounded and dying. 
 
 Brave Cameron s band, to their Covenant true, 
 Whom gold could not tempt nor Oppression subdue, 
 Bound their standard all tattered, still spurning to yield, 
 With their leader unbending, expire on the field. 
 
68 THE COVENANTERS. 
 
 Humanity shudders at horrors so strange, 
 And deep are the breathings of burning Eevenge : 
 Bold Courage still lingers, mild Mercy hath fled, 
 And Freedom weeps mournfully over the dead. 
 
 O Scotland ! though dark be the page of thy story, 
 Names stainless cast o er thee a halo of glory ; 
 Ay, names that posterity proudly shall cherish, 
 And shrine in affection that never can perish. 
 
 Thy daisy-decked valleys and heath-covered hills, 
 Thy sweet-flowing streams and thy wild-gushing rills, 
 Still tell how thy verdure and waters were stained 
 With our forefathers blood ere thy freedom was gained. 
 
 The merciless bigot, in fury and wrath, 
 May spread desolation and crimson his path 
 For a season the murmurs of Freedom be hushed, 
 But its spirit by mortals can never be crushed. 
 
 It lives and will live ! nor can it be driven 
 
 By despots away to its birth-place in Heaven. 
 
 It lives and will live ! till Time s knell shall be rung, 
 
 And the funeral dirge of Oppression be sung. 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 ETERNAL Truth ! rear high thy crest, 
 
 In all thy splendor shine, 
 Where countless millions long oppressed 
 
 In mental darkness pine. 
 
 Subvert all false and hollow creeds, 
 And blood-stained shrines o erthrow ; 
 
 Uproot all rank and deadly weeds 
 That in Mind s empire grow. 
 
 Lead Knowledge to benighted climes, 
 
 The human will direct ; 
 Change sounds of chains to church-bell chimes ; 
 
 Thy sceptre, Faith, protect. 
 
 Thy temples build on every height, 
 
 Dash idols to the ground, 
 That mankind, basking in thy light, 
 
 May worshippers be found. 
 
70 TEUTH. 
 
 Imperial tyrants curse thy name, 
 And tremble at thy glance ; 
 
 And turbaned slaves of vice and shame 
 Eeel back at thy advance. 
 
 The fetters that the mind enslave 
 
 Melt at thy touch divine ; 
 Thy radiant glory gilds the grave, 
 
 And marks its moral thine. 
 
 No earth-born, crawling thing art thou, 
 
 No breathing form of clay ; 
 Death s pallid seal ne er stamped thy brow 
 
 To mark thee for decay. 
 
 Thy name is blazoned on God s throne, 
 
 Thy banner is the sky, 
 On which for ages stars have shone, 
 
 And hymned thy praise on high. 
 
 Celestial Truth ! dispel all gloom, 
 
 And in thy glory reign, 
 That guilty earth may smile and bloom 
 
 A Paradise again. 
 
FREEDOM. 
 
 WHO dare reverse the glorious plan 
 
 Of Him who freedom gave, 
 Who never made his creature man 
 
 To be a crouching slave ? 
 As waves majestic chainless roll 
 
 When tempests sweep the sea, 
 So, with his mind and deathless soul, 
 
 Man is created free. 
 
 But yet cloud-cradled lightnings sleep, 
 
 And thunderbolts repose, 
 While millions slaughtered kindred weep 
 
 In agonizing woes. 
 And tyrants laugh where Freedom dies, 
 
 And songs exulting sing ; 
 While widows wails and orphans cries 
 
 Make vale and mountain ring. 
 
72 FREEDOM. 
 
 Shall stern Oppression, wrapt in gloom, 
 
 Its purple course still run, 
 And make Earth but a hopeless tomb 
 
 Eevolving round the sun ? 
 Forbid, Great God of Truth and Grace! 
 
 Thine awful vengeance spare ; 
 But speed the time when all our race 
 
 True happiness may share. 
 
 Immortal Freedom ! stand thou forth, 
 
 Thy potent sceptre wield, 
 That it may be to moral worth 
 
 A buckler and a shield. 
 Let Virtue on thy standard shine, 
 
 And Truth, the fairest gem 
 That e er was formed by Power divine, 
 
 Adorn thy diadem. 
 
 Let Justice mark thy grand career, 
 
 Man s welfare be thine end, 
 That in his breast love, hope, and fear, 
 
 Like rainbow hues, may blend. 
 No more let ruffian hands profane 
 
 The temples thou hast built, 
 Nor yet thy sacred altars stain 
 
 With marks of scarlet guilt. 
 
FKEEDOM. 73 
 
 Thy blessings rich, diffuse to all ; 
 
 Let "War s dread trumpet cease, 
 And freemen gather at thy call 
 
 To welcome smiling Peace. 
 But while thy sons their fealty swear, 
 
 And round thy banner cling, 
 Let not Ambition discord e er 
 
 Into thy councils fling. 
 
 Lands of the earth ! in love unite, 
 
 And bow to Reason s sway ; 
 Then systems false, upheld by might, 
 
 Shall swiftly pass away. 
 No more shall rage the fearful storm 
 
 That steeps the world in blood, 
 For mankind will sublimely form 
 
 One glorious brotherhood. 
 
MERCY. 
 
 Lo ! Mercy in her chariot bright 
 Hides o er the earth to save, 
 
 And lead from moral gloom to light 
 The poor benighted slave. 
 
 Love smiles on her celestial crest, 
 
 Love is her charioteer ; 
 Love reigns and triumphs in her breast, 
 
 Inspired with holy fear. 
 
 The Olive decks her radiant brow, 
 Faith consecrates her shrine, 
 
 Where all the angel virtues bow 
 To bless her name divine. 
 
 In melting accents mild she speaks, 
 And pleads in strains sublime ; 
 
 But wears no weapon foul, that reeks 
 With deeds of scarlet crime. 
 
MERCY. 75 
 
 On may she ride from shore to shore, 
 
 Till she in triumph wave 
 Her fair, unsullied banner o er 
 
 The bleeding, fettered slave. 
 
 And may her kingdom still extend, 
 
 Till tyrant flags are furled, 
 And Freedom chains asunder rend 
 
 That bind the suppliant world. 
 
POLAND. 
 
 As the sun-light expires at the parting of day, 
 So the light of thy beauty hath faded away ; 
 The harps of thy minstrels are still as the grave, 
 No more may they ring to the call of the brave ; 
 For Freedom and Mercy have fled from thy plains, 
 And nought save the wreck of thy splendor remains. 
 
 Thy vales, that have pealed to the conflict aloud, 
 
 And thy mountains and streams, have been crimsoned 
 
 with blood. 
 
 Mid the turmoil and tempest of carnage and woe, 
 Thy proud eagle soared, and long baffled the foe, 
 Till Oppression s black banner hung dismally o er thee, 
 And Hope on the field lay expiring before thee! 
 
 The mother hath kneeled for the life of her child, 
 And the cry of the maiden been frantic and wild ; 
 
POLAND. 77 
 
 But the merciless vulture hath, pounced on his prey, 
 And the breeze swept their soul-piercing waitings away. 
 The hearts of the slaughtered have bled to the core, 
 And that which was Poland is Poland no more ! 
 
 Shall thy children for ever be wedded to pain ? 
 Shall thy exiles ne er look on their country again ? 
 And wilt thou for ever be deluged with blood, 
 Nor the cry of thy vanquished ascend unto God ? 
 Oh ! would that the clouds of his thunder might rend, 
 And wrath in a chariot of lightning descend I 
 
 The voice of her anguish hath rung to the sky 
 Oh ! yet let the tide of roused feeling roll high, 
 As wave follows wave on the wide-heaving main, 
 Till that which was Poland be Poland again ; 
 Till Heaven s bright sceptre shall scatter the gloom, 
 And Freedom triumphant arise from her tomb ! 
 
 <?* 
 
SCOTLAND. 
 
 MY country ! my country ! I ll love thee for ever ! 
 Fair land of my birth ; I forget thee will never : 
 Though severed from thee by the deep -heaving main, 
 Hope s whispers still tell me I ll see thee again 
 Truth reigning triumphant, thy shores uninvaded, 
 Thy beauty unshorn, and thy thistle unfaded. 
 
 When Summer makes Nature her glories disclose, 
 When Winter is robed in her mantle of snows, 
 And withers the flowerets that deck the gay scene, 
 Thy THISTLE stands forth in its garment of green. 
 Proud emblem of freedom ! disdaining to crouch, 
 The tyrant reels back at its deep-piercing touch ; 
 
 He cannot, he dare not, its beauty deform, 
 For boldly it stands mid the tempest and storm. 
 Oh ! long may it wave on the green mountain side, 
 Unfading as Truth in the strength of its pride : 
 Then spare it, Time, from the wrecks of decay, 
 Till Nature expires and the hills melt away. 
 
THE EMIGRANT S RETUM. 
 3Ltnes toritten on tfje Atlantic <Dceait, 1839. 
 
 OH ! with a thrilling joy have I crossed the main, 
 The land of my birth to revisit again ; 
 The ocean s rude Alps I have journeyed o er 
 To kneel once again on old Scotia s shore. 
 
 While sleepless I mused on my rocking pillow, 
 The ship dashing on o er the crested billow, 
 My heart, beating high like the heaving sea, 
 Still clung with devotion, my country, to thee ! 
 
 I ve stood in the hall Wisdom claims as her own, 
 Where erst valor and worth reared a kingless throne, 
 And patriots vowed that no tyrant on earth 
 Should ever enslave the dear land of their birth. 
 
 I have wandered o er fields, neath a burning sun, 
 Where the battles of Freedom were fought and won ; 
 And with rapturous awe have I speechless stood 
 Where Niagara rolls its eternal flood, 
 
80 
 
 I have trod o er the plains where war s thunders pealed, 
 And his dread lightnings flashed o er a purple field ; 
 And with feelings by sad recollection fired, 
 Have I sat on the spot where brave "Wolfe expired. 
 
 I have rode on the glorious waters blue, 
 Where lightly of yore skimmed the bark canoe, 
 Where the stars and the stripes now proudly wave 
 O er the Indian s hut and the bleeding slave. 
 
 But give me the land where the heather and broom 
 Scent the mountain and glen with a sweet perfume ; 
 Let me wander again by my native streams, 
 Which have murmured so oft in my midnight dreams. 
 
 Oh I to hear once again on the hawthorn bush 
 The ravishing notes of the black-bird and thrush, 
 And the lays of the lark warbling sweetly on high, 
 And the voice of the stream wimpling cheerily by. 
 
 Then give me, oh give me the land of my birth 
 The sweetest, the fairest, the dearest on earth. 
 Scotland ! brave Scotland ! the home of the free, 
 May thy sons never feel less devoted to thee ! 
 
WHEN FREEDOM AN EXILE FROM FOREIGN LANDS CAME. 
 
 Freedom an exile from foreign lands came, 
 Soon hill, grove, and valley rang loud with her name; 
 War s shrill-sounding bugles forth summoned our sires 
 To fight for their country, their altars, and fires. 
 
 Hope s star, that gleamed dimly, shines constant and clear, 
 ISTo foes on our borders now hostile appear ; 
 No war-worn and weary their slain comrades weep, 
 The sword 7 s in its scabbard, and there let it sleep. 
 
 Our commerce thrives briskly, our sails stud the sea, 
 Our flag it waves proudly, to shelter the free ; 
 With hearts beating grateful, and plenty in store, 
 We welcome the stranger that comes to our shore. 
 
 As falls the dew gently on mountain and lea, 
 So fall Heaven s blessings, Columbia ! on thee : 
 Thy sons, like thy eagles, no foe can enslave, 
 Thy daughters weave garlands to honor the brave. 
 
82 
 
 The arm be quick blasted, and withered the hand, 
 That treason would scatter throughout our wide land ! 
 The tree that bears blossoms so rich and so fair, 
 Oh ! who would e er rudely its branches impair ! 
 
THE POET S FIEESIDE. 
 
 YES I there is one above all others 
 
 Fondly still who clings to me, 
 With love more strong than e en a mother s 
 
 Dearest wife 1 tis thee, tis thee ! 
 
 Thee have I found each waking morrow 
 
 In my heart a reigning queen ; 
 Partaker of my joy and sorrow, 
 
 All I ve felt and all I ve been. 
 
 Ah ! could such love be ever riven ? 
 
 Could such love be felt again ? 
 Sealed by the holy stamp of Heaven, 
 
 Could our hearts be torn in twain ? 
 
 No ! years love s fetters only strengthen, 
 Draw them close and closer still, 
 
 And as they tighten, pure joys lengthen 
 Slaves obedient to the will. 
 
84 THE POET S FIRESIDE. 
 
 Sweet Peace and Love reign in my dwelling, 
 Constant inmates, scorning show : 
 
 Blest wedded pair ! for ever smiling, 
 Hand in hand, through life they go. 
 
 Fools may seek tainted springs of pleasure, 
 "Wealth its transient joys may find, 
 
 But Heaven grant me the lasting treasure 
 Of a calm, contented mind. 
 
 The way to bliss, I see it clearly, 
 Would mankind could only see I 
 
 The little sphere I love so dearly 
 Is a world of bliss to me. 
 
 My children I rose-buds young and tender, 
 Snow-flakes yet without a stain, 
 
 With rapture, all they have to render, 
 Kiss me o er and o er again. 
 
 Then why kneel at the shrine of folly ? 
 
 Why desert the social hearth ? 
 Domestic life, so pure and holy, 
 
 Is but heaven brought down to earth. 
 
LIA T ES TO MARY". 
 for a 
 
 BETTER we ne er had met, Mary, 
 
 Than parted thus to be ; 
 My cheeks then ne er were wet, Mary, 
 
 With sorrow s tears for thee. 
 
 Thou wert my pride and joy, Mary, 
 
 Ere passion warmer grew ; 
 When but a very boy, Mary, 
 
 My hopes were fixed on you. 
 
 The vows so often made, Mary, 
 
 In whispers soft and kind, 
 When looks thy love betrayed, Mary, 
 
 Are graven on my mind. 
 
 Yes ! while alone you sit, Mary, 
 
 And thoughts upon me cast, 
 Across thy mind may flit, Mary, 
 
 Sweet visions of the past. 
 
 7 
 
86 LINES TO MAEY. 
 
 Those golden hours of bliss, Mary, 
 
 May ne er again be found ; 
 But since tis come to this, Mary, 
 
 I ll not inflict a wound. 
 
 Though wealth thy charms may win, Mary, 
 
 It cannot banish pain ; 
 The peace that reigned within, Mary, 
 
 You may not know again. 
 
 Your hand you may bestow, Mary, 
 
 And strong emotions curb, 
 But cannot soothe the woe, Mary, 
 
 When nestling pangs disturb. 
 
 You now are sad in speech, Mary, 
 And cares thy smiles displace ; 
 
 While tears begin to bleach, Mary, 
 The roses on your face. 
 
 Oh ! bitterly you find, Mary, 
 
 Though friends approve your part, 
 
 That love alone can bind, Mary, 
 Affection s changeless heart. 
 
LINES TO MARY. 87 
 
 Such thoughts you may not breathe, Mary, 
 
 Yet sighs a language speak; 
 A current rolls beneath, Mary, 
 
 Which your young heart may break. 
 
 Through foreign climes I ll range, Mary, 
 
 And may not see you more ; 
 I ll pleasures seek in change, Mary, 
 
 On some far distant shore. 
 
 Farewell ! Adieu for aye, Mary, 
 
 An angel s peace be thine ; 
 For but one wish I pray, Mary 
 
 In sympathy be mine. 
 
LINES TO ELLA. 
 for a 
 
 BLITHE as the soaring lark, Ella, 
 With sunshine on our way, 
 
 We launched our little bark, Ella, 
 In love s enchanting bay. 
 
 The spring-time of our life, Ella, 
 
 Is now for ever gone, 
 But yet, O dearest wife ! Ella, 
 
 Our hearts beat still as one. 
 
 Age has not bleached our locks as yet, 
 Nor furrowed deep the brow ; 
 
 We leave the Past with no regret, 
 With us tis Summer now. 
 
 The buds and blossoms of our love, 
 
 So rosy, young and fair, 
 Preserved to us by Him above, 
 
 Our blended features wear. 
 
LINES TO ELLA. 89 
 
 Domestic joys with years increase, 
 
 And weary hours beguile ; 
 Contentment and connubial Peace 
 
 For ever sweetly smile. 
 
 Our offspring twine around the heart 
 
 As vines cling to the tree : 
 O God ! may they when we depart 
 
 A Parent find in thee. 
 
ISRAEL RESTORED. 
 
 
 LONG- thy harps have been mute and thy war-banner 
 
 furled, 
 
 Hoary nation in fragments spread over the world ! 
 But light dawns on thy darkness, hope gleams on thy path, 
 And sweet mercy is mixed in the cup of God s wrath. 
 
 Thou hast oft been, O Israel, in sunshine and shade, 
 Since the Lord with thy Chief the new Covenant made ; 
 While the summits of Sinai were wrapped in a cloud, 
 And its bleak shattered sides echoed thunders aloud. 
 
 For thy crimes red as scarlet the Prophets of old, 
 Deeply read in the future, thine exile foretold ; 
 And all changes the God of thy fathers hath willed 
 Are recorded on high, and will yet be fulfilled. 
 
 Wolves have entered the fold, breathing rapine and blood ; 
 Crime exulting hath rode on fierce slaughter s red flood ; 
 And, as if to work out some inscrutable plan, 
 Against thee were let loose the worst passions of man, 
 
ISEAEL RESTORED. 91 
 
 All thy cities, Judah, are desolate now, 
 And no diadem jewelled shines bright on thy brow ; 
 Zion, widowed and sad, bows her head in despair, 
 For the Infidel s banner in triumph floats there. 
 
 Since the eagles of war scattered horrors aronnd, 
 And the walls of thy Salem were razed to the ground, 
 Over thee and thy children dark ages have rolled, 
 But the depths of thy grief and thy wrongs are untold. 
 
 Thou hast silently worn the vile badge of disgrace 
 Which proud custom hath fixed on thy name and thy 
 
 race, 
 
 And as pilgrims all homeless have wandered abroad, 
 Unenfranchised by man and abandoned by God. 
 
 What though empires have fallen and states passed 
 
 away, 
 
 And the earth groans with ruins, the spoils of decay, 
 Though bent to the dust neath the sceptre of terror, 
 Like truth thou hast lived through the midnight of error. 
 
 Living proofs of predictions! for thousands of years 
 Distant climes have been dewed with thy blood and thy 
 tears : 
 
92 ISRAEL RESTOEED. 
 
 But the home of thy fathers, the land of Canaan, 
 Shall resound with the music of Israel again. 
 
 Turbaned tyranny reels, and the Koran is riven, 
 As Truth onward speeds with the Gospel of Heaven ; 
 Systems totter and heave, the Cross heralds thy way, 
 And the Crescent already grows pale with dismay. 
 
 Yes ! tis written with lightning, and heard in the gale, 
 That Jehovah shall triumph and Israel prevail ; 
 That oppression, all ghastly with fire and with sword, 
 Must expire at the withering frown of the Lord. 
 
 Heaven thunders it forth, and Earth loudly replies, 
 That Jerusalem yet from her ashes will rise ; 
 Moslem hordes from her bosom she proudly will^spurn, 
 But enraptured, Israel, will hail thy return. 
 
 Hark ! the strains which the Kemnant in ecstasy sing 
 Make the mountain-girt vales of Assyria ring ; 
 While the hills of Libanus take up the glad song, 
 And Judea the sounds of salvation prolong. 
 
ISRAEL RESTOEED. 93 
 
 Lo ! the tribes the grand plan of Redemption proclaim, 
 In Messiah believe, and rejoice in his name ; 
 And emboldened by soul-cheering smiles from above, 
 Like apostles go forth on the mission of Love. 
 
 Blow the trumpet aloud, for the glad day is near 
 
 "When thou wilt in Decision s deep valley appear ; 
 
 "Now light dawns on thy darkness, hope gleams on thy 
 
 path, 
 And sweet Mercy is mixed in the cup of God s wrath. 
 
THE STARS. 
 
 SEE 1 the fair sparkling Stars, like diamonds bright, 
 Gem the glorious robe of silent night; 
 Dazzling worlds, that in undimmed lustre shine, 
 As if fresh from their Maker s hand divine ; 
 Glowing realms, that mock the Atheist s name, 
 Who for Chance their celestial birth would claim ; 
 Brilliant gems of Creation s changeless crown, 
 To which the Pagan world knelt blindly down. 
 O ye jewels bright of Jehovah s throne, 
 That in matchless, glittering glory shone, 
 That were mirrored far in the depths below, 
 "Where the tides ever restless ebb and flow, 
 Before Sin and Death in their wild career 
 Blasted all that was fair and lovely here, 
 And ere Science young with inquiring eye 
 Scanned the rolling spheres of yonder sky, 
 Ye were whirling round in your orbits grand, 
 Which by nature s God were framed and planned. 
 Ye glorious orbs I we may note the time 
 That ye take to travel your rounds sublime ; 
 
THE STAES. 95 
 
 May compute your distance from the sun, 
 And boast of celestial triumphs won. 
 Science yet may scale your starry height, 
 And on learning pour a flood of light ; 
 But there are things above she may not scan, 
 There are limits set to the powers of man. 
 There s a veil that hides from all searching ken 
 Worlds yet unrevealed to the sons of men. 
 Yet in fancy s flight may the human mind 
 In Creation s space new splendors find, 
 And through powerful convex lenses gaze 
 On the regions where far systems blaze ; 
 Where the suns and revolving planets glow 
 Yet unseen from this mundane sphere below ; 
 Where millions of worlds that we cannot sum 
 Strike wildered Eeason amazed and dumb ; 
 And where Science with all her boasted lore 
 Kneels at the threshold of Wisdom s door. 
 
 What know we of Comets, that volant race 
 That sweep through the desert fields of space? 
 They fearfully come, and they flaming go, 
 And the paths of some we may never know. 
 We see them anon in our starry sky, 
 With their flashing trains, like lightning fly : 
 
96 THE STAKS. 
 
 By the mystic power of the Great First Cause, 
 They are subject all to unerring laws. 
 
 Can it be that those golden lamps on high, 
 
 That radiant spangle the azure sky, 
 
 Were but hung to impart a feeble light 
 
 That mere clouds may blot from human sight ? 
 
 Or that Man might in wondrous rapture stare 
 
 On the bright nocturnal glories there, 
 
 Till Mind, like the mariner tempest-tost, 
 
 Is on a rolling sea of wonders lost ? 
 
 For ever away with such thoughts profane ! 
 
 The Creator ne er made worlds in vain. 
 
 Though Philosophy may not understand, 
 
 Yet in all we see there s a purpose grand ; 
 
 And throughout his countless, vast domains 
 
 A pervading God-like order reigns. 
 
 And oh ! who can prove, or who gainsay, 
 
 Whether mortals there hold social sway ? 
 
 Stars may peopled be, and, for aught we know, 
 
 As with us, the Seasons come and go ; 
 
 And fair flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, 
 
 And birds celestial strains may sing ; 
 
 Mountains may be capped with eternal snow, 
 
 And volcanoes through all ages glow ; 
 
THE STARS. 97 
 
 Mighty rivers on to oceans roll, 
 That Nature s glorious laws control. 
 As e en a drop of water teems with life, 
 So, with nameless forms of existence rife, 
 There may dwell sweet Peace and busy Strife. 
 
 Oh ! ye just and good, when ye leave this sphere 
 With an upright heart and a faith sincere, 
 Yon richly jewelled sapphire dome 
 Is the path to your eternal home. 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 tfje Deatj) of &mtfe $. S&omas, a Wear anlr Dear 
 of tfje 
 
 YOUNG bud of fair promise, 
 
 Hope s beautiful child I 
 How dreary the home is 
 
 Where lately thou smiled. 
 The fireside of gladness, 
 
 And mirth in its glee, 
 Are wrapt in deep sadness, 
 
 And weeping for thee. 
 
 Afflictions are sent us, 
 
 Patience must bear them ; 
 And blessings are lent us 
 
 Freely to share them. 
 In faith thou may st falter, 
 
 frail, erring man ! 
 But thou canst not alter 
 
 God s mystical plan. 
 
THE DEPARTED. 99 
 
 The fond hopes we cherish, 
 
 The things we most prize, 
 Seem first doomed to perish 
 
 And pass from our eyes. 
 Ties strongest and nearest, 
 
 Entwined round the heart, 
 Loves warmest and dearest, 
 
 For ever must part. 
 
 The widow lone-hearted, 
 
 Desolate mother 1 
 She weeps the departed, 
 
 But feels like no other. 
 Sad mourning believer ! 
 
 Her spirit is gone ; 
 Yet bless the Life-giver, 
 
 He takes but his own. 
 
 But why all this weeping 
 
 A form without breath ? 
 Tis Loveliness sleeping 
 
 The calm sleep of death. 
 Since the law is fulfilled, 
 
 And sin is forgiven, 
 Let her go undefiled, 
 
 Young heiress of heaven. 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 WHILE gliding down life s rapid river, 
 Eddies strong impede our course, 
 
 And baffling oft our best endeavor, 
 Whelm us with terrific force. 
 
 Here passions swell, and flashing bubbles 
 Burst their empty forms in air ; 
 
 And on this busy stream of troubles 
 Float the barks of Hope and Care. 
 
 Here friends with honeyed accents cluster, 
 Thick as bees within their hive, 
 
 And at the social banquet muster, 
 
 Court and fawn, while all things thrive. 
 
 But let the sun that shines in gladness 
 Sink in gloom ahove our head, 
 
 And want wear looks and weeds of sadness, 
 Where has boasted Friendship fled ? 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE WOELD. 101 
 
 As unsubstantial shadows follow 
 
 Moving forms in sunny days, 
 Side by side, smooth flatterers hollow 
 
 Wait on knaves and sing their praise. 
 
 Men for different spheres are fitted, 
 
 Some to serve and some to rule, 
 And Merit oft may be outwitted, 
 
 Worth, a lackey, serve a fool. 
 
 Ambition s slaves ape ways of fashion, 
 
 Gild the halls of empty Pride ; 
 Or gaily with the spurs of Passion 
 
 Proudly on to ruin ride. 
 
 Ignoble minds presume that pleasures 
 
 Unalloyed with wealth are found, 
 And, dazzled by earth s glittering treasures, 
 
 Thirst for gold the world around. 
 
 Who can depend on Fortune fickle, 
 
 Or avert the fatal blow 
 When Death comes with unsparing sickle, 
 
 All our cherished hopes to mow ? 
 
102 A GLIMPSE OF fHE WOKLD. 
 
 There are no fragrant paths of roses 
 Free from pricking thorns of care, 
 
 And oft the grave -untimely closes 
 Over Youth and Beauty fair. 
 
 From the palace to the cottage, 
 
 From the hovel to the throne, 
 From the cradle to life s dotage, 
 
 Where are Sorrow s tears unknown ? 
 
 When the heart is sad and dreary, 
 And the Present seems to frown, 
 
 Oh ! how many, of life weary, 
 Wish to lay its burden down ! 
 
 What though the mind be stored with learning, 
 And life s prospect fair to see, 
 
 We ever feel our spirit yearning, 
 Like some caged bird, to be free. 
 
 The gaudy phantoms of the Present, 
 
 That we covet so, and chase, 
 Are like the rainbow evanescent, 
 
 Leaving no enduring trace. 
 
A GLIMPSE OP THE WORLD. 103 
 
 So the world goes on revolving 
 
 In its orbit, as of yore, 
 While creeds and fetters are dissolving 
 
 Upon every tyrant shore. 
 
 Progression s god-like spirit ranges 
 Through all systems, young and old, 
 
 That keenly feel approaching changes, 
 Yet unwritten and untold. 
 
THE SLAVES OF AMBITION 
 
 THE lofty peaks that cleave the sky 
 
 The eagle bold may wing to ; 
 But reptiles mean can crawl as high 
 
 When they have aught to cling to. 
 So tis with man : the towering mind, 
 
 Plumed with wisdom s precious lore, 
 Will leave the vulgar crowd behind, 
 
 And proudly heavenward soar. 
 
 Ambition s creatures creeping rise, 
 
 Up to power may slowly climb, 
 Intent upon the golden prize 
 
 Placed on glory s height sublime. 
 Designing knaves and hireling tools 
 
 Conquests base may oft achieve, 
 And spider-like catch brainless fools 
 
 In the filmy nets they weave. 
 
 slaves of narrow, party creeds, 
 Who your hopes in error ground, 
 
THE SLAVES OF AMBITION. 105 
 
 Ye shout for freedom while she bleeds 
 
 From your own assassin wound. 
 Ye blindly men for measures take, 
 
 Self for love of country show ; 
 And laws of truth and justice break 
 
 Whence the streams of blessings flow. 
 
 As rocks the ocean s rage defy, 
 
 Mock the force of rabid waves, 
 So, firmly on yourselves rely, 
 
 Spurn the iron yoke of slaves. 
 Be men ! and bear your head erect ! 
 
 Never fear oppression s frown ; 
 God will freedom s cause protect, 
 
 And success her struggles crown. 
 
THE COQUETTE. 
 
 I VE been such a fool all the days of my life, 
 I never can be any decent man s wife ; 
 Folk said I was pretty, but heartless and cold, 
 And now the glass tells me that I m looking old. 
 
 The beaux that in rapture would kneel at my feet, 
 Pretend not to know me when seen on the street ; 
 Old fogies that loved me, and boast of their purse, 
 Ne er think of my name but they mutter a curse. 
 
 In dimples, that once were so rosy and fair, 
 Sly Cupid would lurk with his witching art there ; 
 His bow he would pull, off his arrows would flee, 
 That soon brought some heart- wounded lovers to me 
 
 When asked if I d wed them, I laughed, and said Yes, 
 And sealed the fond pledge with a good hearty kiss ; 
 They nightly would come, and were slow to depart, 
 And thought they had won both my hand and my heart, 
 
THE COQUETTE. 107 
 
 /was so haughty they could not subdue me, 
 And they were so blind they could not see through me. 
 They thought I was artless and free from all guile : 
 Poor dupes I they were pleased with a glance and a smile. 
 
 Great havoc I ve made in the heart-breaking line, 
 But none have succeeded in yet breaking mine : 
 1 suppose tis so hardened, or so very small, 
 I wonder sometimes if I ve got one at all. 
 
 When combing my long raven tresses to-day, 
 
 horror ! I found they are changing to gray ; 
 And my wild flashing eyes, where latent power lies, 
 Are circled with wrinkles art cannot disguise. 
 
 Oh, had I but dreamed that my charms soon would fade, 
 
 1 ne er would have been such a wretched old maid. 
 The star of my beauty for ever is set, 
 
 And what am I now but a withered coquette ? 
 
 Though haggard my cheeks and deep furrowed my brow, 
 
 I ll marry no bachelor dotard, I vow ; 
 
 And how can I be any man s second wife, 
 
 With ready-made children to taunt me through life ? 
 
108 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 The doctor so smirking, so proud, and so trim, 
 Had he ingots of gold I ne er could wed him : 
 He looks for perfection, and is so precise, 
 An angel above would have faults in his eyes. 
 
 The lawyer, that fop too, so starched and so staid, 
 I d rather than have him remain an old maid : 
 He boasts of high breeding, and feels mighty big ; 
 The fool, he s bald-headed, and wears a brown wig ! 
 
 And there is the broker, that overgrown calf, 
 Who makes the room ring with his loud empty laugh 
 To please such a fellow I ne er could take pains ; 
 No woman can e er love a man without brains. 
 
 And there is the merchant, with rich jewelled rings, 
 lie struts and he dances, he plays and he sings : 
 With some folk he may for a gentleman pass, 
 I never could wed such a swaggering ass. 
 
 The minister body, that hater of sin, 
 
 Though dwarfish in stature and so very thin, 
 
 He says if I wed him he ll do what he can, 
 
 But Lord ! I want something that looks like a man. 
 
THE COQUETTE. 109 
 
 I hate all the dealers in two-penny wares, 
 
 Who come with their bowing and dancing-school airs; 
 
 And opera-singers I never could bear, 
 
 Whose faces, like monkey s, are covered with hair. 
 
 The mean album rhymer I truly despise, 
 
 Whose themes are for ever red lips and bright eyes ; 
 
 I look with disgust on the parlor buffoon, 
 
 Whose head, like the tide, can be swayed by the moon. 
 
 The would-be wise critic in music and lore, 
 I ever have deemed him a terrible bore : 
 Than wed one so wordy, conceited, and proud, 
 I d rather at once be wrapt up in my shroud. 
 
 Let old lovers sneer, and vain braggarts deride, 
 Who never succeeded in taming my pride ; 
 I ve played well the part of the flirt and the jilt, 
 And still dream of conquests and castles air-built. 
 
 I know tis all folly, and why should I fret? 
 One chance, though a poor one, is left to me yet ; 
 It may be a step that through life I may rue, 
 But what can a wrinkled old maid like me do ? 
 9 
 
THE COQUETTE. 
 
 The man who still loves me with heart and with soul 
 Is true as the needle that points to the pole ; 
 No stories of slander he e er would believe, 
 Who thinks me the fairest descendant of Eve. 
 
 Whiles brightened with hopes, and whiles darkened with 
 
 fears, 
 
 He has kept at his suit for some twenty-odd years. 
 With rapture, at last, he will bear off his prize; 
 And bask to his end in the light of my eyes. 
 
 The next time he calls, o er his feelings I ll steal, 
 And feign what for no man I ever could feel ; 
 I ll witchingly coax him, and while his love warms, 
 My mind is made up to rush into his arms. 
 
THE WORLD OF FASHION. 
 
 YE flaunting dames who proudly follow 
 Gay Fashion s life, so false and hollow, 
 Lay sex aside, on the breeches draw, 
 And to hen-pecked man lay down the law. 
 
 What are morals in this wondrous age, 
 That would dare with Fashion war to wage ? 
 Teach your daughters fair to fancy men 
 "Who are classed among the upper ten. 
 
 Nature s laws are wrong, as ye may see, 
 And by Fashion they should righted be ; 
 Wives of pride and sense can clearly prove 
 None but silly fools in blindness love. 
 
 As your precepts and example shew, 
 Tis a vulgar thing to. spin and sew ; 
 None but low-bred "trash and common dirt" 
 Ever mend auld breefo or make a shirt. 
 
112 THE WORLD OF FASHION. 
 
 Though your mothers at the wash-tub stood, 
 Fortune s favors soon ennoble blood, 
 And beggars sans a decent shift 
 From a shanty to a palace lift. 
 
 Fashion builds her churches, has her priests, 
 Who will dance attendance at her feasts ; 
 While the poor from cushioned pews are driven, 
 To seek elsewhere a road to Heaven. 
 
 If ye wish esteem, still hold in scorn 
 That aspiring class ignobly born ; 
 While they meanly ape, and fume, and rail, 
 Oh, ye heads of Fashion, cut the tail. 
 
 And to make your daughters empty fools, 
 Send them off to Fashion s boarding-schools : 
 They will soon forget their mother tongue, 
 And the mother too from whom they sprung. 
 
 With dresses made in Parisian ton, 
 Ye may find them at the Springs anon, 
 With their painted cheeks couleur du rose, 
 Coquetting round with their brainless beaux. 
 
THE WOELD OF FASHION. 118 
 
 To be noted they must cut a dash 
 With some Count who wears a big moustache ; 
 Who sees each time he looks in the glass 
 The counterpart of a perfect ass. 
 
 They may idols be in gay saloons, 
 
 Flirt with fops who look like starched baboons ; 
 
 Join the giddy waltz or masquerade, 
 
 Where silly heads play a heartless trade. 
 
 Soon home they come with their noddles turned, 
 Talk of splendid offers proudly spurned : 
 Tis the boast of fools, and of not a few 
 Versed in morals taught by Eugene Sue. 
 
 They ll order round with a haughty air, 
 And nought but silks and satins wear ; 
 With their tricks of art and cunning wiles, 
 They blockheads catch in a net of smiles. 
 
 A class there is who with wit evince 
 A warm regard for some merchant prince, 
 Who has raised himself from tapes and thread 
 Among Fashion s slaves to take the lead, 
 fl* 
 
114 THE WORLD OF FASHION, 
 
 Can ye wonder, thinking parents, then, 
 That your thoughtless girls wed roue men, 
 Since Peace and Hope and Joy are sold 
 For bricks and mortar, lands and gold ? 
 
 Ye may count your thousands o er and o er, 
 And Common Sense drive from your door ; 
 But Kemorse will force an entrance there, 
 And cloud the brow with dark despair. 
 
 This world is a scene of ups and downs, 
 It smiles to-day and to-morrow frowns ; 
 And in Fashion s sphere, where move upstarts, 
 Empty pockets soon make bankrupt hearts, 
 
 Go ! hew for pearls in a granite rock, 
 Or seek for brains in a barber s block ; 
 And your search will prove no less in vain, 
 Than to find true worth in Fashion s train. 
 
JEMY LLWS SONG OF SWEDEN. 
 
 THRONED on fortune s height giddy, to pride selfish un 
 known, 
 
 My poor heart throbbing grateful, Heaven s blessings doth 
 own ; 
 
 While it feels for the needy, icy cold may it be 
 
 Ere it recreant prove, my loved Sweden, to thee ! 
 
 Oft in my slumbers I dream of my kindred and home, 
 And with rapturous feeling over early paths roam ; 
 But ere my eyes close in sleep duty bends low the knee, 
 To implore Heaven s blessing, my Sweden, on thee I 
 
 Could the Songstress but scatter joys unmingled around, 
 Want and hearts aching should ne er on this wide earth 
 
 be found ; 
 
 My cup of bliss would be full the poor happy to see, 
 I should never more wander, my own Sweden, from thee ! 
 
 When my heart s mission is o er, and life nears its dark 
 
 close, 
 
 Oh I may this weary head rest where my fathers repose : 
 My country ! tell thou the poor, who may yet speak of me, 
 The gold of Success could not lure my heart, Sweden, 
 
 from thee ! 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM HENRY HARBISON. 
 
 BUT yesterday and every tongue, 
 In accents sweet, his virtues sung ; 
 And loud the azure welkin rung 
 
 With cordial shouts of gladness. 
 Let harps be tuned to strains of woe, 
 And melting music softly flow, 
 For death has laid the hero low, 
 
 And wrapt the land in sadness. 
 
 But yesterday in happy mood 
 His warm heart beat with gratitude, 
 And statesman-like mid thousands stood, 
 
 And graced the scene sublimely. 
 Fame, trumpet-tongued, proclaims his worth, 
 And West, and East, and South, and North, 
 In weeds of grief, come pensive forth, 
 
 To weep his loss untimely. 
 
 See ! Honor, Yalor, Worth appear, 
 And bend with Freedom o er his bier, 
 To shed the sympathizing tear 
 His firmest friends in danger ! 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF W. H. HARRISON. 117 
 
 Stand back, Ambition ! come not thou, 
 With crimsoned laurel round thy brow, 
 A haughty mourner low to bow ; 
 Thou wert to him a stranger. 
 
 Ye martial chieftains ! sadly come, 
 With waving plumes and muffled drum, 
 For war-tried soldiers proudly sum 
 
 His deeds renowned in story. 
 Let Beauty come ! and Peace attend, 
 To view the last rites of a friend ; 
 And Youth and Age behold the end, 
 
 The close of human glory ! 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL ZACHARY TAYLOR. 
 
 MOURN deeply, ye States, lie lias left us for ever; 
 His spirit lias fled to the mighty Life-giver; 
 Be wrapt for a season in sorrow and tears, 
 Your hero is gone, full of honors and years. 
 
 While earring a niche of renown with the great, 
 And guiding the helm of the grand ship of State, 
 The angel of Death, breathing mercy and love, 
 Brought an escort of seraphs to bear him above. 
 
 A halo of glory encircles the name 
 Of him who expired in the full blaze of fame ; 
 And shrined in the hearts of the brave and the free, 
 It only can perish, Freedom! with thee. 
 
 For Freedom s great cause and the land he adored, 
 He drew from its scabbard his patriot sword ; 
 It flashed in the field till War s thunders did cease, 
 And its point was bedecked with the Olive of Peace. 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF GEN. Z. TAYLOR. 119 
 
 Let drums be black muffled, processions move slow, 
 While music sends forth melting dirges of woe ; 
 Let the stars and the stripes "wrap the bier of the Chief, 
 And sword-hilts be mounted with symbols of grief. 
 
 Columbia! let flowers of his native land bloom 
 In freshness and beauty around the Chief s tomb ; 
 "While pilgrims repair, even generous foes, 
 To bless the green turf where his ashes repose. 
 
K S S U T 11 . 
 
 GIVE the Magyar a welcome, ye sons of the free, 
 Since his life is devoted, Freedom ! to thee ; 
 Bless the hero that comes to her blood-purchased soil, 
 Where no king can enslave and no tyrant despoil. 
 
 Give the Magyar a welcome with heart and with hand, 
 Where each man is a monarch who lives in the land ; 
 Let him feel that the flag which floats o er him in pridej 
 Wraps the brave in its starry folds graceful and wide. 
 
 Though he comes not in pomp, though he comes not in 
 
 power, 
 
 To be gazed at by crowds for a brief passing hour, 
 There s a halo around him, a spell in his name, 
 That may yet the down-trodden of Europe inflame. 
 
 Though he hears not tKe drum and the bugle of war, 
 Let the winds waft the shouts of his welcome afar : 
 They may wake the hushed spirit of Freedom again, 
 And her songs be reechoed on mountain and plain. 
 
KOSSUTH. 121 
 
 Hard on Hungary s neck rests the Autocrat s heel ; 
 Deep in Hungary s heart reeks the Austrian s steel : 
 Her people are crushed and her banners are riven 
 Oh ! why sleep the bolts of the vengeance of Heaven ? 
 
 Perjured monarchs may prate, and their minions deride 
 The soul-strivings of millions with Eight on their side ; 
 They may stagger with blood, like the drunkard with 
 
 wine, 
 But where, where shall their thrones be when freemen 
 
 combine ? 
 
 Sooner waves of the ocean their murmurs may cease, 
 Or the tiger in mercy his victim release, 
 Than the despots of Europe would slacken the yoke 
 Till shivered to atoms by Freedom s bold stroke. 
 
 Then, oh ! welcome brave Kossuth, ye favored of earth, 
 For he fought, like your sires, for the land of his birth : 
 May the flame that he kindled unquenchably burn, 
 Until Honor and Glory shall hail his return. 
 
 10 
 
THE AUCTIONEER. 
 
 WHO lives in old Gotham, in comfort and ease, 
 
 And knows not the wit and wag, Auctioneer Keese ? 
 
 His head, like his person, though small, yet contains 
 
 An extra supply of industrious brains ; 
 
 And bumps like mole-hills, on the map of his skull, 
 
 Show passions the reins of his government pull. 
 
 His eyes from beneath sable curtains appear, 
 
 His ears are aye ready the last bid to hear ; 
 
 His nose it is long, and his cheeks pale and thin, 
 
 And shaggy black wool wildly grows on his chin. 
 
 Strict search among Christians could find very few 
 
 That so much resemble keen Shylock the Jew ; 
 
 But tis only in looks : and pray do not start, 
 
 He s blessed with a good and a generous heart ; 
 
 And would that the Auctioneer only could stray 
 
 Where Mammon s bright ingots might fall in his way ; 
 
 Then friends, by the score, to his table would run 
 
 Thick as insects that dance in the rays of the sun, 
 
 And feast with a rapture not hitherto felt, 
 
 While eagles, like snow-flakes, would rapidly melt 
 
 But labor does not always fortunes insure, 
 
 And fools may have riches and wise men be poor. 
 
THE AUCTIONEER. 123 
 
 Shrewd Prince of the Hammer ! his tough wiry frame 
 
 For enduring fatigue puts the giants to shame ; 
 
 His shoulders, though narrow, let no one deplore, 
 
 Might well challenge Atlas, the Titan of yore ; 
 
 His voice is not thunder, yet rich, deep, and clear, 
 
 His throat never rusts for the want of good cheer ; 
 
 His tongue onward wags, oh! the queer joking rogue, 
 
 While tireless he wades through a long catalogue. 
 
 In humor and wit there s no want of supply, 
 
 For thick as the sparks from an anvil they fly ; 
 
 Deep read in the lore of Book title-pages, 
 
 He well knows by name the great of all ages : 
 
 All authors, from Moses and Homer of old, 
 
 Like the Phrygian Midas, he turns into gold ; 
 
 That stupid king said, whose heart was so hollow, 
 
 Pan could sing better than matchless Apollo : 
 
 An insult so foul the god could not let pass, 
 
 So his royal head decked with huge ears of an ass ; 
 
 Tis not so with John, for a whisper and nod 
 
 Show he s got the eyes and the ears of a god ; 
 
 And though strange, tis not the less true, that he s blest 
 
 With gifts that the heathen king never possessed. 
 
 While at his droll wit and his humor you laugh, 
 
 Lo ! sheep-skins are suddenly changed into calf; 
 
 And leather, well dressed, that once covered some ewes, 
 
124 THE AUCTIONEER. 
 
 He turns to morocco you cannot refuse. 
 
 By some trick uncommon of legerdemain, 
 
 Quick, cider is found to be Heidsick champagne ; 
 
 Ale brewed up the Hudson by some pompous botch, 
 
 One rap of his hammer will turn to good Scotch. 
 
 Tis the same with the Arts : If pictures you buy, 
 
 On the taste of the connoisseur seller rely ; 
 
 If Kaphael or Kembrandt you may not well like, 
 
 He ll sell you a Titian, perhaps a Yandyck ; 
 
 Or, should you prefer it, just by the same rule, 
 
 A Teniers may get of the true Flemish school ; 
 
 A Correggio, more than three hundred years old, 
 
 For the price of some blockhead s production is sold ; 
 
 A Gruido and Eubens, of beauty and grace, 
 
 So seldom seen now in an auctioneer s place 
 
 A Murillo, and eke a true Claude Lorraine, 
 
 Are found in the list of the Great Master train ; 
 
 There Salvator Eosa s grand pictures of gloom, 
 
 And Hogarth and Wilkie, all share the same doom. 
 
 Should you wish sheep or cattle pray do not sneer 
 
 You ll instantly get an undoubted Landseer ; 
 
 And if hogs you prefer, that look like living swine, 
 
 Keep easy, a Morland will doubtless be thine ; 
 
 Or if native talent you may deem the best, 
 
 Bear home to your parlor a Benjamin West. 
 
THE AUCTIONEER. 125 
 
 Should you wish canvas angels taken from life, 
 You may get a nice batch to present to your wife ; 
 And statues from Phidias down to our time, 
 Or frescoes long plundered from temples sublime ; 
 Old relics of saints, vellum missals of priests, 
 Stuffed birds of rare plumage and beautiful beasts 
 All are knocked down by great Auctioneer Johnnie, 
 So, one and all, purchase sans ceremonie. 
 
MY BACHELOR HEART. 
 
 MY dearest Louise, oh ! I cannot upbraid, 
 Although with my heart you have sad havoc made : 
 With a form of such grace, and a face so divine, 
 I fear, my dear loved one, you ne er will be mine. 
 
 Like the raven, your hair is so black and so bright, 
 And your eyes are as dark as the darkness of night, 
 Yet so lovely and beaming, they quickly impart 
 A love-speaking thrill to my bachelor heart. 
 
 And, charming Louise, oh ! your rich coral lips 
 Are sweet as the honey the mountain-bee sips ; 
 Your cheeks are more fair than the roses that bloom, 
 And shed in Love s garden their matchless perfume. 
 
 Words fail to express all the joy and the bliss 
 I feel in the warmth of your rapturous kiss : 
 When first your fair form to my bosom I pressed, 
 Love kindled its flame in my bachelor breast. 
 
THE ALBUM. 127 
 
 Oh ! give me but hope, sweet Louise, and I vow 
 I shall love you through life full as warmly as now : 
 In joys and in sorrows, in weal and in woe, 
 Our young hearts were made for each other, I know. 
 
 THE ALBUM. 
 
 BOOK of intellectual flowers, 
 Beared and culled in leisure hours, 
 Be thou a garden chaste and meet, 
 Thy fruit for ever pure and sweet, 
 That maidens fair and hoary sages 
 May gaze with rapture on thy pages. 
 
 Here let me plant a daisy then, 
 
 The meekest flower that decks the glen, 
 
 Which, though a wild and common weed, 
 
 All may from it a lesson read : 
 
 It buds and blooms, then fades away, 
 
 By "Winter doomed to short decay, 
 
 Like man, to live some brighter day. 
 
THE WELLS WEAEIE. 
 
 WHEN gloamin coost its shades aroun, 
 
 A wee afore the mirk closed in, 
 Young Jamie wi his Lucy stray d, 
 
 Frae out Dun Edin s smeek and din. 
 The tow ring craigs aboon their head 
 
 Wi loud souns o the pibroch rung, 
 An far out-ower the bubbling springs 
 
 Their shadows big were dark ning flung. 
 While doun upon a stane they sat, 
 
 Their hearts beat warm an cheerie, 
 An wi a nameless rapture thrill d, 
 
 Amang the Wells o Wearie. 
 
 The moon threw off her robe o clouds, 
 An shone bricht on the lanely schaw ; 
 
 She like a gleamin falchion hung, 
 Ahint Craigmillar s toppling wa . 
 
 The starnies shimmer d in the lift, 
 As thick as gowans on the lea ; 
 
THE WELLS O 7 WEARIE. 129 
 
 And Nature had retired to rest, 
 
 Wi a her woodland minstrelsy. 
 Loof lock d in loof, the lovers sat, 
 
 Tho lone they were na drearie ; 
 A warld o bliss they drank that nicht 
 
 Amang the "Wells o Wearie. 
 
 " Lucy ! I hae lo ed ye lang, 
 
 As nae dout ye Ve jelous d ere noo ; 
 My passion I daur ne er reveal, 
 
 For fear a frown wad shade your broo. 
 An , lassie, gif I now offend, 
 
 Forgie the heart that s wholly thine, 
 An let me still remain a friend, 
 
 Tho frae my soul I wish thee mine." 
 The tears ran doun sweet Lucy s cheeks, 
 
 She gently hung her modest head ; 
 A saft rebuke escaped her lips, 
 
 Frae which he could deep meaning read. 
 "An is it so," he then replied, 
 " My young an guileless dearie? 
 This nicht we 11 pledge our bridal vows 
 
 Amang the Wells o Wearie." 
 
130 
 
 " Ye hae my hand, here is my heart, 
 
 Accept them baith, my marrow true ; 
 Tho gowd tak wing and flee awa, 
 
 Your Lucy will prove leal to you. 
 My minnie aft wad say hersel 
 
 She thocht ye was ower fond o me : 
 Yet still at hame ye Ve welcome been, 
 
 When Lucy ye wad come to see. 
 Your winsome smiles an bonnie een 
 
 Maist tauld me a that ye Ve confest ; 
 Slee kisses ye wad steal sometimes, 
 
 An left me aye to guess the rest. 
 Noo by yon moon, and by those stars, 
 
 That licht this spot sae eerie, 
 I 11 keep till death the vows I Ve made 
 
 Amang the "Wells o Wearie." 
 
 Their vows were kept, an faithfu kept, 
 
 As a should aye keep wi their marrow ; 
 And wha wad dare sic bliss disturb ? 
 
 Wha wad dare love s circle narrow ? 
 Twice twenty years hae flown sin syne, 
 
 To join their forbears o the past, 
 Still Jamie and his Lucy live, 
 
 Tho bent wi years an sinking fast. 
 
131 
 
 The bairnies o their bairns they Ve seen, 
 
 Wi muckle pride, grow up to men ; 
 Their precepts and example guid 
 
 Shaw d sure the way to mak a fen. 
 The unco changes o the age 
 
 May weel I trow confound them ; 
 While the curtain o the warld s stage 
 
 Seems closing fast around them. 
 Sometimes the twa will toddle out, 
 
 Forfouchten sair may dander, 
 Out ower the very clover fields 
 
 Where they were wont to wander. 
 They still may hear the black-bird s notes, 
 
 The laverock s sangs sae cheerie ; 
 But Time s rude hand hath swept awa 7 
 
 The bonnie Wells o Wearie. 
 
THE WINTER SQEG OF THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 FAR out-ower the cauld nrnir, an laigh in a howe, 
 By a deep sheugh thro whilk a burnie rins down, 
 
 Weel shielded frae storms by a heather-croun d knowe, 
 My sma biggin stan s, wi a fale-dyke aroun . 
 
 What tho down the lum-heid the flauchters fa in, 
 An fizz for a jiffie whare het the peats lowe, 
 
 Snaw may drift, an winds sough aroun the bleak bin, 
 The plooman o care never furrows my brow. 
 
 The trees are a leafless, the forests a bare, 
 
 The flowers are a withered, an Winter is here ; 
 
 The bonnie wee robins my hamely meals share, 
 That hap to my shielin an think-na o fear. 
 
 I hae peats in the yard, an hay in the mow, 
 An dizzens o eggs that the chuckies hae laid ; 
 
 A guid thumpin kebbuck, a soun yet I trow, 
 
 Save holes that some wee thievin mousie has made. 
 
THE WINTER SONG OF THE SHEPHERD. 133 
 
 The sheep in the fauld fin eneucli for their mou , 
 Ne er toom is the draff-pock for Bessie the yad ; 
 
 My ambry s weel stockit, my meal-buist is fa - 
 What mair needs a body to mak the heart glad ? 
 
 When at ora times thochtfu , I m dowie an wae 
 Wi thinkin o things that I canna weel name, 
 
 A wee drap o barley -bree cheers me up sae, 
 I feel like a laird in my strae-theekit hame. 
 
 There s Davoc the herd, the pluffy bit callant, 
 
 Wi no a bane doxie about him ava, 
 He 11 blaw on the pipes, or croon an auld ballant 
 
 The lang nichts o winter slip blithely awa. 
 
 Foment the peat-nuik, on a clean bed o strae, 
 The puir thing contented as onie lies doun ; 
 
 He s up in the mornin afore screich o day, 
 
 The image o health for his sleep has been soun . 
 
 There s the collie forebye, my best frien o frien s, 
 
 There s nae dog that wouffs half sae tentie as lie ; 
 Like mysel , for nae pampered bicker he griens, 
 
 An mornin and nicht taks his crowdie wi me. 
 11 
 
134 THE WINTER SONG OF THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 When sheep loup the dykes, or rin aff frae the lave, 
 Quick as stoure in a blast he s at their bit fads ; 
 
 When cauldly snaw-wreaths wad sune gie them a grave, 
 To spare them out-owre the moss-muirland he scuds. 
 
 The whaup braves the storm, the peesweip cries its name, 
 An aff to its covert the pairtraik may flee, 
 
 Sae, true to my nature, I naething mair claim 
 Than Providence kindly has ettled for me. 
 
 About braws am siller I ne er fash my thum 
 They breed yed an cares that I downa weel ken ; 
 
 It s clear as the peat-reik that gaes up the lum, 
 If thriftie, the maist o folk aye mak a fen. 
 
 The Spring-time will come, an warm sunshine will bring, 
 The ice-lockit burnies flow gushin an free ; 
 
 The heather will bloom, an the sweet linties sing, 
 An aff to the schaws a the robins will flee. 
 
 Syne Simmer will come, clad in raiment o green, 
 The ewes an their lammies will bleat on the lea ; 
 
 The woods choral ring whare noo Winter is seen, 
 An gladness smile sweet on my wee hut an me. 
 
AULD DAYIE. 
 
 AULD Davie, time-honert, maist doited an donnert, 
 Has seen the cauld winters o fourscore an twa ; 
 
 He danders fu glegly aboot his bit mailin, 
 An aye gies a welcome to frien s that may ca . 
 
 Gif ye tak but a turn doon the brae by the burn, 
 
 Whare schule weans gang soukies an sourocks to pu , 
 
 Ye 11 see his laigh haddin wi divots weel theikit, 
 The hame o contentment whare wants are but few. 
 
 Davie had but ae wife i the course o his life, 
 An wae was the day when she slippit awa : 
 
 His ingle s been drearie sin he lost his dearie, 
 The greatest mishap that e er could him befa . 
 
 Till o late he could ploo, but he canna do t noo, 
 
 An Time, the hair bleacher, has whitened his croun ; 
 
 On the rigs at the hairst he was mair than a match 
 For ony swack birkie the hale kintrie roun . 
 
136 , AULD DAVIE. 
 
 The couthy auld body may tak his drap toddy, 
 Has a the bit comforts his sma needs require ; 
 
 His rauchan hamespun keeps him cozie an warm, 
 An blithely he looks by his peat-lowin fire. 
 
 By neebors respeckit, he ll ne er dee negleckit, 
 Altho he be puir, an his back at the wa ; 
 
 Oh 1 rare virtues gild the last days o auld Davie, 
 Wha aince was the laird o yon proud-looking ha . 
 
 It s but seldom he speaks o his ain youthfu freaks, 
 For auld folk, ye ken, their fau ts ne er will alloo ; 
 
 Yet his heart seems to warm, an his blear d e en look 
 
 bricht, 
 When he cracks o the days when he first gaed to woo. 
 
 His stories auld farrant, that age will aye warrant, 
 
 The youngsters will mind when he s low in the mools ; 
 
 Ere by years he was bent a their gutchers he kent 
 Wi maist o them Davie had gane to the schules. 
 
 The carl s cantie an crouse, but at times unco douse, 
 He feels himsel day by day wearin awa : 
 
 The saut tears rin doun ower his time-furrowed cheeks 
 When thochts seem to rest whare his hopes are hung a 
 
AULD DAVIE. 1ST 
 
 In the gloamin o life, far awa frae a strife, 
 May we bide the fate that awaits us a soon, 
 
 As the sun at the gowden-cloud gates o fche West 
 Seems to linger awee afore it gangs doon I 
 
 II* 
 
AULD SNUFFIE. 
 
 HAE ye seen on the road the pawkie auld tod, 
 Slow drivin* his nag to some puir body s hame ? 
 
 The wee snuffie foutre looks mair like a souter 
 Than ane wha feels big wi M.D. at his name. 
 
 This odd thing o j nature, sae scrimpit in stature, 
 Has eidently keepit but ae end in view ; 
 
 By sair wames an 3 stitches he^s made a his riches, 
 An 5 fast frae mere naething to somebody grew. 
 
 This wonderfir 5 Buchan has got a big sple&chan, 
 In which he rows up a his doses an* bills > 
 
 There s disease in the touch o 5 its auld creeshie po^ch, 
 An death is aft found in his nostrums and pills, 
 
 Wi pechan an puffin , an hostin an 7 snuffin , 
 
 Ye 11 a ken fu weel when he s at your room door? 
 
 It s aye, " How s a 1 wi ye? I m sae glad to see ye ; 
 Ye ne er a 1 your days lookit better afore." 
 
iikSiTY J 
 
 ^ 
 AULD SNUFFIE. 139 
 
 Strong hopes he ll hand oot, e en when death s past a 
 doot, 
 
 An 7 words o* sweet comfort the body will gie ; 
 Your pulse he will feel, say you re doin fu weel, 
 
 Altho 7 gaspin your last, as ilk ane may see. 
 
 Sae wheedlin an 7 fleichin lang "blethers aye preachin , 
 Fu 7 loud his ain trumpet o skill does he blaw ; 
 
 For the little he kens, some guid deeds mak amens, 
 Glib-gabbet the body s weel likit by a . 
 
 The rompin young queans, in their sweet buddin teens, 
 He 11 flatter an 7 ca 7 them a 7 bonnie an 7 braw : 
 
 When they get to be wives, a 7 the rest o 7 their lives 
 Nae ither man-howdie will they hae ava. 
 
 An 7 if wi 7 the married a young ane 7 s miscarried, 
 Or some slicht departure frae Nature s great laws, 
 
 This marvellous body, wha rides in a noddy, 
 Will wisdom affect to assign the true cause. 
 
 But if wi 7 some hizzie youVe been rather busy, 
 An 7 dune the bit job that ye like na to name, 
 
 Let that thing no tease ye, but feel unco easy, 
 He 7 11 sune fin 7 a cover to hide a T the shame. 
 
140 AULD SNUFFIE. 
 
 An if wi high feedin ye start* need o bleedin , 
 Look out that the fountain itsel rins na dry : 
 
 So first mak your will, gif ye feel rather ill, 
 
 You 11 sune be laid snug where your forefathers lie. 
 
 He 11 sigh deep an pray wi young widows, they say, 
 When loved anes are cauld in their lang dreamless rest ; 
 
 He 11 e en shed a tear ower a dead husband s bier, 
 An tell greetin Men s that it s a for the best. 
 
 Should bairnies be bokin , wi hoopin -cough chokin , 
 An strangling puir wee things I in death s iron grip, 
 
 This medical body, this shauchlin auld cuddy, 
 Will look on sae doitit, an see them aff slip. 
 
 This grannie in breeches, wha blisters an leeches, 
 
 An calomel doses deals oot by the pun , 
 Will roar in a chorus, an drink deoch an 1 doruis, 
 
 An join cantie birkies in a kinds o fun. 
 
 Wi chiels i the clachan, ye 11 hear him loud laughin 
 In fine simmer nichts as the gloamin sets in, 
 
 When the hairst s dune at kirns, or at kirsnin o bairns, 
 He s sure to get fou, and ne er thinks it a sin. 
 
AULD SNUFFIE. 141 
 
 Wi the sleek parish priest he will fuddle and feast, 
 Till stech d his bit kyte is as stent as a drum : 
 
 Aft the twa cronies grit by the ingle-cheek sit, 
 
 An smoke their lang pipes wi their heads up the him. 
 
 Noo, ye college-bred louns, wi Latin-pang d crouns, 
 Wha aiblins the Iliad o Homer may read, 
 
 Gif ye ve gumption to learn, then imprimis discern, 
 It s no by proud airs that true merits succeed. 
 
 Should ye bravely engage wi Death warfare to wage, 
 
 Ye only can warsell the carl for a time ; 
 Ye 11 gain mair by coaxin than even-doun boxin , 
 
 An gather mair blessings than poets can rhyme. 
 
 But should fcelin s be sere, an your object be gear, 
 Be a body s body that spiers your advice, 
 
 Ne er saucie or huffie, but learn frae Auld Snuffie 
 To wheedle, an humbug, and get your ain price. 
 
LUCY LEE. 
 
 SHE s budding in her early teens, 
 
 Sae young and sweetly fair ; 
 What hand wad in her bosom plant 
 
 The thorns o grief an care ? 
 The mother on her bairnie doats 
 
 That smiles upon her knee ; 
 But wi a warmer gush o joy 
 
 My heart lo es Lucy Lee. 
 
 There s love in a her witching smiles, 
 
 There s rapture in her een ; 
 I need no aid o mystic lore 
 
 To tell me what they mean. 
 The warld and a that in it blooms 
 
 Wad be a waste to me, 
 Did frosts untimely nip the flower, 
 
 My winsome Lucy Lee. 
 
LIZZIE LAIRD. 
 
 THE plague on Lizzie Laird, for my heid has ne er been 
 
 soun 
 
 Since her twa pawkie een gae my puir heart sic a stoun ; 
 Oh ! I canna see her face, nor pass her cottage door, 
 But feelin s strange come ower me I never felt afore. 
 
 The little coaxin smatchet ! I wish I ne er had seen 
 The roses on her dimpled cheeks, the glances o her een ; 
 They Ve tint my very heart, an thrown ower me sic a 
 
 spell, 
 I feel like ane bewitched, for I dinna feel mysel . 
 
 Gif it s no a stoun o love, what else then can it be ? 
 An why should I lo e Lizzie, if Lizzie lo es na me ? 
 The wee bit teasin cuttie, sae winsome an sae kind, 
 Why should I allow a doot to harbor in my mind ? 
 
 I ken her heart is warm, an I ken her love is true ; 
 It shines oot clear as truth in her bonnie een o blue : 
 Through the journey o my life how happy shall I be, 
 When wedded to my hinnie, O Lizzie Laird, to thee ! 
 
144 * LIZZIE LAIRD. 
 
 On the same bink at the schule our lessons we wad learn ; 
 I then was but a callant, an she was but a bairn : 
 Cauld will be this heart o mine ere I forget the days 
 When youngsters we wad wander aboot our native braes. 
 
 I think I see the laverock up frae the clover spring ; 
 I think I hear the mavis an linties sweetly sing ; 
 When my Lizzie, little doo ! without a thocht o sin, 
 Cam skippin 7 ower the green fields to spier if I was in. 
 
 Aft in youthfu rapture, when wild flowers were in bloom, 
 The wee birds nests we d herry amang the gowden broom ; 
 Or wad aiblins howk for bikes in laughin simmer glee, 
 An a the treasures steal o the honey bumble bee. 
 
 Oh ! fu weel I mind the time, awa doun by the schaws, 
 Bare fitted we wad toddle to pu the slaes an haws ; 
 An for berries aften dander oot-ower the mossy fells, 
 Where hums the muirland bee, and where bloom the 
 heather-bells. 
 
 Since I m nae mair a callant, nor Lizzie mair a bairn, 
 I fain wad oot o Nature s bulk a manly lesson learn : 
 But what gars me be sae blate, an feel sae muckle shame 
 To ask my ain sweet Lizzie to change her maiden name ? 
 
LIZZIE LAIRD. 145 
 
 Noo, what to say to Lizzie I coof-like downa ken ; 
 I Ve got a snug wee cot, wi a cozie but an ben ; 
 I hae but little haudin , yet what I hae I 11 share 
 Wi my bonnie Lizzie Laird, the fairest o the fair ! 
 
 12 
 
JESSIE PATERSON. 
 
 WHEKE green hills gently rise, and the Tweed is but a 
 
 burn, 
 
 In pleasing dreams of fancy my footsteps oft return ; 
 But sic happy days again I never mair may see ; 
 Oh I then Jessie Paterson was a the world to me. 
 
 Ked rowans an blae-berries in simmer we wad pu , 
 
 An wi licht hearts, free o care, we promised to be true ; 
 
 But how little do we ken what we re born to dree and 
 
 tine, 
 Then a her hopes an prospects were bundled up wi mine. 
 
 Oh ! Blink-Bonny s buddin rose was fairest o the fair, 
 An gracefully in ringlets hung down her gowden hair ; 
 "We never thocht o changes the future had in store, 
 Or the pangs that it wad bring we dreamt-na o before. 
 
 When her wee cozie biggin, weel theekit ower wi straw, 
 Wi Winter s robe was happit, afore March brocht a thaw ; 
 Or when flowers wad bud in Spring, and braird was on 
 
 the lea, 
 Oh ! then Jessie Paterson was a the world to me. 
 
JESSIE PATERSON. 147 
 
 When the sun in mornin mist was blinkin redly through, 
 An the gowan an the broom were bricht wi 7 pearly dew, 
 We Ve listen d to the lark in some fleecy-nittin cloud, 
 Where sweet the little warbler sung matin lays aloud. 
 
 In the merry harvest time, when reapers cam to shear, 
 We thocht-na in our damn, our partin was so near : 
 I think I see her now, fu o rosy rustic glee ; 
 Oh ! then Jessie Paterson was a the world to me. 
 
 But why should I be dowie? thae days are gane an past, 
 An I hae learn d sin syne joys unmingled canna last : 
 Her minnie was-na pleas d, an anger steek d the door; 
 The truth then stood reveal d that I was unco poor. 
 
 Bonnie Jessie Paterson ! sae winsome an sae kind, 
 Keep a wee neuk in your heart for honest Tarn the hind : 
 Though Willie ye hae wed, an crossed the heavin sea, 
 My blessin on ye baith lang happy may ye be ! 
 
MY AIN SWEET JEAN. 
 
 I WAD na gi e my ain sweet Jean 
 For a the wives I yet hae seen ; 
 It 7 s no her looks, it s no her air, 
 That mak s her seem to me sae fair ; 
 It s no her form o modest grace, 
 Nor is t her winsome bonnie face ; 
 But tis her heart, sae pure and free, 
 That mak s her a the warld to me. 
 
 Let ithers fret ; tis mine to sing 
 The joys that riches canna bring ; 
 Let me the bliss o rapture share, 
 Where smiles dispel the clouds o care : 
 Gie me my cozie, happy hame, 
 That s a the gear on earth I claim ; 
 My wine and my bairnies three 
 Are mair than a the warld to me ! 
 
MY BOMIE WEE LIZZIE. 
 
 MY bonnie wee Lizzie, 
 
 So gentle and fair, 
 There 7 s love in thy glances, 
 
 And grace in thine air. 
 My heart, like the ivy 
 
 That twines round the tree, 
 Clings fondly with rapture, 
 
 My Lizzie, to thee. 
 
 Sweet flower of rare beauty, 
 
 My hope and my pride ! 
 I never feel happy 
 
 Away from thy side. 
 May no clouds of sorrow 
 
 E er shade thy young brow, 
 Nor tears bleach the roses 
 
 That sweetly bloom now. 
 12* 
 
150 MY BONNIE WEE LIZZIE. 
 
 Thine eyes beam so brightly 
 
 And softly on me, 
 No wonder that nightly 
 
 My dreams are of thee. 
 I ll go to the altar 
 
 With joy and with pride, 
 And there, my sweet Lizzie, 
 
 Confess thee my bride. 
 
THE YOUNG BRIDE MAVIS-BAM HA . 
 
 " OH ! whaur hae ye been to, my ain bonnie bairn, 
 Oh ! whaur hae ye been to, my hinnie ?" 
 
 " Doun by the green haugh, a new lesson to learn, 
 An pu d ye these wild flowers, my minnie 
 An pu d ye these wild flowers, my minnie." 
 
 " What gars ye look dowie, what gars ye no speak ; 
 
 Oh ! what dool does my dear lassie dree ? 
 Ye ve brocht hame a blush like a rose on your cheek, 
 An a tear-drap shines bricht in your ee 
 An a tear-drap shines bricht in your ee. 
 
 " Ye ve aye been my comfort : it s lang been my pride 
 
 To hear a speak weel o my Nannie : 
 Twad break my puir heart should ye skaith e er betide, 
 Or something come ower ye no cannie 
 Or something come ower ye no cannie." 
 
152 THE YOUNG BRIDE O ? MAVIS-BANK IIA\ 
 
 " I 11 aye be your comfort, an aye be your pride, 
 
 Sae think na o things that s no cannie ; 
 The blush that ye see is the blush o the bride, 
 Yet fear na ye 11 no tine your Nannie 
 Yet fear na ye 11 no tine your Nannie. 
 
 " While plettin green rashes aboon the mill-dam, 
 
 Far up the lift sang the lark cheerie ; 
 Wi licht heart and winsome smiles young Willie cam , 
 An fondly he ca d me his dearie 
 An fondly he ca d me his dearie." 
 
 " Ye puir silly thing, ye 11 this day sairly rue ; 
 
 The laird s son wad ne er enter my door : 
 Oh 1 ae thing tak tent, there s nae guid end in view 
 When the rich folk get grit wi the poor 
 When the rich folk get grit wi the poor." 
 
 " Oh ! trust your leal lassie, this day I ll ne er rue, 
 
 The laird s son will sune enter your door ; 
 For he s comin at gloamin , wi guid ends in view, 
 To wed me, an mak rich o 7 the poor 
 To wed me, an mak rich o the poor. 
 
THE YOUNG BRIDE O MAVIS-BANK HA*. 153 
 
 " He ca d me his dautie, lie ca d me his doo, 
 Stole a bit kiss at our partin embrace : 
 I spak na a word, for my heart it was fu , 
 But my answer he read in my face 
 But my answer he read in my face." 
 
 " I raither wad live in my cot than his ha 
 
 The puir cot, lassie, whaur ye was born. 
 
 Ye canna frae care flee, although ye be braw, 
 
 For the bonnie moss-rose has its thorn 
 
 For the bonnie moss-rose has its thorn." 
 
 The gloamin sune cam , an wi t Willie busked fine, 
 His young cottage-bride, Nannie, to claim : 
 
 There s nae face that s human e er looked mair divine 
 Than it did when she took his proud name 
 Than it did when she took his proud name. 
 
 There were music an mirth in Mavis-Bank Ha , 
 
 An ilka ane pledged a fu tassie 
 To the bride young an bonnie, the fairest o a , 
 
 The cottager widow s ae lassie 
 
 The cottager widow s ae lassie. 
 
I CANNA LEAVE MY MINNIE. 
 
 TAK back the ring, dear Jamie, 
 
 The ring ye gae to me, 
 An a the vows ye made yestreen 
 
 Beneath the "birken tree. 
 But gie me back my heart again, 
 
 It s a I hae to gie ; 
 Sin ye 11 no wait a fittin time, 
 
 Ye canna marry me. 
 
 I promised to my daddie, 
 
 Afore he slipp d awa, 
 I ne er wad leave my minnie, 
 
 Whate er sud her befa . 
 I 11 faithfu keep my promise, 
 
 For a that ye can gie : 
 Sae, Jamie, gif ye winna wait, 
 
 Ye ne er can marry me. 
 
I CANNA LEAVE MY MINNIE. 155 
 
 I canna leave my minnie, 
 
 She s been sae kind to me 
 Sin e er I was a bairnie, 
 
 A wee thing on. her knee. 
 Nae mair she 11 cairn my gowden hair, 
 
 Nor busk me snod an braw ; 
 She s auld an frail, her een are dim, 
 
 An sune will close on a . 
 
 I maun na leave my minnie, 
 
 Her journey is na lang ; 
 Her heid is ben din to the mools 
 
 Whare it maun shortly gang. 
 Were I an heiress o a crown, 
 
 I d a its honors tine, 
 To watch her steps o helpless age, 
 
 As she in youth watched mine. 
 
DONALD AND LUCY. 
 
 " AWA wi sic havers, blithe Donald, awa, 
 An talk na to me o your haudin sae braw ; 
 For what gars ye think o a lassie like me, 
 Wha has naething, ye ken, but a leal heart to gie ? 
 Ye praise the red roses that bloom on my face, 
 An tell me I look like an angel o grace ; 
 But a heart that is pure is better than a , 
 For beauty s a flower that sune withers awa." 
 
 " Come geek na me, Lucy, ye ken unco weel 
 Nae havers I tell ye, but speak as I feel ; 
 I care na for tocher, I ve gat rowth o gear, 
 What mair need we want then, sweet Lucy, my dear ? 
 Oh I think na the beauty that blooms on the skin 
 Could e er blin my een to the jewel within : 
 So, noo, winsome Lucy, come, come, e er we part, 
 An say that ye 11 gie me your hand an your heart." 
 
DONALD AND LUCY. 157 
 
 She spak 1 na a word, but looked dowie an 7 wae ; 
 Her heart it was fu , she had naething to say : 
 The gallant young Donald, a clansman o pride, 
 Bore aff on his fleet steed his beautiful bride. 
 The saft simmer gloamin was just setting in, 
 An mantlin 1 wi shadows the bleak Highland bin, 
 When Murray, the flower o the Clan o that name, 
 Reached safely wi Lucy his braw mountain hame. 
 
THE SCENES THAT HEYER WEARIE. 
 
 How the heart to the Past wi 7 rapture clings 
 When the spirit Memory bears nae stings, 
 But ower it a glorious halo flings, 
 
 That mak s it seem sae cheerie. 
 There r s a bonnie wee spot ayont the sea 
 That 7 s sweeter than a ither spots to me, 
 "Where the mornin o life I spent sae free, 
 
 Mang scenes that never wearie. 
 
 There the Spring first comes wi r its leaves and buds ; 
 There the cuckoo is heard in the circlin wuds ; 
 An 7 far up in the lift amang the cluds 
 
 The laverock sings sae cheerie. 
 The swallow its wings in the burnie dips ; 
 The bee frae the Thistle its honey sips ; 
 Where sae fondly first I pried the lips 
 
 J Jean, my bonnie dearie. 
 
THE SCENES THAT NEVER WEARIE. 159 
 
 Oh! my heart yet clings, Craigieburn, to thee! 
 Where the langest day was aye short to me ; 
 An where aften I still in fancy flee 
 
 To scenes that never wearie. 
 I dream o the trees wi their plumes o green, 
 An I gaze on the flowers wi ravished een, 
 Where first I met wi my bonnie Jean, 
 
 My early, only dearie. 
 
SWEET ISABEL, MY DEARIE 0. 
 
 SING on y ye warblers o the grove, 
 
 Sing on, sae sweet and eh eerie ; 
 Ilk note I hear thee chant o love 
 
 Keminds me o my dearie 0. 
 It bears me back to bygone days, 
 
 That ne er were lang nor drearie O, 
 When blithely mang the broomy braes 
 
 I wandered wi my dearie O. 
 Love was our youthfV, endless theme, 
 
 While hours flew by sae cheerie ; 
 And still she lives in mem ry s dream, 
 
 Sweet Isabel, my dearie 0. 
 
 Too soon dark clouds began to lower, 
 That made a dull and eerie O, 
 
 And death nipt virtue s bonnie flower, 
 Fair Isabel, my dearie O. 
 
 Time from my mind shall ne er efface 
 Those gowden days sae cheerie O, 
 
SWEET ISABEL, MY DEARIE O. 161 
 
 When blithely mang the broomy braes 
 
 I wandered wi my dearie 0. 
 Sing on, ye warblers o the grove, 
 
 Sing on, and never weary 0, 
 Your artless notes o melting love 
 
 Remind me o my dearie 0. 
 
HELEN, THE ROSE OF THE GLEN. 
 
 TWAS evening, in summer : the bright orb of day 
 
 Had sunk slowly down in a rich glowing west ; 
 And sweetly the nightingale warbled its lay, 
 
 While nature seemed wrapt in the bosom of rest. 
 The moon rose in beauty behind the dim hills, 
 
 The softness of twilight was melting in night ; 
 When a sound could be heard like murmuring rills, 
 
 Which filled my sad soul with ecstatic delight. 
 
 The roses of June lent their matchless perfume, 
 
 And willows dark- waving their dewy tears wept, 
 While musing I sat on the moss-covered tomb, 
 
 Where martyrs of freedom for ages have slept ; 
 When a voice, like soft music, was borne in the air : 
 
 I listened intent, and soon heard it again ; 
 It fell on my ear like sweet accents of prayer 
 
 Twas Helen, fair Helen, the Eose of the Glen \ 
 
HELEN, THE EOSE OF THE GLEN. 163 
 
 Though, wasted and pale, Helen s passion yet burned 
 
 Still true to her Henry, unaltered and pure ; 
 And wealth s tempting offers with coldness she spurned, 
 
 As perishing pleasures that cannot endure. 
 Grief sat on her brow in woful dejection ; 
 
 Her poor heart was wrung with the anguish she felt, 
 While she wept the sad tears of changeless affection 
 
 That hallowed the turf where she piously knelt. 
 
 " God of Mercy!" she said, "if by thee twas designed 
 
 That Henry and I were to part in youth s bloom, 
 Then why does his memory still dwell in my mind, 
 
 To bring me in sorrow to weep o er his tomb ? 
 Why were my days once so blest and unclouded? 
 
 Or why in this bosom did love ever burn ? 
 Why was my heart in his windingrsheet shrouded, 
 
 And I left behind a poor orphan to mourn ? 
 
 " Five cheerless long summers have now passed away 
 
 Since he, the delight of his sweet native glen, 
 All tenderly whispered, while dying he lay : 
 
 1 Sweet Helen, weep not, we shall yet meet again. 
 Weep not ! but, O Henry ! my feelings are frail ; 
 
 I come your lone grave to bedew with my tears : 
 Tis affection that craves them, and bids me bewail 
 The joy and the hope of my juvenile years. 
 
164 HELEN, THE ROSE OF THE GLEN. 
 
 " Here is a lily ! pure emblem of sorrow ! 
 
 Like a partner of grief it hangs down its head ; 
 But fresh dews of even, and zephyrs of morrow, 
 
 Shall make it in beauty wave over the dead. 
 I ve brought it with me from the deep shady bower, 
 
 "Where we were accustomed at gloaming to meet, 
 To plant on thy grave at this lone, tranquil hour, 
 
 The spot that has long been my fav rite retreat. 
 
 " I court not the world s tempting scene that beguiles, 
 
 My feelings the shades of sweet solitude seek ; 
 For despair has usurped the throne of my smiles, 
 
 And blighted the rose that once bloomed on my cheek ; 
 Blighted the hopes that in fondness I cherished, 
 
 And darkened life s landscape so bright and so free ; 
 E en all that once cheered me seem to have perished, 
 
 And gone to the grave, to lie buried with thee. . 
 
 " The birds sweetly sing, as they did long ago, 
 
 The streamlet in beauty still flows by the door ; 
 The paths where we wandered when strangers to woe, 
 
 All tell me of days and of joys that are o er. 
 Green weeds rankly grow on the sweet garden spot 
 
 That once seemed so lovely, thy pride and thy care ; 
 And desolate now is the once happy cot 
 
 For none save thy heart-broken Helen lives there. 
 
HELEN, THE ROSE OF THE GLEoST. 165 
 
 " Untimely my parents have shared thy own fate, 
 
 And left your poor Helen to languish and pine ; 
 They gave me their blessing, and told me to wait 
 
 The will of kind Heaven, whose ways are divine. 
 Farewell, my Henry ! a transient farewell : 
 
 Though cold dews fall heavy, ah ! fain would I stay ; 
 Yet soon shall yon village bell toll its sad knell, 
 
 "While I will be borne to the church-yard away." 
 
 She looked and she lingered, she wept and she sighed, 
 
 "While slowly she paced o er the green grassy sod ; 
 Her tear-bedewed cheeks she mournfully dried, 
 
 And seemed to hold holy communion with God. 
 Soon, soon came the time when with sorrow outworn, 
 
 She slept neath the turf with her Henry to rest : 
 Yet they shall awake in eternity s morn, 
 
 For ever to live in the realm of the blest. 
 
ARCHIE GRIEVE. 
 
 OH ! what are the conquests that heroes achieve, 
 Compared with the fame of renowned Archie Grieve . 
 Go and see him at home with fowl and with beast, 
 And Taste will confess him a wonder at least. 
 Leave dusty Broadway, and just enter his store, 
 He ll show you such strange things you ne er saw before. 
 Here, first of all, is a breed of Scotch donkeys, 
 Green Caraccas parrots, and Siamese monkeys ; 
 And ponies, Canadian and Shetland, so small, 
 Ye might carry them, saddle and bridle and all ; 
 English bull-dogs, that open their terrible jaws, 
 And shaggy black mountain bears licking their paws. 
 Ye may see forest wolves, raccoons, and wild cats, 
 And terriers rough-bearded, the sworn foes of rats. 
 Here swift hounds, Italian and British, are found, 
 Whose equals are not in the wide world around, 
 (This Archie avows with a knowledge profound.) 
 Leave the St. Bernard breed and the small poodle, 
 And list to the larks he has taught " Yankee Doodle ;" 
 
AKCHIE GEIEVE. 1(J7 
 
 To mocking-birds singing the songs of black Dina, 
 Or mocking the chirpings of sparrows from China. 
 
 Here, too, are linnets the green, the rose, and the gray 
 
 From the land of the heather, that sing the whole day ; 
 
 And canaries so yellow, whose notes are divine 
 
 Archie swears they were hatched on the banks of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 Here are the whole feathered tribe, from the big ostrich 
 
 hen, 
 
 In the desert that lives, to the small hopping wren ; 
 And the lord of the dunghill crows loudly and clear 
 Although caged up, makes love to his fat cackling dear. 
 Here are all kinds of sounds, sweet, harsh, deep, and 
 
 hollow 
 
 What orchestra could such a concert e er follow ? 
 High up sits the owl, with a tuft like a crown, 
 And gravely the symbol of Wisdom looks down ; 
 While squirrels leap about, and the golden fish swim. 
 droll Archie Grieve! who is like unto him? 
 
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